James Burleigh
Well-known member
Normally when I commute into San Francisco on my blue ’05 FJR, wearing my red-and-black Aerostitch, just one of a handful of bikes among the 500,000 automobiles and trucks I’ll encounter over the next 45 miles to work, I feel like a three-dimensional creature in a two-dimensional world. I’m able to go places and do things the cars can’t. It makes me feel like a kid at Disneyland who always gets to go to the front of the line (for the Matterhorn ride, natch, or perhaps the Runaway Train?).
But there are three elements that, when they show up in my Ride Equation, shut me down like kryptonite shuts down Superman. The three elements are Rain, Wind, and Semi-trucks (I was once bitten by a semi-truck that was actually not moving; took out the bottom half of my leather saddlebag; lost a good pair of work shoes, not to mention a damn good lunch; story for another time).
Anyway, after my commute last week I realized I needed to add another element to my list of motorcycle kryptonite—Motorcycle Cops.
I know what you’re thinking: “No sh*t.” Sure, when I see a California Highway Patrol motorcycle cop in the vicinity, I rein it in. But these were local cops, the kind who wear black outfits and ride Harley-Davidsons and sit bolt upright in the saddle and spend their days patrolling city streets. And when they get on the freeway they like to ride side by side, which I’ve got to admit looks very cool.
Anyway, just as I was merging onto Highway 24 in Lafayette and started merging my way over four lanes through the thick but moving traffic to the number one fast lane, I spot ahead of me these two local motorcycle cops riding in formation in the fast lane. They’re going at the speed of traffic; or maybe better yet, they’re setting the speed of traffic, which to state the obvious is frankly a little slow for my taste (style).
So I’m forced to put on my Clark Kent glasses and settle in line behind the car in front of me and in front of the car behind me (a very weird feeling), ‘cause if I do my usual threading in and out of traffic above the average speed, I’m gonna appear too, you know, aggressive. I’m thinking, “C’mon, boys. You’re on motorcycles for crying out loud. Let’s get a move on!”
When the traffic slows and backs up, the cops get into single file and go up the middle, then get back in formation when the pace picks up. In the mean time, I’m weedling my way out to the slow lanes in an effort to inconspicuously thread my way in front of them, but every time I get an advantage they manage to pick up speed and shoot on out ahead.
At the incline up to the Caldecott Tunnel I wind up splitting lanes right on their tail, which was actually pretty cool because it was like having a police escort: by the time I came up the cars were practically flying out of my way, presuming I was the third cop in line. Yeah, baby!
But into and then out of the tunnel, with the whole Bay Area coming into view and San Francisco lit up under a break in the morning clouds like the Magical City of Oz, I still can’t get past these guys! Several times I get into the lane right next to them, and start to gain as they glance over an admire my FJR (how my mind works), I bump up against too few seconds behind the car in front of me and can’t make the pass in front of the first cop without cutting him off. Damnit!
This goes on—you’re not going to believe this—for 30 miles! I follow these dudes all the way through the HOV lane past the toll booth onto the Bay Bridge, over the bridge, off into the City, and back onto Hwy 280. Incredible.
I know it. I’m a pussy. I should have just gone for it. An East Bay Rat would have split lanes next to those cops at triple their speed. But a ticket can really ruin your day, and I already got one just a few months ago (no, not for doing 105 in a 35, or doing wheelies across the bridge, or standing on my seat with my leg out behind me; I got it for crossing from and exit-only lane across the white stripe in first gear in stop-and-go traffic to get back onto the main freeway on the Bay Bridge approach).
Finally the two cops merge off in one direction on Hwy 280 and I go the other. [“Houston to FJR, you are go for throttle up….” “Uh, roger, Houston, go for throttle up…”—and up and up and up!]
So now it’s Rain, Wind, BFTs*, and Motorcycle Cops. The photo below gives you an idea what I was up against riding behind cops in formation, or at least what it felt like.
Out,
JB
*Big F**king Trucks
But there are three elements that, when they show up in my Ride Equation, shut me down like kryptonite shuts down Superman. The three elements are Rain, Wind, and Semi-trucks (I was once bitten by a semi-truck that was actually not moving; took out the bottom half of my leather saddlebag; lost a good pair of work shoes, not to mention a damn good lunch; story for another time).
Anyway, after my commute last week I realized I needed to add another element to my list of motorcycle kryptonite—Motorcycle Cops.
I know what you’re thinking: “No sh*t.” Sure, when I see a California Highway Patrol motorcycle cop in the vicinity, I rein it in. But these were local cops, the kind who wear black outfits and ride Harley-Davidsons and sit bolt upright in the saddle and spend their days patrolling city streets. And when they get on the freeway they like to ride side by side, which I’ve got to admit looks very cool.
Anyway, just as I was merging onto Highway 24 in Lafayette and started merging my way over four lanes through the thick but moving traffic to the number one fast lane, I spot ahead of me these two local motorcycle cops riding in formation in the fast lane. They’re going at the speed of traffic; or maybe better yet, they’re setting the speed of traffic, which to state the obvious is frankly a little slow for my taste (style).
So I’m forced to put on my Clark Kent glasses and settle in line behind the car in front of me and in front of the car behind me (a very weird feeling), ‘cause if I do my usual threading in and out of traffic above the average speed, I’m gonna appear too, you know, aggressive. I’m thinking, “C’mon, boys. You’re on motorcycles for crying out loud. Let’s get a move on!”
When the traffic slows and backs up, the cops get into single file and go up the middle, then get back in formation when the pace picks up. In the mean time, I’m weedling my way out to the slow lanes in an effort to inconspicuously thread my way in front of them, but every time I get an advantage they manage to pick up speed and shoot on out ahead.
At the incline up to the Caldecott Tunnel I wind up splitting lanes right on their tail, which was actually pretty cool because it was like having a police escort: by the time I came up the cars were practically flying out of my way, presuming I was the third cop in line. Yeah, baby!
But into and then out of the tunnel, with the whole Bay Area coming into view and San Francisco lit up under a break in the morning clouds like the Magical City of Oz, I still can’t get past these guys! Several times I get into the lane right next to them, and start to gain as they glance over an admire my FJR (how my mind works), I bump up against too few seconds behind the car in front of me and can’t make the pass in front of the first cop without cutting him off. Damnit!
This goes on—you’re not going to believe this—for 30 miles! I follow these dudes all the way through the HOV lane past the toll booth onto the Bay Bridge, over the bridge, off into the City, and back onto Hwy 280. Incredible.
I know it. I’m a pussy. I should have just gone for it. An East Bay Rat would have split lanes next to those cops at triple their speed. But a ticket can really ruin your day, and I already got one just a few months ago (no, not for doing 105 in a 35, or doing wheelies across the bridge, or standing on my seat with my leg out behind me; I got it for crossing from and exit-only lane across the white stripe in first gear in stop-and-go traffic to get back onto the main freeway on the Bay Bridge approach).
Finally the two cops merge off in one direction on Hwy 280 and I go the other. [“Houston to FJR, you are go for throttle up….” “Uh, roger, Houston, go for throttle up…”—and up and up and up!]
So now it’s Rain, Wind, BFTs*, and Motorcycle Cops. The photo below gives you an idea what I was up against riding behind cops in formation, or at least what it felt like.
Out,
JB
*Big F**king Trucks
We started back down, and I guess she wanted to demonstrate her mad skilz from driving academy, so she proceeded to floor it down the grade. We were going by other cars like they were parked, and I'm certain it was the fastest I've ever been in anything other than the FJR (probably about 130, but I was too busy taking in the scenery to check the speedo needle). I was absolutely terrified, but kept my composure. We got the hose, then back up the hill, where she dropped me off and went full throttle in reverse up to about 40 to back down to the water source and filled up a gallon jug for us. I doubt she was ever scared herself, so I was probably in no danger, but I'm still not sure, just happy to have survived. I seriously doubt that I ever scare my passengers that much, so like I said, it depends on one's perception. You know best. One thing I do know, is I would have gone down just as hard as you did on that arrow. Thanks for giving us all a heads-up so we can broaden our awareness.
