The Gold Wing Motorcycle, Page One

I had written an email to Brad, the Unrepentant Individual, regarding a stroke of luck that my old partner, Bob Kersten, in the police department had in obtaining a brand new Gold Wing Honda at a bargain basement price; but before I get to that I should give a little history about how that story came about. This could take a while; maybe it will start to rain and hold my audience captive, at least long enough to set the hook.

I first met Bob when we were both rookie police officers working evening shift patrol out of Central. We would ride together a couple of times a week, neither of us had enough seniority to be in a position to request anything, much less who we rode with. We got along well and the best part was we were tuned into the same frequency most of the time; making a hazardous job that much safer. He was always talking about motorcycles, something I had never gotten into; my mother was a surgical nurse and referred to motorcycle enthusiasts as “organ donors”.

During the couple of years we worked together I had learned to appreciate Bob’s superior opinion regarding his belief that Jap bikes were better than bike made in America. Bob wanted to move from patrol into something else and, surprise, surprise; he picked one of the motorcycle divisions called Point Control. Back then they all rode 3 wheeled Harley Davidson motorcycles with the “trunk” for storing equipment. I figured it would be easier to learn how to ride a motorcycle than to find a partner as good as Bob and so I put my papers in for transfer next to his.

It might be important to note that Point Control may not have been high on the list within the department for requested duty. Solo Division, now that was the “Macho” squad, everyone having to purchase their own bike, a two wheeled “babe magnet” with custom britches, ( make sure the “r” is in there ), custom calf high motorcycle boots and all the trimmings. Point Control, on the other hand, was reserved for the average cop who would never ever be asked to join the Macho group, you guessed it, nerds. We were accepted.

My first week was spent learning how to “manage” a 3 wheeled motorcycle. It’s hard to explain exactly how they handle. Maybe if I said they took the worst parts of a 4 wheeled vehicle and merged them with the worst parts of a 2 wheeled motorcycle you would have an idea of the monster that I was up against. They were unstable in almost every aspect. They were heavy, slow to accelerate, vibrated and shook the faster they went, poured smoke out the back end and leaked. Did I mention that the motor; what they called the “Harley Davidson 45 Flathead” got so hot while operating that it would melt the inboard lower edges of my police trousers?

Bob would take me to a practice parking lot where I would follow his lead all the day long until I got the hang of it. We then went out to the Department of Public Safety where I was to take the State’s mandatory driving test so that I could legally ride it on a public street. During the test Bob sat next to the trooper in the “follow” while I navigated my way to stop signs, made left turns, right turns and provided the trooper with enough information as to my ability to control the motorcycle. A young kid ran a stop sign in front of me during the test. I stopped him, issued a ticket and resumed the test. The trooper took off a few points because; “stopping a traffic violator” had not been on his list of instructions for me to carry out.

Sometime, shortly after obtaining my official motorcycle operator’s license from the great State of Texas, Bob and I were on the way back to the rear of the main police station complex. The entrance was off of Franklin and wound back behind the old Narcotics/Vice building to a slight hill where the access road went in between the Narcotics/Vice building and the public works facility ( water ). At the bottom of the hill and off to the right was a reserved area for Solo Motors and next to them was a collection of covered stalls for the 3 Wheelers. Bob wanted me to practice turning some more as he headed for the back parking area of the public works facility, a hard left at the bottom of the hill.

Anyone who has ever ridden a bicycle or a motorcycle knows that you lean in the direction of the intended path to turn in that direction; that information does NOT help in the operation of a 3 wheeled motorcycle, not even a little. I had not yet learned that lesson as, instead of following Bob’s path into the curve, I continued straight ahead. I remembered the need to pull on the handle bars in order to turn; ALAS, ( I always wanted to use that in a sentence; but it has been relegated to the dust bin for many years), it was too late. As soon as I recognized the fact that I was going to run into a parked public works van, I tried to aim at a section that would, in all probability, cause the least amount of damage. I was going fairly slow, all the same the short distance would not permit me to stop in time. I aimed for the center of the back wheel and hit the hub cap square in the center.

At the moment of impact I left my sitting position and went forward, my head passing over the handle bars. I felt something jagged passing my neck and the thought, a rather unpleasant thought, occurred to me that I had hit the side of the van and gone through the side panel. I had only half a moment of this thought of having separated myself from the living when I realized that the jagged material was the flimsy windscreen of my 3 wheeler. I hadn’t even put a small dent in the side of the van. The front wheel of my motorcycle was pretty much pushed back and destroyed, fixable but ugly to look at.

The other officers who had been arriving to get off work, yes there were way too many witnesses to my miscue, all decided that the “new guy” on the block shouldn’t have to fade the heat; after all they knew how difficult it was from their own having had to learn.
The next thing I knew these guys were hauling large chunks of concrete and scattering them on the roadway so that I would have a great excuse. The Sgt came down and looked at the obvious attempt to alter the facts, shook his head and never filled out any forms. It was later recorded as “old damage”, something that I will bring up later in another “short” story about 3 wheeled motorcycles.

The next afternoon I happened to be walking through the office and I heard my new lieutenant indicate that he would like to talk with me. “Hey, Crash, could you step into my office for a moment?” There was a hint of laughter in his request; all the same I did not feel too good about my new nick name.

I have taken a long time to get to this point and have not even started to talk about Bob’s Gold Wing Honda. This would be an excellent time to say, Page One, as Paul Harvey so often would identify an opportunity for a break.