Neighborhood Hazard (or: Why the Cops Won’t Patrol Brice Street)

I never dreamed slowly cruising through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous!


Studies have shown that motorcycling requires more decisions per second, and more sheer data processing than nearly any other common activity or sport. The reactions and accurate decision making abilities needed have been likened to the reactions of fighter pilots! The consequences of bad decisions or poor situational awareness are pretty much the same for both groups too.


Occasionally, as a rider I have caught myself starting to make bad or late decisions while riding. In flight training, my instructors called this being “behind the power curve”. It is a mark of experience that when this begins to happen, the rider recognizes the situation, and more importantly, does something about it. A short break, a meal, or even a gas stop can set things right again as it gives the brain a chance to catch up.


Good, accurate, and timely decisions are essential when riding a motorcycle…at least if you want to remain among the living. In short, the brain needs to keep up with the machine.


I had been banging around the roads of east Texas and as I headed back into Dallas, found myself in very heavy, high-speed traffic on the freeways. Normally, this is not a problem, I commute in these conditions daily, but suddenly I was nearly run down by a cage that decided it needed my lane more than I did. This is not normally a big deal either, as it happens around here often, but usually I can accurately predict which drivers are not paying attention and avoid them before we are even close. This one I missed seeing until it was nearly too late, and as I took evasive action I nearly broadsided another car that I was not even aware was there!


Two bad decisions and insufficient situational awareness…all within seconds. I was behind the power curve. Time to get off the freeway.


I hit the next exit, and as I was in an area I knew pretty well, headed through a few big residential neighborhoods as a new route home. As I turned onto the nearly empty streets I opened the visor on my full-face helmet to help get some air. I figured some slow riding through the quiet surface streets would give me time to relax, think, and regain that “edge” so frequently required when riding.


Little did I suspect…


As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it—it was that close.


I hate to run over animals…and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact.


Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels can take care of themselves!


Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing the oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, “Banzai!” or maybe, “Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!” as the leap was spectacular and he flew over the windshield and impacted me squarely in the chest.


Instantly he set upon me. If I did not know better I would have sworn he brought twenty of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light t-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!


Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and leather gloves puttering maybe 25mph down a quiet residential street…and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing.


I grabbed for him with my left hand and managed to snag his tail. With all my strength I flung the evil rodent off the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw.


That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser.


But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel.


This was an evil attack squirrel of death!


Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands, and with the force of the throw swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact he landed square on my back and resumed his rather anti-social and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him!


The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him.


I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it.


The engine roared as the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in…well…I just plain screamed.


Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel torn t-shirt, and only one leather glove roaring at maybe 70mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street…on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.


With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody’s tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle…my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little affect against the massive power of the big cruiser.


About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is a Scottish attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got IN my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway and he began hissing in my face I am quite sure my screaming changed tone and intensity. It seemed to have little affect on the squirrel however.


The rpm’s on The Dragon maxed out (I was not concerned about shifting at the moment) and her front end started to drop.


Now picture the large man on the huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very ragged torn t-shirt, and wearing one leather glove, roaring at probably 80mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel’s tail sticking out his mostly closed full-face helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse.


Finally I got the upper hand…I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked…sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of, so to speak.


Picture the scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork.


Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn t-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing one leather glove, moving at probably 80mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.


I heard screams. They weren't mine...


I managed to get the big motorcycle under directional control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign at a busy cross street.


I would have returned to fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. But for two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. One of them was on his back in the front yard of the house they had been parked in front of and was rapidly crabbing backwards away from the patrol car. The other was standing in the street and was training a riot shotgun on the police cruiser.


So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to “let the professionals handle it” anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I swear I could see the squirrel, standing in the back window of the patrol car among shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery, and shaking his little fist at me. I think he was shooting me the finger…


That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car…


I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made an easy right turn, and sedately left the neighborhood.


As for my easy and slow drive home? Screw it. Faced with a choice of 80mph cars and inattentive drivers, or the evil, demonic, attack squirrel of death...I’ll take my chances with the freeway. Every time.


And I’ll buy myself a new pair of gloves.


CUAgain,
Daniel Meyer

My guess is that riding a bike in a Dallas neighborhood with pissed off furring rodents is not very healthy. Or don’t ride a motorcycle in Dallas neighborhoods that allow testy red neck squirrels.

LMAO!!! that's great!

when squirrels attack, next on FOX

What a great story! How you kept that bike upright is a testament to your good riding skills. I've had a bee in the helmet before.....a squirrel? What a man! You fought the squirrel and won

Ok, as the tears of laughter roll down my cheeks, I have to know, is this a true story? OMG!!! If it is, you should sell this story to one of those little magazines!!!

I first saw this story a couple of days after I bought my first computer and got my first dial up service provider. Seems like 10 years just flew by! Been around a long time, and it just keeps getting more elaborate ...................... The Cap'n

Sorry, it's fake...but good for a laugh

Now if I could just find the one about the............................,

Ahhhh, the magic of the search...................

WARNING - DO NOT EAT OR DRINK WHILE READING THIS! HEED THIS WARNING :0)
Dear Friends,
My wife Toni is fond of saying that my last words on this earth will be something akin to, ³hey y'all, hold my beer and watch this!"

Well, I have outdone myself once again. No doubt you will see this true story chronicled in a LifeTime movie in the near future. Here goes.

Last weekend I spied something at Larry's Pistol and Pawn that tickled my fancy. (Note: Keep in mind that my "fancy" is easily tickled). I bought something really cool for Toni. The occasion was our 22nd anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my sweet girl. What I
came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized Tazer gun with a lip.

For those of you who are not familiar with this product, it is a
less-than-lethal stun gun with two metal prongs designed to
incapacitate an assailant with a shock of high-voltage, low amperage
electricity while you flee to safety. The effects are supposed to be
short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, but
allowing you adequate time to retreat to safety. You simply jab the
prongs into your 250 lb. Tattooed assailant, push the button, and it
will render him a slobbering, goggle-eyed, muscle-twitching,
whimpering, pencil-neck geek. If you've never seen one of these things
in action, then you're truly missing out--way too cool!

Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded
two triple-a batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button.
Nothing! I was so disappointed. Upon reading the directions (we don't need
no stinkin' directions), I found much to my chagrin that this
particular model would not create an arch between the prongs. How
disappointing!

I do love fire for effect. I learned that if I pushed the button,
however, and pressed it against a metal surface that I'd get the
blue arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs
that I was so looking forward to. I did so. Awesome!!! Sparks, a blue
arch of electricity, and a loud pop!!! Yipeeeeee . . I'm easily amused,
just for your information, but I have yet to explain to Toni what that
burn spot is on the face of her microwave.

Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself
that it couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-a batteries, etc.,
etc.There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently
(trusting little soul), reading the directions (that would be me, not
Gracie)and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh
and blood target. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie for a
fraction of a second and thought better of it. She is such a sweet
kitty, after all. But, if I was going to give this thing to Toni to
protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it
would work as advertised. Am I wrong? Was I wrong to think that?

Seemed reasonable to me at the time. So, there I sat in a pair of shorts
and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge
of my nose, directions in one hand, Tazer in another. The directions said
that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a
two-second
burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a loss of bodily control; a
three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the
ground like a fish out of water. All the while I'm looking at this
little device (measuring about 5" long, less than 3/4 inch in
circumference, pretty cute really, and loaded with two itsy, bitsy
triple-a batteries) thinking to myself, "no friggin' way!"

Friggin' way--trust me, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best.
Those of you who know me well have got a pretty good idea of what
followed. I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head
cocked to one side as to say, "don't do it buddy," reasoning that a
one-second burst from such a tiny lil' ole thing couldn't hurt all that
bad (sound, rational thinking under the circumstances, wouldn't you
agree?). I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the hell
of it. (Note: You know, a bad decision is like hindsight--always
twenty-twenty.

It is so obvious that it was a bad decision after the
fact, even though it seemed so right at the time. Don't ya hate that?)

I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and
HOLY **************!

DAaaaauuuuuuMN!!! I'm pretty sure that Jessie Ventura ran in
through the front door, picked me up out of that recliner, then body
slammed me on the carpet over and over again. I vaguely recall waking
up on my side in the fetal position, nipples on fire, testicles nowhere
to be found, soaking wet, with my left arm tucked under my body in the
oddest position.

Gracie was standing over me making meowing sounds I had never heard
before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, "do it again,
do it again!" (Note: If you ever feel compelled to mug yourself with a
Tazer, one note of caution. There is no such thing as a one-second burst
when you zap yourself. You're not going to let go of that thing until
it is dislodged from your hand by ! a violent thrashing about on the
floor.

Then, if you're lucky, you won't dislodge one of the prongs 1/4"
deep in your thigh like yours truly.) SON-OF-A-***** that hurt! A
minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at this
point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed
the landscape. My reading glasses were on the mantel of the
fireplace.

How did they get there??? My triceps, right thigh and both titties
were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with
Novocain,as my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. give or take an ounce or two,
I'm pretty sure.

By the way, has anyone seen my testicles? I think they ran away.
I'm offering a reward. They're >round, rather large, kinda hairy, and
handsome if I must say so myself.

Miss 'em . . . sure would like to get 'em back.

Ron, get out of the recycle bin.

Hey Howie, wanna rent Suzi? Shaker Heights is callin'

Hehehe. That's too funny. I'll have to forward these to my mom.

ROTFLMAO

Thanks...I needed that!