I am fortunate to have a number of amusing options when it comes to my daily commute. Among them is Patterson Pass Road, which apparently evolved from a cow trail into a 1 1/2 lane bit of asphalt that would give a snake a backache.
I have a real love/hate relationship with Patterson Pass Road. On the one hand, it is a fantastic technical ride. Full of all sorts of asphalt anomalies like potholes and linked turns, with the mother of all Dead Man's Curves- a glass-slick, off-camber downhill decreasing radius turn that sends the unprepared flying off into either a canyon or a pasture, depending on direction. It's a lot like having your own roller coaster when it's clear.
On the other hand, during commute hours it is all too often clogged with drivers who see it only as an alternate to an overloaded freeway, and who are clearly not comfortable with a, uh, brisk pace on a challenging road. What should be fun is clearly a chore. They line up nose-to-tail like sled dogs and slog through in a joyless fashion, making what should be a fun 10 minutes into an excercise in frustration.
So today I decided to give it a shot. I knew there was a chance that things could be awful, but I resigned myself to taking it slow an enjoying the wonderful spring weather and the sedate, rolling hills and windmills and cattle. After all, I bought the Bonneville so that I could appreciate a more sedate riding style
I took the turnoff, and found that I was essentially alone on the road. There was a truck up ahead, pulling a bulldozer on a trailer, but he was clearly headed to the nearest farm and, almost magically, pulled into a driveway just before the first set of really fun curves.
With the road clear ahead, I did what any of us would do. The first set of curves is a nice, wide open pair of sweepers. You can see clear through them, and they invite you to open her up. Who was I to deny the Bonnie's urgings? These terminate in a blind right uphill turn. Roll off to scrub a bit of speed, just enough to leave an out if there's a stalled car around the corner. The trees on the right roll by like a curtain pulling back, revealing an unimpeded corner. Romp on the gas, climb the short hill, see the open left hand turn with the dip in the middle. Hit it hard and countersteer, feel the G-forces as the road dips and climbs to the left, then flick her over through the flat right hander that ends in a 1/8 mile straigh. The straight ends in another left hand uphill curve that only appears to be blind- take it enough times and you learn to see through it.
And so it went. I was having fun. Not going terribly fast, maybe 60 or 65 mph, but having a blast. I check my mirrors and see a bike. No big surprise, obviously another commuter enjoying the traffic-clear conditions. I try to make out what it is. My Napoleon bar ends vibrate in sympathy with the Bonnie's bursts of torque, and I'm having too much fun setting up for the next turn, late apexing to throw her around a dark patch covering another pothole. I figure whoever it is will catch up if he wants to pass, and I'll wave him by. After all, I'm not setting any speed records here, just having a good time.
And then the red and blue lights and siren come on.
Perfect. He's waited until there's a gravel-strewn shoulder to pull over on. I hit the brakes, slow way down, and then let her roll to a stop in the gravel. The last time I got pulled over was somewhere around 1986, but I know enough to make the job easier on the cop. I climb off the bike, grateful that I've got a KBC FFR that lets me flip the chin bar up to reveal my non-squidly fat 50 year old face. I've got no excuses, have clearly been caugh red-handed. The best I can hope for is a slap on the wrist, but seeing as how this road has a really bad reputation for vehicular carnage, I'm figuring this is going to cost me dearly. I start to pull off my gloves in anticipation of recovering the registration and insurance papers from the left hard bag.
The cop walks up. He's young, maybe 30. Thankfully he doesn't look angry or annoyed. He says something, but with ear plugs in I can't make it out.
"I'm sorry, what's that?"
He says someting about the speed limit being 45 on that part of the road. I thought it was 50 or 55, not that it matters since I was likely doing 60 or 65, maybe more,
"Sorry, I guess I wasn't paying that much attention to how fast I was going" I offer sheepishly.
"Bill?"
"Yes"
"Bill Metz?"
Now I'm completely confused. I have no idea who this cop is, or how he knows my name. I examine his face. Nobody I know.
"I'm (familiar sounding name) from SVRider.com".
The light goes on. I was a moderator on SVRider for about 5 years. He was an intelligent, well-mannered guy who contributed a lot of good input. I remembered that he was a Livermore cop, but I thought he rode around in a patrol car.
I break out in a huge smile, realizing from his demeanor that I'm about to get let off the hook. I ask him "You want to buy an SV"?
He laughs. "I'd love to have one as a track bike, but I don't have the money since I bought the Tuono, and I can't bear the thought of taking that on the track."
The thought strikes me that if he's got a Tuono, there's NO way he's riding it around at the posted limit. And since he's a cop, he's got an out with pretty much anyone who'd pull him over.
"You hypocritical b@$+@rd" I laugh.
"Hey, you just have to know when you can get away with speeding," he replies
"I guess that doesn't count commute hours."
"Not the best time," he says.
I gesture to the Bonneville "Funny, I bought the Bonnie so that I'd slow down," I tell him, "I'm getting too old to ride like I did on the SV."
"It isn't working," he laughs, and extends his hand. "Take it easy."
"You behave yourself" I reply, and he turns to his Harley.
He takes off, and after a few cars pass, I follow. He's romping his patrol bike hard, passing cars and clearly enjoying his ride home. I pull over to let a few cars pass, wait a half a minute until the next string of sled dogs approaches. Just before they catch up to me, I take of again at a fun pace and continue to enjoy my ride home, laughing all the way.
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