There seems to be a trending topic on social media - cops behaving badly. A grainy, poor-quality video captures a law enforcement official exerting excessive force, and generally conducting himself or herself in a manner unbecoming of an officer of the law.
Naturally, the viewer comments that accompany such a thread contain more than a hint of outrage, disgust, and incredulity. Since the only viewpoint offered is the one depicted in the amateur video, it is perfectly reasonable to join the chorus that we are all living in an oppressive police state where excessive force and brutality are the order of the day.
I am going to be honest. I have never experienced this side of law enforcement. But then again, I don't generally hang out with the type of person that attracts, or find myself in situations that demand, a police presence.
Thanks to an active lifestyle and wide array of hobbies, I have had plenty of scrapes with the uniformed men and women charged with upholding the law. Every incident is typified by an exchange I had with a state trooper at a gas station in Tennessee.
As we were running low on fuel, I signaled and led our trio off the highway and onto the crunchy, broken surface of a convenience mart. Typically, I run the pump with my helmet on, and then wheel the motorcycle to a parking space in order to save time. If no break is required, we immediately return to the road. During such stops, I don't even remove my helmet.
I fumbled my wallet out of my jacket pocket, pulled the credit card, and swiped the pump. While awaiting the card's approval, I noticed the unmistakable paint scheme of a squad car parked on the other side of my pump. A state patrol officer leaned against the quarter panel, dispensing fuel.
There was no question - he was watching me. Not in an imposing, threatening way, but in the manner in which someone whose job it is to observe society watches someone. With that, I broke tradition and removed my helmet. As I dispensed fuel, I smiled and nodded toward the officer. He was a little past middle age, with hints of gray streaking through a full head of hair. His skin was leathery and tanned, indicating he spent more than his fair share outdoors. When he returned my polite smile his face wrinkled about the eyes and mouth. This man - his features, his mannerisms - could have been my dad.
I broke the ice with a simple, "Good day, sir."
In a thick but pleasant Tennessee drawl he responded, "It is a fine day. You from Wisconsin? Where y'all headed?"
He had evidently noticed my license plate. "We're hoping to make it as far south as Key West." That's what I had been telling people, but suddenly I realized how foolish it sounded; we couldn't really ride any further south than Key West. To the state trooper I added, "My brother is stationed in Tampa, so we're planning on spending a few days with him."
He topped off his tank and added, "Well hopefully the weather treats you all right. Y'all ride safe."
I thanked him, wheeled my motorcycle into a parking spot, and waited for Stewbert and Paul. It was no accident he had mentioned the weather - storms are the bane of any cross-country motorcycle trip. Thus far we had been lucky, but upon entering the Appalachian region the air took a more unsettled, sinister feel.
The gravel crunched beneath the tires of the squad car as the officer drove away. I pulled out my smartphone to catch a glimpse of what lie ahead. We were heading southeast, away from Cape Girardeau and toward the Meriwether Lewis Memorial on the Natchez Trace Highway.
On my phone I am able to access real-time weather radar maps via an aviation navigation app. Sure enough, storm cells dotted our intended route. As Stewbert and Paul geared up, I remarked that we might get wet. I actually did not mind the prospect; a cool rain shower would feel good, so long as it was not severe.
We fired our engines, indicated, and turned back onto the road. We had no idea how far we would make it. Would we get rained out, or would we be able to push until dark? We had no plan, other than to drive to Key West with a smattering of stops along the way.
That is the allure of a cross-country motorcycle trip. We would ride as long as we felt like it, and stop at the first place that looked good.
As I brought my faithful Yamaha R1 back up to speed, I realized something about that Tennessee State Trooper. I had removed my helmet in order to talk to him, but without asking, he knew that I was from Wisconsin. Obviously, he had looked at my license plate.
He had not noticed the expired tag.
Once again, I kicked myself. I had been meaning to check the registration online. Every stop we had made thus far, I had forgotten. My mind wandered. Perhaps next time I wouldn't be so lucky. Next time, the officer wouldn't ask questions. He'd probably just throw me to the ground with excessive force, just like the rest of them.
After all, if you believe social media, they're all like that.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
Naturally, the viewer comments that accompany such a thread contain more than a hint of outrage, disgust, and incredulity. Since the only viewpoint offered is the one depicted in the amateur video, it is perfectly reasonable to join the chorus that we are all living in an oppressive police state where excessive force and brutality are the order of the day.
I am going to be honest. I have never experienced this side of law enforcement. But then again, I don't generally hang out with the type of person that attracts, or find myself in situations that demand, a police presence.
Thanks to an active lifestyle and wide array of hobbies, I have had plenty of scrapes with the uniformed men and women charged with upholding the law. Every incident is typified by an exchange I had with a state trooper at a gas station in Tennessee.
As we were running low on fuel, I signaled and led our trio off the highway and onto the crunchy, broken surface of a convenience mart. Typically, I run the pump with my helmet on, and then wheel the motorcycle to a parking space in order to save time. If no break is required, we immediately return to the road. During such stops, I don't even remove my helmet.
I fumbled my wallet out of my jacket pocket, pulled the credit card, and swiped the pump. While awaiting the card's approval, I noticed the unmistakable paint scheme of a squad car parked on the other side of my pump. A state patrol officer leaned against the quarter panel, dispensing fuel.
There was no question - he was watching me. Not in an imposing, threatening way, but in the manner in which someone whose job it is to observe society watches someone. With that, I broke tradition and removed my helmet. As I dispensed fuel, I smiled and nodded toward the officer. He was a little past middle age, with hints of gray streaking through a full head of hair. His skin was leathery and tanned, indicating he spent more than his fair share outdoors. When he returned my polite smile his face wrinkled about the eyes and mouth. This man - his features, his mannerisms - could have been my dad.
I broke the ice with a simple, "Good day, sir."
In a thick but pleasant Tennessee drawl he responded, "It is a fine day. You from Wisconsin? Where y'all headed?"
He had evidently noticed my license plate. "We're hoping to make it as far south as Key West." That's what I had been telling people, but suddenly I realized how foolish it sounded; we couldn't really ride any further south than Key West. To the state trooper I added, "My brother is stationed in Tampa, so we're planning on spending a few days with him."
He topped off his tank and added, "Well hopefully the weather treats you all right. Y'all ride safe."
I thanked him, wheeled my motorcycle into a parking spot, and waited for Stewbert and Paul. It was no accident he had mentioned the weather - storms are the bane of any cross-country motorcycle trip. Thus far we had been lucky, but upon entering the Appalachian region the air took a more unsettled, sinister feel.
The gravel crunched beneath the tires of the squad car as the officer drove away. I pulled out my smartphone to catch a glimpse of what lie ahead. We were heading southeast, away from Cape Girardeau and toward the Meriwether Lewis Memorial on the Natchez Trace Highway.
On my phone I am able to access real-time weather radar maps via an aviation navigation app. Sure enough, storm cells dotted our intended route. As Stewbert and Paul geared up, I remarked that we might get wet. I actually did not mind the prospect; a cool rain shower would feel good, so long as it was not severe.
We fired our engines, indicated, and turned back onto the road. We had no idea how far we would make it. Would we get rained out, or would we be able to push until dark? We had no plan, other than to drive to Key West with a smattering of stops along the way.
That is the allure of a cross-country motorcycle trip. We would ride as long as we felt like it, and stop at the first place that looked good.
As I brought my faithful Yamaha R1 back up to speed, I realized something about that Tennessee State Trooper. I had removed my helmet in order to talk to him, but without asking, he knew that I was from Wisconsin. Obviously, he had looked at my license plate.
He had not noticed the expired tag.
Once again, I kicked myself. I had been meaning to check the registration online. Every stop we had made thus far, I had forgotten. My mind wandered. Perhaps next time I wouldn't be so lucky. Next time, the officer wouldn't ask questions. He'd probably just throw me to the ground with excessive force, just like the rest of them.
After all, if you believe social media, they're all like that.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
