Jailhouse Rock

By Bill Dragoo

They’re going to put me in jail. I know it’ll happen before this day is over.

I am one of six guys, mostly normal by Monday-through Friday standards, but as our oddly dressed half-dozen clumps out into the IHOP parking lot in Bricktown, it appears I’ve joined a band of Mid-Life Mavericks. My suspicions…and fears . . . are confirmed as our fearless (that is no exaggeration) leader, James, rides away toward the sunrise on the back wheel of his slightly faded yellow DRZ 400.

The shiny black and white OKC-PD cruiser quarters our vector, southbound. I wonder if he’s watching.

This would be funny if it weren’t so serious. I haven’t had a ticket in over 30 years. That is, if you don’t count the seat-belt ticket I couldn’t talk my way out of a few months ago. Yet, here we are, half a dozen guys on Dual Sport motorcycles, heading out for what is becoming a tradition among the “Ride Oklahoma” bunch, under the tutelage of our leader who, I might suggest, would be a valuable resource to the NBA. With balls like that, who could lose?

All but James seem to be suitably disturbed by our close encounter with the law. I feel confident that I speak for the majority when I say that I was relieved when we reappeared in the light of day and there were no flashing lights or bull horns. Maybe I’m just too conservative, but this feels a lot like stealing watermelons or window-peeping to me. We duck into alleys, shucking and jiving on a convoluted route, ending up a scant three blocks away from where we’d started maybe 15 minutes ago. We’d never make it as bank robbers…or window peepers for that matter. Even though we weren’t really breaking the law, much, it sure felt like it. I guess that’s part of the fun.

We stop in a historic warehouse district with old brick buildings, broken, wire-reinforced glass windows and a loading dock. James points to the loading dock, the obvious question rolling as naturally from his lips as a dad asking if we all want ice-cream. Only his question is, “Who wants to jump that?” Nobody bites. Well, one does. I bust off my little KLX and say to myself, “What the heck. I mean, it’s just a loading dock. I’ve jumped much trickier stuff than that. Why, I used to be a well known motocross racer, dabbled in a little trials, burned up many a mile on all kinds of motorcycles, right? This will only take a second.” As I dump the clutch and head for the ramp, the t-shirt slogan hits me like a buzzard smacking an airplane. “The older I get, the better I…WAS!”

It’s been years since I left the earth on anything that didn’t have wings. My timing was a little off and I had been tuning some on the KLX. It had a bit more spunk than the day before. Well, excuses are like belly buttons. We all have them. The bike launched like a bee-stung colt and reared straight up. I managed to keep it off the tag bracket, and barely kept from belt-sanding my port-side to bone on the bricks. I only lost a little green plastic from the left hand guard and most of my pride. It could have been a lot worse.

My buddies are really very gracious. They act like nothing (almost) happened, at least to my face.

We motor on through the darker places middle OKC has to offer, taking in the sights. Crossing an old carpet scrap the size of my living room, staked down and furnished with bent lawn chairs, I realize that I am actually riding through someone’s home. I’ve always wanted to do that through the hall at my old junior high. This abandoned homeless pad doesn’t provide quite the rush I had in mind, but it’ll have to do.

We cross a benign looking but slippery, yellow-painted walkway over the railroad tracks and ride a snappy slalom course through massive concrete pillars decorated with graffiti. The highway is our roof, suspended far above our heads, seemingly a world away. We’re trapped. A cul-de-sac! We are forced for the nth time to backtrack. I’m impressed with the bike handling skills demonstrated by Phil, Whitey, Gary and Brian as they maneuver their inseam-plus high, KTM’s, F 650 Beemer and KLR 650 back across the Teflon coated ramp.

Moments later, I find myself trying to duck under James’ wheel as he spirals up the ramp to a parking garage. Phil, Whitey, Gary and Brian all follow suit. Briefly, we congregate on the upper level, but some inner sense moves our leader to head back down. We all resist the urge to wave at the well dressed gentleman with a badge speaking into a walkie-talkie and visibly counting motorcycles. I wonder if he’s friends with the guy in the cruiser over by the IHOP. We leave him to his report and ride briskly westward…more or less.

Losing Gary and his KLR to a flat tire, we manage one more stop, the BMW dealership. While most of our band is drooling over exquisite, long-distance touring iron, James and I scramble down to the creek to check out the tunnel and moss covered sluice running under I-40. About the time we decide it’s do-able, James exclaims that we’ll need trials bikes to exit. Although the entrance is passable with a deft hand and reasonable balance, getting out of here will involve a tough scramble over giant limestone rip-rap. We’ll save that challenge for another day.
Too soon, our gutter frolic is over. We’ve all made commitments for the rest of our weekend and the two hour allotment we’ve set aside to play with the boys has expired.

We’re lucky. We managed to remain un-incarcerated, at least this time, but there’s always next week.