The Broken String

Pride can’t fall half so fast as the man who acts today on the basis of his luck yesterday.

For so long that I can’t remember when it began, I have made smug comments about my various adventures

in and around home, poking about in places I had no business being and getting some quiet fun out of it, never mind the account of the time I should have been written up and wasn't.

Right.

They got me.

They got me fair and square or I wouldn’t be telling you, I’d be making legal motions. But, members of my peer group and thus more qualified to hear this case than was the man who heard it, it all began when the newspaper said our local conglomerate, second-largest landowner in the county, was busy expanding to the east. I wenf to look. Stretching away from the former end of the pavement was a little trail. It headed toward a valley I’ve wanted to explore for years.

Came Saturday afternoon and the XL250 and I went exploring.

As I stared past the fence át the valley I hoped to see closer, two small street bikes putted past. Dad and à kid on one, mom and a smaller kid on the other.

They went past and paused at a locked gate. I tagged along and they paused at the next locked gate. Odd. I rode by with a smile and nod and proceeded along the pavement until I came to a fence. Beyond the fence was pavement, then dirt. In the mixed section a kid was riding a small enduro bike while a man sat on the curb and instructed.

The father was a good man. The son, 14, was old enough to learn. They had no truck so they’d come up from their house a block away. While we chatted the family appeared. They rode past us, onto the dirt trail and over the hill.

My secret reason for stopping was to ask a local about the climate, so to speak.

Well, he said, once when the kids were smaller they went hiking up one of the canyons. Had a great time except somebody saw them and in came a

helicopter, honest, to tell them to get out and be quick about it.

Hm, I said. Like that, is it?

On the other hand the flock of fledglings hadn’t paused for an instant. I turned and went in their direction.

In the valley, half a mile away perhaps, there were two motorcycles. Nearly as I could tell they were newer Honda XLs,

ridden by grown men. One in a yellow helmet, the other with dark green.

I went down the hill, across the valley, up the cut and came to a branch in the trail. I slowed down; you never know what’s coming and I knew there was traffic in the area. As I wondered which way to go, over the hill on the right came the two Honda XLs.

The man in the lead wore a dark green helmet.

A dark green shirt.

Dark green pants.

And a black belt carrying his radio and his holster.

The Man.

I asked if he’d seen the family on the two little street bikes. I added that they’d gone past me out at the pavement and I worried lest they’d ridden onto more than they could handle. True, every word.

He asked if it was my bike, where did I live, had I a license and registration, where had I come from, where was I going, did I know I was on private property just that week closed by special ordinance because of the fire hazard, is this my current address, is this my bike, where do (did?) I think I’m going?

Yes, I know I repeated a question. So did he, because all the time he was asking he was reading my license and registration and writing on a little pad of forms.

The other deputy wasn’t paying much attention. He was distracted. He could see two kids fishing off the dam behind us. The trail wouldn’t let him ride to where they were. He finally rode as close as he could, then hiked the rest of the way. Worth the effort, I’m sure.

The main man finished writing. The jyj****** y***** ç0 doesn’t want people on its land, he said, “especially on motorcycles.”

He gave me a citation for trespass, let me off on the violation of the fire closure ordinance. Fair, under the

circumstances. First, I was guilty. Next, although I had told the truth, just out for a ride, you wouldn’t have to be Bernie Schreiber to ride feet up through the gaps in my story. The deputy looked at my bike and I expect he figured the knobbies, the skid plate, .the high pipe, the bag of tools and gear, indicated a man who was fairly well equipped for his casual wanderings.

During all this I’d sensed a lack of communication, an absence of rapport. As recounted here earlier, this wasn’t the first time I’ve been found where I shouldn’t have been found. This time, no jokes, no lecture, no motorcycle talk.

The deputy asked if I knew how to get out of where we were. Sure, I said, I think so. Don’t you know?

He didn’t. He knew where he and his partner had left their truck, and how they’d gotten where we were. But the rest of the territory was unknown.

Oh.

Bing! (The sound of the light bulb bursting into illumination in the bubble over my head.)

Never mind the political question of whether these public servants should be spending their time patrolling private property. You pay millions in taxes, you get service.

If somebody told you and me to draw salaries and take a couple new bikes and go riding around thousands of acres of grassland, creekbeds, hills and wooded glades, don’t you suppose we’d check out the territory? Darned right. We might even show up early and go home late.

Not these guys. They didn’t want to be there. They weren’t going to ride their wretched little kick-start patrol car substitutes one foot farther than they had to.

I asked if the deputy would write up the family. Depends, he said, on how old the kids are. I gulped, remembering that I was dealing here with people who’d send a gunship after picnickers. I reckoned I’d better at least warn the father and his student son.

They were gone. In their place was— repeat after me what Mr. Bill says when Sluggo appears on the horizon—a truck bearing the emblem of the land developer and a man in a uniform.

He mildly remarked that I’d been where I wasn’t supposed to be.

I know, I said, I’ve just been written up for trespass and am at the moment skedaddling home as fast as a man can ride with his tail between his legs. I added that I seem to have outlived my era. The cowboy remains but the open range is all gone.

He understood. He said he and his sons have gone riding in the same place I’d been. You have your fun and you take your chances.

And sometime you pay your fines.