THE ‘MOTORCYCLE’ DEBACLE
/THE ‘MOTORCYCLE’ DEBACLE
By: Wes Wise
In the late ‘60s or early ‘70s, the Baltimore City Police Department purchased a dozen or so enclosed three-wheeled Cushman scooters for use by officers patrolling large city parks and golf courses. It was an overtime assignment, and since I needed the money, I jumped at the chance to patrol the parks during some of my days off.
Because I was one of the few officers who volunteered for park duty and would, therefore be one of the officers patrolling the parks/golf courses from time to time, I needed to have a motorcycle license. I’d never been on a motorcycle in my life, so I was sent to the Police Academy to “earn” a motorcycle license.
What’s interesting about that is I never even saw a motorcycle while qualifying for the license. The academy simply had me drive one of the Cushman scooters (designated as a motorcycle) around the parking lot a few times to prove that I could drive a stick shift (the scooters had an automobile-like standard shift) and whammo - they certified to the state and the world that I was qualified to operate a motorcycle (even though I wasn’t), and the state issued me a motorcycle driver’s license (with a wink and a nod, I believe).
Before that, I’d never operated any motor vehicle that required you to balance it when at rest or a vehicle with a foot-operated shifter and handbrakes. Nevertheless, I was now officially licensed to operate a Harley-Davidson or an Indian on the street if I cared to. Little did I know just how much my unfamiliarity with motorcycles and possession of the required motorcycle license would influence what happened to me some years later.
Fast forward two years to 1973, the evening shift, and my motorcycle adventure. The department obtained on loan from Honda a Honda 90 for experimental purposes to possibly replace the Cushman scooters for park use. For those not familiar with them, the Honda 90 was the Mini-Cooper of motorcycles; heck, this thing was shorter and smaller than the twenty-six-inch English bicycles I’d ridden as a kid.
But, unlike my childhood bicycles, this powerful little beast had ninety horsepower. It also had a foot-operated clutch, handlebar brake and throttle controls, and only two wheels just like a “real” standard-size motorcycle. The day the bike was received from Honda, my clueless sergeant approached me and said, “I see from your personnel sheet that you have a motorcycle license, so I’ve chosen you to test our new Honda 90.
He instructed me to drive it to Clifton Park and use it to patrol the park that day. I told him that was a terrible idea, that I’d never ridden a motorcycle of any size before, and that I was afraid of them. Even though it was small, it still scared me. I told him my motorcycle license was bogus, that it was thrust upon me by a department desperate to find drivers for its then-new Cushman Scooters, and that I would not comply with his order to use the Honda for the night.
After he pointed out some examples of what would happen to me if I continued to refuse his order, I relented. But I advised him that as a precaution and in the interest of self-preservation I would first write an administrative report objecting to the order and to the task. This infuriated the sergeant but seemed to me to be necessary, no matter how it might affect our professional relationship going forward.
In the administrative report, I pointed out with great specificity the totally non-existent motorcycle training I’d received, stressing that during the sham training/testing the department provided for me I never once touched or even saw an actual motorcycle. I ended the report by writing that I was proceeding under protest. I submitted the original report to the sergeant, who said he would file it.
In what could only have been an attempt to ameliorate my objections, the sergeant told me to push the Honda over to the Montebello Filters (a big water filtration plant right across the street from the police station house) and use the non-public roads which threaded among the little water pools there to practice riding the unfamiliar little motorcycle until I felt comfortable using it – any vehicle that was ridden rather than driven was problematic for me. Following orders, I pushed the Honda across the street to the filters, started it, and began a classic misadventure.
The next time I saw my sergeant was only about ten minutes later back at the station, and the following conversation (more or less) ensued. Yes, my sergeant was indeed just as obtuse as it seems from the conversation I’ve outlined, and yes, I was really so ticked off that I was purposely being difficult and sarcastic:
Sergeant: “What are you doing back so soon?”
Me: “I’m finished with the Honda 90 experiment.”
Sergeant: “What happened to your uniform?”
Me: “I fell.”
Sergeant: “You fell where?”
Me: “Across the street”
Sergeant: “How did you fall?”
Me: “I fell off the seat.”
Sergeant: “Where is the motorcycle now?”
Me: “Over at the Montebello Filter plant.”
Sergeant: “Why is it over there?”
Me: “Because you told me to practice over there, and I fell off the seat of the damn thing.”
Sergeant: “Is the motorcycle in one of the pools?”
Me: “Yes, sir.”
Sergeant: “You nincompoop!! You mean to tell me the Honda I assigned to you is in the middle of one of the Montebello pools?”
Me: “I don’t know if it’s in the middle exactly, but I’m pretty sure it’s on the bottom. I saw bubbles and steam coming up from the bottom after I fell off the seat of the damn thing and it ran itself into the pool.”
Sergeant: “##$^?%#*&&!!”
When he stopped yelling at me, I asked him if I should call the Traffic Investigation Section (TIS). TIS investigated all departmental traffic accidents, and you were required to call them immediately if you had one. I didn’t know if they had to investigate this because the Honda was not really a departmental vehicle - it was on loan from Honda.
When he stopped yelling at me again, he told me to just go home and nurse my sore knee and backside and come back to work as scheduled the next day. He added that he’d take care of the problem I’d caused him.
Before I left the station, I went upstairs to an empty office and wrote a complete report about what happened, date and time-stamped it and attached it to the report I already had in my hat. Then I went home and nursed my minor injuries by watching TV.
But of course, that’s not the end of the story. At about three o’clock the next morning I got a call at home from my still highly irritated sergeant. For some reason, he had not gone home at the end of his shift and was still at the station. In no uncertain terms, he ordered me to return to the station IMMEDIATELY! So I got dressed in street clothes and drove back to the station. I took my uniform hat with me.
With him at the station were a lieutenant, a sergeant, and an accident investigation officer, all from TIS. The lieutenant had been called in the middle of the night by his sergeant to deal with the “motorcycle in the pool incident.” The first thing anyone said to me was from the lieutenant, who told me I was in a pile of trouble for not notifying TIS about my stupid accident.
Calling TIS to the scene of a departmental accident was required in the event one occurred, he said. So, I took a little haranguing from the TIS lieutenant, and a little more from the TIS sergeant, before I even got a chance to speak. But when I did speak, the first thing I told them was that my sergeant had specifically instructed me not to call TIS, but instead to go home and that he would take care of it himself, whatever that had meant.
At that point, I reached into the uniform hat that I had carried in with me and pulled out two reports I had written, dated, and time-stamped. The lieutenant read them slowly, looked at the date and time stamped on them, and told me to excuse them for a few minutes while they discussed the matter. I told the lieutenant they should be discussing the incident with me, since my sergeant had no real idea what had happened or which of the pools the motorcycle was in, and he yelled, “Just get out and wait for me in the desk area!”
A few minutes later the lieutenant came out and assured me that they would take care of things and that I should just leave and forget about it. I told him I would be glad to leave, but that I would never forget about it, and I sat down at a desk and started writing. After demanding that the lieutenant counter-sign the report I had just written and also copies of my earlier administrative reports, I did go home.
It was no surprise that I never heard another word about it, though I was treated a good bit more gingerly by my sergeant from then on. Of course, I never forgot about it and never told anyone about the situation until now.
A thirty-six-year veteran of the Baltimore Police Department, Wes retired in 2006 as the Commander of the city’s 911 System. While recovering from a stroke in 2014, he wrote two books about his experiences as a Baltimore cop. Wes has also self-published fourteen books for other writers. Need publishing help? Contact Wes at weswise78@gmail.com. A father of two and grandfather of ten, he and his wife of 49 years live near Baltimore, Maryland.
