Okay. Get ready for some hypocrisy. Some contradictions. Get ready for me to seemingly do a complete fucking 180 on everything I've been writing about government, law enforcement, personal liberty, and the right to challenge authority.
Except I'm not.
And if you actually read my fucking words instead of deciding what I believe based on the first three sentences, you might even understand why.
But first, let me tell you about my ride this morning.
Holy fuck, it was amazing.
Yes, it was cold. Really fucking cold. November in northern New Mexico isn't exactly ideal motorcycle weather, especially when you're riding through the valley before the sun has had a chance to do anything useful. But the cold didn't matter. The road was beautiful, the bike was running like a fucking dream, and I was doing what I love most: Eating up asphalt.
The traffic was moving, people were getting out of the left lane as I approached, and for once, it felt like everybody had collectively decided to cooperate with the universe. I was moving through traffic, enjoying the ride, feeling the wind and the engine and that wonderful sense of freedom that keeps me getting on a motorcycle even when the temperature suggests I should have my fucking head examined.
It was one of those mornings when everything just clicks.
Until I reached Pojoaque.
I moved into the right lane because I needed gas, and I was planning to stop for coffee and warm up my hands before continuing up the hill. As always, I was checking my mirrors, keeping track of what was happening behind me as well as in front of me.
And that's when I saw the lights.
Coming up fast.
I moved onto the shoulder, figuring somebody was responding to an emergency. Maybe there was an accident up ahead. Maybe somebody needed help. Whatever the reason, I wasn't about to get in the way.
So I pulled over and waited for the emergency vehicle to pass.
Except it didn't.
Nope.
It pulled in right fucking behind me.
Well, fuck.
Guess they finally got me.
And here's where the story gets interesting.
I cooperated.
Completely.
No arguing. No challenging the officer's qualifications. No demanding an explanation of how he could possibly understand motorcycle safety. No philosophical discussion about the proper role of government in a free society.
Hell, I even apologized.
Why?
Because I knew exactly what I'd done.
The officer approached and told me he'd clocked me doing 100 miles per hour in a 65-mile-per-hour zone.
Yep. You got me.
I knew I was speeding. I knew I was breaking the law. And I knew that if I decided to challenge this one in court, I'd have a pretty fucking difficult time explaining why the officer was wrong.
Because he wasn't.
I was doing a hundred.
And I wasn't about to stand there pretending otherwise.
The officer was professional about the whole thing. He explained what he'd observed, told me what he was citing me for, and even gave me a break by not writing the reckless-driving ticket he could have considered.
So now I owe the Pueblo of Pojoaque $207.
And that's on me.
One hundred fucking percent.
Which is probably confusing the hell out of anybody who's been reading my blogs lately.
Because just yesterday, I wrote about government authority, police accountability, and why citizens should challenge officers who make questionable decisions. I told the story of the tribal officer who cited me for careless driving because he believed my lane changes were inherently dangerous.
I challenged that citation.
I prepared questions.
I went to court.
And I was pissed off when the officer didn't show up.
Yet here I was, less than twenty-four hours later, practically thanking another officer for handing me a speeding ticket.
What the fuck?
Well, here's the difference.
In the first case, I disputed the officer's conclusion. He said my riding was careless. I said it wasn't. I wanted him to explain what specific action he'd observed that made my riding careless under the circumstances.
This morning?
There wasn't much to dispute.
The officer said I was doing a hundred.
I was doing a hundred.
That's a pretty fucking straightforward conversation.
I believe government has an obligation to justify its actions. I also believe individuals have an obligation to take responsibility for theirs.
Those two beliefs aren't contradictory.
They're the same fucking principle applied in opposite directions.
If I expect an officer to own his decisions, I'd better be willing to own mine.
And I did.
Now, don't misunderstand me. I deserved the fucking ticket. The speed limit was sixty-five. I was doing a hundred. The officer caught me, and I accepted the consequences.
But that doesn't mean I'm apologizing for riding a hundred miles per hour.
Because I'm not.
I don't believe that triple-digit speeds on a motorcycle are inherently careless. Modern motorcycles are perfectly capable of operating at those speeds, and I believe the question ought to be whether the rider is operating the machine prudently under the circumstances, not simply whether some number on a roadside sign has been exceeded.
Now, before somebody starts screaming about how dangerous motorcycles are, let me explain something else.
When I'm riding, I seldom look at my fucking speedometer.
Not because I don't care about what's happening around me. Quite the opposite. Because I care very fucking much.
I'm watching the road. I'm watching the cars. I'm watching the pavement for potholes, gravel, debris, and whatever other bullshit might be waiting to ruin my day. I'm watching intersections, shoulders, mirrors, and the vehicles around me, trying to anticipate what some distracted motherfucker might do next.
A pothole that barely registers in a car can be a serious hazard on a motorcycle. A piece of debris that a truck rolls over without a second thought can put a rider on the pavement. And an animal darting into the roadway can turn an otherwise beautiful ride into a fucking disaster.
And here's the part that people who don't ride often fail to appreciate: when you're on a motorcycle, taking your eyes off the road has consequences that can be immediate and catastrophic.
Especially in traffic.
At highway speeds, you cover an enormous amount of ground in the time it takes to glance down at a gauge and look back up. At a hundred miles per hour, you're traveling nearly 150 feet every second. A rock, a pothole, a piece of metal falling off a truck, or some asshole drifting into your lane doesn't wait for you to finish checking your fucking speedometer.
I've already spent months recovering from a motorcycle accident that nearly killed me. I know what it's like to have a moment on the road turn into a hospital stay and a long, painful recovery. I don't need another reminder.
So my eyes are on the road.
Where I believe they belong.
And yes, that means I often judge my speed by what I'm seeing and feeling rather than constantly checking a number on the dashboard. I know my motorcycle. I know how it accelerates, how it brakes, and how it responds to my inputs. I've spent an enormous amount of time learning those things, and I use that experience every time I ride.
Does that make me immune to mistakes?
Of course fucking not.
Does it mean a hundred miles per hour is appropriate under every set of circumstances?
No.
But neither do I believe that crossing some numerical threshold automatically transforms an attentive, experienced rider into a careless one.
Speed matters. Obviously. At higher speeds, hazards arrive faster, stopping distances increase, and the consequences of getting something wrong can be much worse. I'm not disputing physics.
I'm saying that paying attention to the actual road is critically important, and I refuse to pretend that staring at a speedometer makes somebody a safer rider than watching what's happening around them.
And that's where my disagreement with the law begins.
Not with the officer.
He didn't write the speed limit. He didn't decide what the penalty should be. He observed me violating it and issued the citation.
Fair enough.
I can respect the officer for doing his job, accept responsibility for violating the law, and still believe the law is a poor measure of whether I was actually riding carelessly.
Those positions aren't contradictory.
And I'm not going to pretend to be sorry for something I'm not sorry about just because I got caught.
I owe the Pueblo of Pojoaque $207.
I'll pay it.
But I'm keeping my fucking opinion.
Which brings me back to something I found myself doing during the traffic stop.
Smiling.
Not because I thought getting pulled over was funny. Not because I was mocking the officer or treating the whole thing like a joke.
I was smiling because I could see the absurdity of the situation.
Yesterday, I'm standing in court, prepared to challenge a police officer's interpretation of careless driving.
Today, I'm standing on the side of the road, admitting that another officer caught me doing a hundred in a sixty-five.
And somehow, both situations fit perfectly within the same set of beliefs.
Question authority when authority deserves to be questioned.
Accept responsibility when responsibility belongs to you.
It's not particularly complicated.
Although apparently it can get a little fucking expensive.
Two hundred and seven dollars, to be precise.
So what did I learn this morning?
Well, I learned that the Pueblo of Pojoaque is apparently willing to accept $207 in exchange for my little adventure with the throttle. I learned that at least one police officer can issue me a ticket without either of us needing to engage in a philosophical debate about the proper role of government. And I learned that I can be perfectly pleasant to a cop when I believe he's doing his job correctly.
Who fucking knew?
What I didn't learn was that I should be ashamed of riding fast.
I'm not.
I love speed. I love motorcycles. I love the feeling of a machine responding to every movement of my body, and I love the extraordinary concentration that riding demands.
I also understand that the law establishes limits, and when I choose to exceed those limits, I may have to answer for it.
This morning, I did.
The officer did his job. I accepted the citation. Nobody needed to get into an argument, nobody needed to prove how fucking smart they were, and nobody needed to turn a routine traffic stop into a contest of egos.
I got caught breaking a law I don't necessarily agree with, by an officer who did his job correctly.
And frankly, I think the officer should have thanked me.
Because what he didn't know was that less than ten minutes earlier, I'd been doing 118 miles per hour.
So, technically, I'd already slowed down.
Eighteen fucking miles per hour.
Just for him.
You're welcome, officer.
