Three Times Lucky: Recounting Motorcycle Traffic Stops

In the early 1970s I collected speeding tickets the way other people collect baseball cards. I had just started roadracing my 350cc Yamaha R5 in the AFM, and because there was as yet no such thing as motorcycle track days, I did all my testing on the San Tomas Expressway. On more occasions than I care to admit I had a police escort, invariably behind me, trying to read my license plate through a windshield smeared with vaporized Torco two-stroke oil.

It took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out that “I was just doing some jetting runs for the race tomorrow” wasn’t an argument calculated to let me off with a warning instead of a ticket, especially when offered from the saddle of a bike with a taped-over headlight, big number plates, and no speedometer.

The last time I got stopped on the R5 I was, amazingly, doing the same thing that had resulted in so many previous roadside conversations with law enforcement. The officer who pulled me over initially thought he was chasing someone towing a burning motorhome. I handed over my license, and the officer took it back to his car to call it in.

When he returned he handed it back, then to my astonishment asked me where the race was. There followed a conversation about motorcycles––he had a BSA––and racing, and how if he ever stopped me again he’d impound my Yamaha, drive me to the next county, and make me walk home from there. I did learn my lesson, however; from then on I did my jetting runs at night, with the lights off.

It was almost 15 years before I got stopped on a bike again. I was working for Cycle Guide and riding a Suzuki 1400 Intruder test bike to work one morning. The bike shook so vigorously at freeway speeds that I couldn’t see anything in the mirrors, which is why it took the whoop whoop of a siren to get me to look over my shoulder and see the CHP car lighting me up.

I pulled off at the next exit and parked in a gas station. The cruiser rolled up behind me and the officer got out like a snake uncoiling. He stood there for a moment, looking the bike up and down, a sneer on his lips.

“So,” he drawled, “that’s the new Intruder, huh? How do you like it?”

The officer settled into the seat with his shades on top of his head, bouncing up and down on the suspension and twisting the throttle. After I looked at my watch the third time, he got off, hitched up his belt, told me to keep the rubber side down, and drove away.

Not long after that incident, still at CG, I was thumping my head on my desk trying to dislodge an idea for a story when the editor came over and asked me if I was available to run up to the high-desert drag strip we used for quarter-mile and brake testing. Happy to be out of the office for a while, I grabbed a Yamaha FJ1100 and hit the freeway at a frankly imprudent pace. Almost predictably, a sheriff’s car that had been pacing me merged onto the freeway and pulled me over.

While I was frantically trying to remember where the FJ’s paperwork was, two sheriffs got out of the car, a tall one and a short one. Right away the tall one glared at me and said, “You’re lucky he likes bikes,” nodding in his partner’s direction.

The short sheriff asked me for my license, registration, and proof of insurance. I had exactly one of those things. “What the hell kind of license plate is that?” the tall one barked as he squinted at the manufacturer’s plate. Sheriff Short was circling the bike, taking in the details. “My neighbor Eddie has one of these in his garage,” he said, out of the blue. Good for Eddie, I thought, now where the hell is that insurance card…?

"He has a V-Max too, brand new. The company he works for gave it to him. He took me for a ride on the back of it. We hit about a hundred." I made appreciative noises, wondering if Cycle Guide's employee benefits included bail. "Ever been that fast on this?" he added. Oh no, sir, that would be illegal, sir. "Maybe you know him." Sorry, who? "My neighbor Eddie. Eddie Lawson."

Stunned, I admitted I wasn’t personally acquainted with his neighbor Eddie, but I had heard he was a pretty fair rider. The short sheriff agreed, told me I really ought to slow down on this stretch of road, got back in the car and drove off, leaving me telling myself I really must send four-time 500cc Grand Prix World Champion Eddie Lawson a note of thanks for being a very good neighbor.