Last August I was headed to Milwaukee on a new bagger, cruising the sand hills of Nebraska. I like the Cornhusker State; it’s a big place, with not too many people, not too crowded on the roads. Harley and I were in the eastern part, on SR 70 through Wheeler and Antelope counties, a dead-straight road with slight undulations. Speed limit was posted at 55; in Texas, where I had recently been, it would be 75. In my mildly paranoid mind a lot of states have not replaced those old 55 signs, shades of the oil crisis of 30 years ago, because they have become good revenue enhancers, and have nothing to do with safety.
It was a clear, blue day and I hadn’t seen a vehicle since I got on SR 70; I came over a rise, and—bingo!—there was a sheriff’s car a hundred yards ahead pointed toward me. Obviously with radar enhancement. Roof lights went on as I passed the deputy. I pulled over, he pulled a U-turn and came in behind. License, registration, insurance—and then the lecture began, about how dangerous it was to go 70 mph on a motorcycle, and he was doing me a favor by slowing me down. He seemed to be a humorless man, so I thought it best not to tell him about the sensible approach that Texans have taken on their rural byways.
Let me state unequivocally that I have great respect and admiration for the forces of law and order in this country, and greatly appreciate the necessary and often dangerous and unpleasant work they have to do; whether it is capturing armed criminals or pulling bodies out of car wrecks, police are an essential part of any society. Look what happened when the U.S. disbanded the Iraqi police and army six years ago; chaos reigned in the security vacuum, and still does to a lesser degree. While the great majority of us are good citizens, there is a small criminal minority that has to be kept in check, and that is what our police are good at. As well as stopping drunk and reckless drivers before they kill anybody other than themselves.
But pulling a motorcyclist over who was mildly exceeding the speed limit on an untrafficked back road has nothing to do with law and order. It has to do with money. I was an out-of-stater, not related to the local Judge Jones, so I wouldn’t create any political problems—The deputy had $69 almost in hand. Give the poor sod the ticket, send him on his way, and the deputy has paid for his day’s consumption of gasoline.
That, in my mind, breeds disrespect for the law. Which is not a good thing. When law enforcement is used to bolster the local government coffers, something is very wrong. In the bad old days there were a number of speed traps scattered around the various states, which usually acquired a bit of notoriety, and subsequent publicity. The Auto Club would actually send out info on where some of the most outrageous traps were.
I got caught in one in southern South Carolina back in 1965, somewhere on U.S. 17, I forget quite where. I was headed south, cruising through a one-horse town, broad main street, wide enough to turn your wagon and four-horse team, half a dozen stores on each side, nobody around.
I puttered on through at about 25, and a black cloud overhead opened up just as I cleared the last building. Seeing a disused barn with open doors a quarter-mile away I sped up and rode right in with the local cop just behind me.
He told me he’d been following me for over a mile, and I had been in violation of the local posted law requiring that I slow down to 25 mph a full mile north of town. I hadn’t slowed down sufficiently soon enough. Not a pedestrian to be seen, but by gorry, I had been reckless. He escorted me back to his office where I paid my fine on the spot. At least he waited until the shower had stopped.
Traffic laws are designed to make our roads safer, and I am all in favor of that. Although I think the safety aspect would be greatly enhanced if we taught our teenagers properly about the art of driving. But that is another column.
One of my current complaints is about the increasing use of speed cameras and red-light cameras that are being set up in many urban areas. In the best of all worlds, only the speed-crazies would speed, because the speed limits would be sensible. However, these private companies arrange with a town or city to mount their cameras, free of charge, and the company gets a percentage of the fines levied. And these fines are becoming outrageous. Run a red light at a deserted intersection at 3 a.m. in San Diego, and you are looking at a fine of over $400. Okay, you can say that nobody should ever run a red light, but what if your motorcycle hasn’t tripped the magnetic light-changer gizmo?
And impractical speed limits? A limit that is applicable at rush hour may not be so useful at 3 a.m. But a camera doesn’t care, nor does the company profiting from the fine, nor does the local government that gets money out of the situation. And these fines seem to be skyrocketing, three, four, five hundred dollars.
A friend of mine was out at Death Valley, a national park where the feds mandate a 45 mph limit even if the road is dead straight, the visibility forever, the distances long, and the traffic nil. Bicyclists pedaling from Scotty’s Castle down to Furnace Creek go faster than that. Said friend was riding down from Daylight Pass towards Stovepipe Wells, no cars on the road, not being irresponsible, rounded a slight curve and there was the Radar Ranger. My friend stopped to give out an autograph and ended up paying a $375 fine for doing nothing dangerous. I don’t know about you, but to me 375 simoleons is a lot of money.
Radar attacked me in Sequoia National Park, also with a 45 mph limit. Sue and I had been staying at the park’s hotel, and we got up early and packed our bikes since we wanted to make some miles. Early morning, blue skies, nobody about— except for a park rangerette headed our way as we’re doing almost 60 on a long, empty straightaway. She turned her twirly lights on and we politely pulled over when I saw her start her U-turn. I told her I was surprised to see a ranger on the road at 6:30 on a June Sunday morning, and that I was sorry, sorry, sorry that I had been speeding in a national park and it would never, ever, ever happen again. She said she was in a bad mood as she had been called out at 5 a.m. because some silly camper was worried about a bear. I went on to say that if she was in a ticketing mood, she should just ticket me, because my wife was only faithfully following her foolish husband, and if the world were truly just, women would always lead. The ranger went back to her vehicle to check our paperwork. Other riders who had been also staying at the lodge began passing, giving discreet waves.
The ranger came back, handed us our papers, and said to me, “You grovel well. Now, get out of here and don’t go fast.”
There is a goddess of speeders, and she is occasionally kind.
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