Hogs, Hondas and The Man

I can grumble like so many others about the lavish police presence in downtown Ventura last week, but I can’t fault the cops for being discriminatory.

Whether you were one of the hundreds of Hells Angels in town to party or just an ordinary citizen taking his vitamins, officers enforced the laws equally.

This I know--for when police laid their elaborate plans to snare errant Angels, they trapped me as well.

Somehow, I knew it would happen, even though I don’t share much with the typical Angel. True, we are both middle-aged and affect a jaunty air. But my bike has tires the width of an Angel’s pinkie. And when I ride, I wear embarrassing Spandex shorts with a padded bottom; no Angel would be caught dead in Spandex with a padded bottom.

Even so, we both had run-ins with The Man.

I was headed home after work. I hopped on my ride, a 1984 two-door Honda Accord. White, with Holstein seat covers.

It was Monday night, and the city was oddly alive. My office is downtown, where police patrols from seven agencies crisscrossed the streets, in cars and on foot and on horses, braced for trouble. In the afternoon, I had watched a platoon of officers pull an Angel over, pat him down and check his license. They gave him a warning for a defective taillight.

Of course, I couldn’t get too indignant. When Hells Angels gather from around the world for their 50th anniversary, the issues for law enforcement are different from those raised by, say, the Society of Actuaries, whose 50th happens to be next year in Hawaii.

In any event, I almost ran a stop sign. I had been through the four-way stop a million times--but on this particular night it caught me by surprise and I jerked to a halt.

Fortunately, there was no one around, only an idling police cruiser. After a few seconds, I crept through the intersection--and so did the police cruiser, its lights flashing.

I did what I was told: License, registration, insurance card. The officer aimed his flashlight at the back seat: gym clothes, a pink towel, petrified French fries.

In the rearview mirror, I saw two more cruisers pull up, each with two officers. Then two motorcycle patrolmen came along. Gawkers crowded the corner.

The boys in blue stood around, looking at my hanging rear bumper. I sat for a while, imagining the marvelous things that might pop up on a national police computer network: the sit-in at the dean’s office in 1969, a decades-old speeding ticket, broken leases, unpaid bills, an investigation of suspicion for perpetration in the third-degree.

Of course, nothing happened. The officer came back, handed me a warning and told me to be more careful.

I didn’t ask him why it took eight of Ventura County’s finest to bring me down. It wasn’t the time. Besides, I wanted to get home before they could launch the choppers.

The next day, I mentioned the incident to George Christie Jr., the president of the Hells Angels’ Ventura chapter.

“Well, no wonder they stopped you,” he said, swiftly sizing up my new wingtips, my khakis, my checked shirt and tie. “Just look at how you’re dressed!”