Storm troopers ahem I mean Power trippers... Have actually come across some really cool ones aka they let me go lol
Like the one who popped me on my Ninja 600R when I was jamming out of town to catch up with some friends for a weekend camping trip back in 1985.
I was headed out of Anchorage for a weekend long party out at a small lake in the Matanuska Valley, and I had the green connection so I stayed in town long enough to pick up a few ounces for the party.
I zoomed out of town and once I got past all of the traffic I opened that bitch up all the way to see what it would do.
So I'm blazing at about 140mph tucked in nice & neat behind the fairing when I see some parking lights in the median between the divided higway, which can only mean a state trooper.
So I immediately let go of the throttle and start coasting down.
He was a couple of miles down the road when I saw him, and in the seconds after coasting down I passed him at 95mph, and I was staring right at him, head turning to follow him as I whipped by.
His lights went on immediately (speed limit was 55mph back then) and onto the highway he came.
For a split second I thought about hitting the throttle and seeing if he could catch me, but I decided against it and pulled over right away, got off my bike, took off my helmet and waited for him to get there.
He finally shows up, and walks up to me and the bike.
Now, the Ninja 600R was a brand new model in 1985, and it was a limited production with just enough made for it to qualify for racing as a production bike, and I had bike number 3,213 of 3,300.
So they were more rare than seeing a Lamborghini Countach or Ferrari 512BB (especially in Alaska), and he was real interested in checking out the bike.
So there I am, full leathers, hot new bike, pulled over for speeding, with only a Learner's Permit (have been riding motorcycles since I was 5 years old: license? I don't need no stinking license!
), and I have 3 ounces of the stinkiest Matanuska Thunderfuck tucked into the inside jacket pocket of my leathers on my right-side, and my Smith & Wesson model 639 9-mm (full clip, one round in the chamber, naturally) in a shoulder holster on my left side, and about $600 cash in my wallet.
Even in Alaska back then, a concealed weapon is a major no-no.
Mix in a good amount of pot and a wad of cash, and you're looking at a major felony.
So he has me get into his car while he writes me up for speeding.
I can smell the MTF wafting up out of my hot leathers as he asks for my license and I tell him I only have a Learner's Permit (which I didn't physically have with me that day).
He's looking at me funny as he grills me while writing the ticket.
Then he says, "Well, I got you on my radar gun at 135, but since you pulled over right away and stopped I'm going to mark it down as 95mph which is what you were doing when you passed me. 5 more miles an hour and you'd be getting your bike impounded and losing your driver's license. But I appreciate the fact that you pulled over when you could have, quite honestly, gotten away. There's no way I would have ever caught you if you'd decided to go for it, so I appreciate you doing the right thing."
I'm sweating bullets by now, and was utterly relieved to be let go and sent on my way with only a ticket and a warning to keep it below Mach 1.
There is NO way he didn't smell the weed on me.
No fucking way at all.
I reeked from smoking it, my pipe reeked, and I had 3 fat ounces in cheap ziploc bags in hot & sweaty leather in July.
And a search at that point would have been disastrous for me.
So, most cops are pigs, but some still have shreds of humanity in them.
Mostly, he just was into checking out the bike (he looked it over for a good 5 minutes asking me all kinds of questions about it).
But most are just busybody fuckwads (amazing how they are similarly perceived by those of us who just want to be left alone: busy, bizzies, busybody, etc. Just too fucking eager to hassle people most of the time.)
Time for a fat doobie of MTF... frickin' cops... you got me started...
Peace!