When my parents decided they’d aged out of Florida and wanted to move from the sunny, gated happiness that is Margaritaville back to the frigid Northeast after just one year of living here, I choked out two sentences: “It took me 20 years to get you to move here — please don’t go!” and “Can I have your golf cart?”
They certainly wouldn’t need it in upstate New York, and I could put it to good use. The kids’ schools, the grocery store and the post office are all nearby. My sons wouldn’t need to save for a car if they could use the golf cart! I could add them to the golf cart policy for $10 per month and never have to pay that crazy car insurance for teenagers everyone talks about. A great idea, right? crown golf carts
We rented a trailer and picked up the golf cart on a Friday. For two days, we drove our shiny new-to-us golf cart all over the neighborhood — blissfully unaware of the Great Golf Cart Embargo.
That Sunday, we drove our golf cart to church. After the service, I chatted with an old friend who happens to be a local commissioner. (He shall remain nameless, but we’ll call him Stuart Roberts.) He asked how my weekend was.
I held up the tiny key and said, “It’s been great! We got a golf cart!”
“Does it have a license plate?”
“I don’t need one because we aren’t driving on any streets where the speed limit’s over 35.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he said.
Right there in church, he pulled a flyer about golf carts out of his bag.
“You carry that around with you!?” was my way of saying, “Thank you for this helpful information.”
I gathered the serial number, user manual, golf cart insurance papers and my cable bill (to prove my address), and I headed downtown to register my golf cart. I felt overprepared. I was not.
The downtown DMV was closed. Its temporary home on the 16th floor of 200 South Orange Ave. is nowhere remotely close to 425 North Orange Ave., the Orange County Courthouse, which would have been a logical location. Nor is at 250 N. Orange Ave., my second educated guess. Defeated, I scrolled to the notification I received the day before with the correct address (the 1985 equivalent of asking for directions).
I was a half-mile to the south. My car was a half-mile to the north. So I ran, user manual under one arm and coffee in-hand. I arrived only 20 minutes late but covered in coffee splashes.
They did not accept my user manual and golf cart insurance.
Turns out, Florida is unique (who knew?!) and has lots of rules. If you’re thinking of getting a golf cart and want to drive it in on the street, here’s what you absolutely must know: Most importantly, don’t call it a “golf cart.” It must be a legally converted low speed vehicle, and all forms must say “low speed vehicle.” That incredibly affordable golf cart insurance you have? Useless. Your low speed vehicle requires a regular auto policy. You need a title. (Golf carts don’t have them.) You can purchase a low speed vehicle that already has a title and register it like a normal person. Or you can have it converted yourself (adding required seatbelts, wipers, lights, etc.) and head to your county’s regional office with proof that the vehicle has been properly converted, applications for title and registration, proof of sale, certificate of origin, proof of residency, $800 converted to Norwegian krones, and a vial of blood from a purple unicorn. (We’ll call this “Lindsay’s way.”) It’s a vehicle. On the street. It can only be driven by licensed, insured drivers.
Separate trips to the DMV, hours of research, one big investment in a conversion (almost like singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas” but with more crying), we are now driving our low speed vehicle to school even when it’s 45 degrees outside — “Put a sweater on!” — because I didn’t do all of that for nothing.
The actual flyer. (LINDSAY CHAMBERLIN)
The actual flyer. (LINDSAY CHAMBERLIN)
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