13 hrs in county wearing bright blue spandex, chapter 1

"Hey you!," a gruff voice shouted from behind. "Come here."

I thought there's no way that command was intended for me, but I turned around to look anyway. Glaring at me was a police officer. He was stumpy and rumpled and obviously very perturbed. I wheeled my bike around and rode over to him.

"You bicyclists think you own the road," began a two minute diatribe delivered by one Officer Gish. I don't remember the specifics of the banality that followed.

I'd done a U-turn on a minor city street. The road stripe was dashed not solid. Recalling my driver's ed class from 15 years prior, I was pretty sure I'd broken no laws. I figured destiny dealt me an unfortunate encounter with an officer who wanted to vent, but couldn't cite me for anything. So I did my best to ignore the smelly vitriol blowing into my face.

For most of the rant, I looked over his head at a car flipped on its hood blocking the intersection. I'd done the U-turn to avoid being detoured onto a one-way street going the opposite direction I wanted to go. Dumbfounded barely describes my state of mind as I pondered how much this guy must despise cyclists for him to quit attending to a spectacular crash in order to berate me.

Two minutes is a long time for a berating. About half-way I grew to be as perturbed as Gish. I was on my way home from a 60 mile group ride where we race on a levee road out to the county line and back. I was tired and hungry and holding back a growing urge to tell this chump where to put his badge.

Two minutes was also enough time for the TV news van to arrive on the scene. Oh great, I thought. The reporter will see the flipped over car and a policeman dressing down a guy on a bike and think I had something to do with the crash.

Finally, Gish asks me a direct question. "What's your name?" he growled.

I looked at him expressing as much disdain as I could muster and lied. "Todd Martin," I said. Oh if I could have a do-over on that one.

In fact I tried. Gish shocked me and began writing a ticket.

"Um," I said to him in a conciliatory tone, "could we start over. Todd Martin's not my real name."

"Well who do you want to be this time?" Gish asked haughtily.

"I'll be who I really am, John Fairbanks," I replied.

"Do you have ID?"

"No. I'm on my way home from a long bike ride and I don't carry my driver's license with me when I'm riding."

"Hmmmm." Gish leans his head closer to the radio attached to his shoulder and calls headquarters to verify my name and address. Another ten minutes pass while he goes back and forth with the crackling voice from HQ.

Meanwhile, the TV crew is taking shots of the car. I look the other way to avoid having my face wind up on the five o'clock news. Lucky for me another officer appears from the opposite side of the intersection. He starts talking to the news crew so they don't come over to Gish and me.

Dispatch confirmed my identity and Gish goes about zealously writing a ticket. For what, I have no clue, but I sign my name anyway just so I can be on my way. It's obvious Gish wants to teach me a lesson by inconveniencing me as much as possible.

Before he tears off the ticket and gives it to me, he starts fumbling through his breast pocket. He stands in silence while his chubby fingers dig. Out comes a folded piece of paper which Gish slowly unfolds and holds up to the sun for examination. "What the hell is this guy doing?" I'm thinking. The piece of paper wasn't his intended target. He meticulously refolds it. This takes longer than the unfolding. Back in the pocket the paper goes. More chubby fingered fumbling and he's still not saying a word. Finally he finds the object of his inefficient search. It's a small ink pad.

"Gimme your thumb," Gish says to me in the same gruff tone he used to first get my attention.

"Why? " I reply. "I signed the ticket. You know who I am."

"Do you have your ID?"

"I told you, I don't carry it with me when I'm riding."

"Gimme your thumb!" Gish barks once again.

"Wh..." I was going to ask why again, but before I could finish saying the word Gish knocks me off my bike onto the ground. He rolls me over, pulls my arms behind my back and handcuffs me.

I'm off for a 13 hour adventure in county lock-up wearing bright blue spandex.