I’m pretty sure I touched on this before, but there’s some fun in the tension between the law and the biker element.

Easy to suggest that there are a ton of different attitudes towards cops among my readership, and I dare say a few cops are among them, including a few friends. Like bikers, you can’t paint ’em all with the same brush.

Once, in about 1987, I was road-tripping my way through the Sierra Nevada and came to a construction roadblock outside the town of Downieville (or was it Sierra City?) when a local sheriff’s deputy decided to do the lights and siren trick on me to check me out.

Granted, I was a long-haired hippy lookin’ youngster on a Sporster, and he was a hybrid of Rocoe P. Coltrane meets Boss Hogg. It was fate, and we each had a role to play. His gripe was that my pipes were too loud, and he proceeded to  run his nightstick up my exhaust pipes to check for a baffle. Which he found. A California Highway Patrol happened to be on hand also and, as if to temper the yokle cop’s stance, merely suggested that “It’s a Harley–they’re just loud.”

Who knows, maybe he had one at home.