Riding High

Riding High

This one is for Ray Yourchek.


      More Letters From Paradise          
            Riding High
When I became sixteen years old, I quickly realized that you could get more girls to ride with you on a motorcycle than on a bicycle.  And there was the problem of her sitting on the handlebars, and me peddling like crazy.

So, I had to acquire some other means of transport.  I couldn't afford a motorcycle, but maybe a motor bike. It would be a step up.  I knew an old German couple that had an old motor scooter for sale.  So I parted with forty-five hard-earned bucks from my paper route.  Its new coat of paint covered the rust.  But it was mine.

It might not have been the best looking scooter, but it did get girls to ride with me.  Being hugged tightly around my waist was a nice sensation.

But I soon became tired of the scooter, and at long last after saving all I had I bought a real old well-used motorcycle. When I revved it up, it smoked like hell. The tires were well-worn, and the chain was sloppy.

But ah, the freedom that bike gave me. The speed, the deep roar of the engine, it was wonderful. And, it did get me many more girls. The faster we went, the tighter she would squeeze me.

It was about then that I got the bright idea that maybe I could attend the Police Academy and become a motorcycle cop. I applied, took some tests, and after some training, I would see my dream realized.

It was during my training period that something happened that I have never forgotten. I was riding in a police car with my mentor, when we caught a guy speeding. We got out of our car and the driver was asked for his license. The driver was very upset, and shouted, "In Germany ve had the Auto Bahn, and ve can go as fast as ve want!"    
     "This is California, and we have speed laws," my mentor said.   "I see from your license that you are from Essen."
     "Ja," the man replied. "Do you know Essen?"
     "No, but when I was in the Army Airforce, we bombed the hell out of Essen."  The driver said nothing more, and slowly drove away.

Upon graduation, I was assigned to bike patrol.  Is this a great country or what?  Here I was getting paid for riding a motorcycle.  Freedom to ride again, and this time nothing to fear about getting a ticket.

Many of the days on the bike were fine, except when it rained.  And if you think that it never rains in California, you have never lived there.  There were also flies and bugs in your mouth, if you forgot your helmet.

It was sometime later that I grew tired of chasing tail lights. But what really caused me to quit riding, was what happened. It was dark and I had just stopped a car for speeding.  Just as I came close to the car there was a big blast in my face, and a bullet passed my face.  I hit the ground, thinking that there might be another shot.  The driver of the car spun his wheels and quickly drove away.  Shaken, and with my ears ringing, I climbed on my bike to go after him.  And, then I thought, why in hell should I give him another chance?

Back at the station, the guys thought that it was funny, I didn't think so. Anyway, a car was later stopped with some bullet holes in it, and my story came to light.

About the time that I was thinking of getting some other line of work, when I received the offer from a friend. He said that I could get a job working for the Liquor Control Commission, inspecting bars. As I said before, isn't this a great country or what? Getting a job where you get paid to drink.

        Aloha
        Grant