Detours Life, Death, and Divorce on the Road to Sturgis

The Last Time August, 1997 I'M STANDING BY THE SIDE OF THE ROADwith my feet spread and my hands on top of my head. There's a cop on either side of me and a particularly zealous one shining the beam from a flashlight into my eyes, his muscular arms popping from the short sleeves of his shirt. "You carrying any weapons," he asks brusquely. "A gun or a knife?" "No, sir," I reply, having learned over the years that officers of the law like to be called "sir." Even though I'm twice this guy's age. I'm not having a bad time, not yet, just a little uncomfortable in this position, watching hundreds of motorcycles cruise by, their riders rubbernecking to see who the unlucky stiff is, assuming the position. Then the pat-down begins. Flashlight in face, I'm nearly blind as one of the other cops begins a full body rub, from my boots, up my calves and thighs, over the pockets on the back of my jeans, a little pat on my ass, and up and across my chest where his hand stops. "What's that?" he asks. "What's what?" "You've got something in the pocket of your jacket," he announces. "What are you carrying?" "I don't know," I answer, and at that moment, I actually don't. Its been a long, long day, beginning at seven o'clock with a broken ignition wire followed by a ride into Sturgis, a trip to the tattoo studio, a drink at Big Bertha's with a bikini-clad lady wearing an eight-foot python for a necklace, a few margaritas at a Mexican restaurant in Spearfish, followed by a book signing session at the Armory, followed by a ride to Deadwood. Now we've got to get home. "Don't move," a voice says from somewhere beyond the glare. The mood of the evening shifts from lukewarm to ice-cold as I hear the snap of holsters opening. Suddenly I'm having a very bad time. I know I don't have a gun on me but carrying anything that can be construed as (drug) paraphernalia can get you fined or locked up. Does a Bic lighter count? * * * My own bike is parked a few yards away from me, missing a taillight, which is the reason we were stopped in the first place. It's also sporting a rather unusual license plate. It is orange and black with the letters JGJ. It's a British plate but the bike's about as American as it gets, an '89 Harley Springer. I never thought I'd see this particular bike again. I left it in London in 1995, along with an eighteen-year marriage. While I departed the country the Springer stayed at Warrs' Harley-Davidson, England's oldest bike dealers and my good friendsin my mid-life biking career I must have dropped enough money there to build them a new showroom, a shrine in polished wood and custom chrome. I put a price tag on the bike of $35,000.00 and figured it would be gone before I'd touched down in New York. A few months later I got a call from John Warr. "Richard, we've got a shipment of new bikes coming in and no room for them on the floor. Besides, it's taking a full team to keep yours polished. What do you want me to do with it?" A biking friend, Jess, came to my rescue, volunteering his garage. Warrs took care of the transport and the Springer was banished to a lock-up in Surrey, near Brighton by the Sea. I tried like hell to sell that Springer to Jess. It wasn't that I didn't love it. I did. The damn thing was even mentioned in my divorce case, as the other woman, but England has different rules about bikes than New YorkLa Plante, Richard is the author of 'Detours Life, Death, and Divorce on the Road to Sturgis' with ISBN 9780765303257 and ISBN 0765303256.