Carte Blanche

CARTE BLANCHE

Allan Girdler

UP FRONT

Trained observers that they were, the Sheriff's Mounted Posse had my number in the flick of an eye.

Son Joe and I were on our way home and stopped at the drugstore. Parked in front of the donut shop were two Honda XL350s. stock except that they were wearing colors, as the outlaws say. the colors in this case being the stripes and insignia of the Orange County Sheriffs Office. Standing behind the bikes, taking a coffee break, were the riders.

Casual as could be I ambled over and admired the bikes. In the calm tone of a man asking a polite but not vital question,

I said “Where are you guys patrolling now?"

The deputies looked at me and they looked at my feet and they looked at each other and they laughed and one said “Fat chance."

So I looked at my feet.

I still had on my lineman’s boots.

Fat chance indeed. But neither party took offense. I didn’t even bother to fish down in my enduro jacket and find the ticket stubs from the local motorcycle park where Joe and I had been riding. No need. The posse knows that most every one of us local cowtrailers commits misdemeanor trespass as a matter of course. We know they know and both sides know it’s not so much a crime or a war as a matter of circumstances. We are adversaries but like attorneys, being on opposite sides doesn't make us enemies. Besides, these guys are motorcycle nuts too. They ride in their spare time and enjoy their work as much as I enjoy mine. I think I envy them. Imagine riding past our local villain, a rancher known in my neighborhood as “OF ShootTo-Kill," shouting “Routine patrol!" and disappearing over the hills on your rear wheel. A policeman’s lot isn’t always an unhappy one.

No need for charge and counter-charge. Instead we spoke of land rights and human rights, of recreation and popular causes and the law.

I began with mockery of the law in our county. It is unlawful to ride a motorcycle on any private land without the landowner's written permission. The land needn't be fenced. It needn’t be posted.

How foolish. I said. We hear of ecology and wilderness and preserving nature for future generations. In our case, the land across w hich the riders and the posse play dodge-’em is not w ilderness. It's rocks and ravines and ungrazed pasture. It's submarginal ranch and farm land at the fringes of the sprawl. They run us off one week because of our terrible scars on the face of mother earth and the next week the wfiole mountain has been pushed into the gulley. It’s ripped down and pushed around and paved with sticks and stucco. They kill the quail, trample their nests and call the place Quail Valley.

(Honest. I didn’t make that up. Happened where I used to live.)

About the time the veins began to pop on my forehead, one of the deputies said. Mellow out. You are throwing rocks at the wrong Bad Guy. Ecology has nothing to do with the new trespass law. The prime mover here is Insurance.

Or the courts or judges or attorneys or juries, one can argue for a choice of culprits. Doesn't matter much. Point is, there has been a reversal in principle. We are now all burdened by a system of legal cases and decisions and verdicts apparently aimed at converting damage suits from the pursuit of justice into the transfer of money, from corporations to individuals.

Time was. the burden of responsibility was on the individual. If I went riding across your pasture, dropped the front tire into a gopher hole and broke my leg, tough on me. If you were a kindly farmer maybe you'd throw my bike into the back of your truck and help me back to the pavement. There would be no question about whose fault the fall was, because I had no business being there.

But now, if I rip down your sign, snip your fence, ride across your pasture and break my leg, I hobble to the courthouse and file suit. Your land tempted me. Your pasture had ruts in it and was unsafe. (Just in case, I’ll also sue the motorcycle company. the dealer and anybody else who crosses my path.)

Sounds absurd. Obscene. Immoral.

Not yet. The worst part is . . . I’ll collect. Whopping great sums of money have been collected in court by people who did just what I've described. Perhaps our national motto should be. Somebody Else Will Pay For This.

Because there are huge judgments, the landowner must have insurance. Because there is insurance, there are huge judgments. Everybody knows the insurance companies have all that money, right?

At any rate, the scrub land across which the deputies won’t let me ride is mostly owned by big corporations. Their insurance companies insist they do all in their power to keep riders away, including prosecution. If they don't, they have no defense in court.

Our county is something like 2500 square miles. Within it there are three> designated areas for off-road vehicles. They comprise maybe 30 acres.

Thus, the game of Cops ’n Cowtràilers.

These cops are good guys and for fun I mentioned public access. There used to be a great fishing and surfing beach not far from the public highway and for years everybody walked from highway to beach. The new owner, a giant corporation, poor things, threw up fences and we all went to court. Public Domain, the court said. Because people had been using that land, they had a right to use that land. The owners donated the beach and land to the public.

How about that? I asked. For years the surfers walked south along that creek and I rode north. How come I haven’t established public domain in the creek bed? Then we all had a good laugh. Quoting a humorist of the previous century, the courts follow the election returns. Going to the beach is Good. Riding a motorcycle is Bad.

And so it will go.

I don’t like trespassing. I have never knowingly violated a warning sign and I surely haven’t cut any fences.

But I’ve never seen a trail I didn’t want to explore.

My lone solution to date comes from my fantasy life.

In childhood I read all the success stories and I know how one gets power. Our incumbent President has done me the favor of having a young daughter.

The details are hazy, that is, why I am on the scene and the Secret Service isn’t, I haven’t worked out yet.

But there I am, just in time to scoop Amy from in front of the runaway limousine or yank her away from the helicopter blades.

The President is of course overcome with gratitude: What can he do for me?

One thing. I don't want to be a federal judge. I don’t desire appointment to the Court of St. James.

I want a white card. It should bear the Presidential Seal, the Presidential signature and the words . . .

Let This Man Ride Anywhere He Wants SI