There's a Bear in the Air!

and a swarm of 'Smokeys' on our tail.
by Bill Dragoo

Or so I thought when I saw the black and white Hughes 500D police helicopter buzzing overhead like an angry yellow-jacket. The four of us sit on our dual-sport motorcycles like ducks on a pond. My first impulse is to take flight. Old tapes, I’m sure, from when I was a teenager. Even back then, I did little that was truly illegal, but I’d been trained by my peers that cops were the enemy.

If we try to escape now, I know it will only serve to fulfill my prophecy from a ride we did back in November of ‘06. I am referring, of course, to the day our leader rode his DRZ 400 past the Bricktown IHOP on the back wheel, in full view of one of OKC’s finest.

We were lucky not to get stopped for that. When I saw the police cruiser then, I predicted that we’d be doing time in the clink before sunset. I was half kidding, of course. Little did I know how close my prediction really was.

That had been my second trip through the alleys and backstreets of Oklahoma City, exploring tent cities, old train yards, rutted construction sites and railroad sidings and admiring the urban art of graffiti. Today’s ride is my third. It appears that our antics, mild as they have been, have caught up with us.

It seems our previously heralded, and now I can honestly say, “notorious” ride leader, James Pratt, has slipped beyond his marginal boundaries and gotten us all into a bit of a pickle. The irony here is that one of our group, John Yarborough, is one of the most safety-conscious and law-abiding motorcyclists I have ever met.

I have heard that on the trail, John is a force to reckon with. He’s an old cross country hound; a guy who can really rattle the boulders, racing through the woods on his Yamaha WR 400 or a borrowed KTM 640, like the one he straddled today as he waited for his assigned officer to check his license and insurance verification.

But when his tires touch pavement, he instantly turns into an Eagle Scout. I have to admire John for his wish to stay legal. His job as a professional driver keeps him honest and he takes the charge seriously.

Yet, here we are, sitting in the parking lot of Byron’s Liquor Store, with a helicopter spiraling over our heads. Our imminent arrest is only seconds away, no doubt. Someone suggests that this might be as good a time as any for us to go our separate ways. Whitey is already late getting home and I want to beat the onset of the evening’s cooler temperatures if I can, so nobody wastes any time getting rolling. James lives closer than the rest of us, so we say a quick “I’m outta here!” and split.

I ride about two blocks east before a black and white OKC police cruiser makes a u-turn and jumps in behind me. I’m not surprised when his lights come on, so I pull over to the center island and climb off the saddle to face the music.
Now, the funny thing here is that we really haven’t done anything wrong. We just FEEL guilty, because we’re riding dual sport motorcycles in places where people don’t expect to see motorcycles being ridden.

Officer Gilmore, as he will forever be respectfully known, looks surprised when I remove my full-face helmet. I’m sure he expected to see someone nearer his own age, perhaps a few years younger. I’m probably twice that.

I am expecting the usual, “license and registration, please,” but don’t get it. Clearly, he is not sure if I am the “guilty” party. I stifle a grin as he looks up at the helicopter and speaks into his microphone.

“Is this one of them?” He asks the big eye in the sky.
They must have answered in the affirmative, because he starts asking about my friends.

I’d be a lousy spy, because I tell him everything I know in about 15 seconds. Then I suggest that we move out of the intersection since traffic is starting to back up. He concurs and we shoot the gap through a line of cars, into a nearby filling station where, as luck would have it, three Highway Patrol Cruisers are parked. We all wave at one another, our situation obviously under control, and the OHP guys leave the scene.

Now honestly, I still feel guilty as hell, but for nothing. If I had been a criminal, well, I’m just glad I’m not. These men are good at what they do for a living.
The questions continue, along with his communication with fellow police officers. I gather from their dialogue that we’ve all been rounded up. Boy, that didn’t take long.
We were lucky that we weren’t breaking the law beyond a u-turn here and there as James tried to keep us from heading the wrong way on a one-way street.

We are released on our own repugnance, I suppose, because none of us has to so much as post bail.

Whitey makes it home sufficiently late to explain the whole thing to his wife.

John smiles nervously when I suggested that we should do this again some time.

James. There was a message from James on my cell phone, kindly offering to come and post bail for anyone who hadn’t gotten as lucky as he did when he got stopped by a good cop. Good Ol’ James. He even got a picture of the cop that got him.

I should interject here that Officer Gilmore, as well as the others, are good examples of why we’re lucky to be living in the heart of the Heartland. Not only was he respectful, as were his fellow officers reported to have been, but he took an honest interest in our sport. At my suggestion, he pulled up the “Ride Oklahoma” website and smiled at the story titles and pictures from our previous rides (“Alley Cat” and “Jailhouse Rock”).

The officer who stopped James even suggested that we contact the OKC PD before starting one of our “Urban Assaults” and give them a heads-up.

What a concept; to cooperate with local law enforcement to the mutual benefit of motorcycling and the community. I like the way that resonates.