I need to give a little insight into why I was so apprehensive during this short adventure. I was 19 when I experienced this, but it was several events that happened when I was 16 that caused what took place on this particular evening.
On the day that I turned sixteen, I played hookie for the first time in my life so that I could go to the DMV and get my drivers license. I aced the written exam as well as the driving portion. As soon as I got home and dropped my mother off, I was off to experience life's freedoms as I never had before. Our family vehicle at the time was a 1963 Rambler station wagon, six cylinder, three on the tree. As soon as I was out of sight from our house, I revved the engine and dumped the clutch. Instead of the squealing tire sound I was expecting, I got the feeling that the engine had stalled. Not to be discouraged, I headed out to Katella and promptly placed the right tires in the water flowing next to the curb. Revving the engine again and letting the clutch dump again, I had enough to make the wheel spin and after about three feet of travel it finally grabbed, emitting a tiny little chirp. Okay, that wasn't going to get it.
I immediately set my sights on procuring a vehicle more worthy of my driving skills. With the help of a cosigning mother I bought a 1964 Chevelle Malibu SS, Muncie 4 speed on the floor. My first attempt at burning rubber resulted in laying down a 136-foot mark on the road. I couldn't get enough of that, as well as challenging any and all comers to a race. As a result I picked up a few tickets here and there. I just paid the fines and went on my way.
After the third ticket, I received a notice in the mail that a court appearance was mandatory. In the courtroom my name was finally called and I walked before the judge. He just looked at me and said:
"Son, you're developing some rather poor driving habits. I'm not going to lecture you, but I am going to tell you how it is. If you get any more tickets after today, you will lose your license. Do you have any questions?"
Me: Yes sir, is that after today?
The judge: That's correct… long pause …why, do you have another one?
Me: Yes sir, I have twelve more.
He just looked at me and said, "I don't want to ever see you in this courtroom again."
I left. He almost didn't.
It started out as any other work day. As always I rode my chopper to work and went through my thirty-minute routine of securing it with half-inch thick log chains to the bollards protecting the propane tank. Six nights a week, same routine — punch the clock, set up the machines, wipe them down. When they were dialed in right they rarely stumbled, which left the rest of the shift free to mingle.
The buzz that evening was a big poker party — and was I going to be there? Usually the games were held at Mark's and my house, but this evening we were heading to another friend's home. They gave me directions and I was pretty sure I had them set in my mind. I figured I'd just follow the group there.
At the end of the shift I went out to my chopper and had forgotten it would take me thirty minutes to undo the chains. Needless to say there were no stragglers around to follow.
Of course it was after one o'clock in the morning and not much traffic. I proceeded to the intersection where I was supposed to turn and rolled into the left-hand turn lane, expecting to be playing poker in another few minutes. Five minutes later and the light hadn't changed.
What to do now. I'm currently twelve tickets over the allowable limit, and the next one stops me from driving. I can't turn left against a red light, and I can't make a right from the left-hand turn lane. I look right and left and behind me. Nothing in view at all. I decide the best thing would be to turn right against the red — even if it was from the left lane.
No problem. I make the turn, straighten up, and make a cursory check of my mirrors.
I DON'T BELIEVE IT.
I've been lit up in red at the rear. Man, the luck of the Irish — and I'm a kraut. On the slight chance they aren't actually after me, I signal a left turn and pull into a parking lot.
A church parking lot. At twelve fifteen in the morning, no less.
My luck continued and the LA County Sheriff pulls in behind me. I'm nineteen years old, riding a '57 Pan Head Harley, fully chopped, and my helmet is a chrome-plated Nazi Army helmet.
The doors open on the squad car and out step two LA County Sheriffs in full riot gear.
The first question they asked me: "Do you have any warrants?"
No.
His next question surprised me. "Do you mind if I sit on your bike?"
Go ahead. I gave him a wry smile.
"Can I see your helmet? Hey partner, get the camera out of the front seat."
He did — and took a picture of himself sitting on my bike. Then they switched places and repeated the exercise.
The last question was the same as the first: "Are you sure you don't have any warrants?"
No warrants, sir.
"Okay, we have to go — we were on a call, code three."
And that was it. That was the night I went to church.