Two Kinds of Motorcycle Riders

Years later I bought a motorcycle. A fire-breathing 1979 Yamaha XS1100. The speedometer would register all the way to 160. I'd pushed it to 120 before but never mustered enough stupidity to discover exactly how fast it would go. People who knew me back then will confirm when I say I had enough trouble keeping it stable at normal speeds.

One day I was riding it to work. I had my police uniform on, including my Kevlar bullet-proof vest, which it turns out is also asphalt pavement-proof to a certain extent. As I rode into Greenville from Lone Oak on US 69 I came upon a curve in the road at the Business 69 split. To the right of this particular curve is a large graveyard. A lite rain was falling. Just as I reached the midpoint of the curve a black cat ran across the road in front of me.

Yes, I swear it's the truth: a black cat ran out of the grave yard and across the road right in front of me. The only thing that could have made it more ominous would be if it was Halloween. I'm glad it wasn't, because you're probably having a hard time believing what I've stated as fact so far.

Being an experienced motorcycle rider and only having a split second to determine whether to hit the cat or hit the brakes, I tapped the back brake on the bike.

You should NEVER tap the back brake on the bike when you're in the middle of a curve on wet pavement and a small animal runs out in front of you. What you should do instead is continue to ride at your current speed and squash the small animal. Even if you're on dry pavement on a straight road and you're driving a passenger car you still should squash the small animal. Avenge me!

As the cat continued on its way across the road, oblivious to the disastrous effects of its choice not to use a legal crossing point, my motorcycle slid out from under me and began to skid down the road in a spectacular shower of sparks.

I was still traveling approximately the same speed about ten yards behind the bike on my back. The leather of my gun belt and my Kevlar vest left a hybrid cow-hide and polymer stripe on the pavement in remembrance of my journey. Thinking back, it seems as if those few seconds of surfing pavement on my butt, struggling not to roll into a tumble that would break my arms and legs, went on for hours. When I and my machine finally came to a halt I was pleasantly surprised to find I could actually stand up and walk. My right arm was torn up and bleeding, but there were no broken bones and very little pain due to the adrenaline rush and natural endorphins.

Pleasant surprise number two: when I picked the bike up and kicked the starter it cranked right up. The clutch cable was broken and the triple-crown was bent, but I was able to force it through the gears and cruise on to work at the police station by refusing to stop for any traffic control devices so the bike would keep running as I had no clutch and couldn't get it to kick into neutral. Of course, everyone in Greenville knew me, so it probably wasn't surprising to them when they saw me in uniform on my private bike blowing through stop signs and red lights like a common traffic violator, but at least this time I had an excuse.

Upon arrival at the station I walked up to the dispatch window. The dispatcher on duty glanced my way, then back to her console and said, "Tim, good thing you're here. I need you to get a squad car right away and go to---" then the first glance she'd given me registered in her brain. She looked back at me and screamed.

My injuries looked a lot worse than they really were, but she called the paramedics despite my protests and a few minutes later I was in the ER getting my arm stitched up and numerous scrapes and cuts cleaned and bandaged.

My motorcycle went back to Clark's Wheeled Sports in Greenville to be repaired for about the third time that year.

A few days later I drove to the shop to recover my repaired bike. John Clark had parked it out on the front lawn of his business for all the world to see with a sign on the seat that read, "Officer Frazier, this side up."

I went on to wreck it a couple more times over the next few years before the State of Texas reinstated the helmet law and I sold the fire-breather in protest (the legislature didn't seem to notice).

Dad was right, and I am a permanent member of the first kind of motorcyclist.