10. Even More Alive

My Adrenaline Supplement

April 9, 2026
Seattle, WA

Tonight I was almost tackled by a police officer.

I’d just purchased my dream bike, a 2001 Yamaha R1. It was around 10 p.m. I was on a two-hour ride home from Tacoma and pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot to stretch my legs and maybe get a snack. I was maneuvering the bike back and forth to reposition it in the parking spot when I heard someone yell,

“Get off of the bike, NOW.”

I turned my head, bringing blue flashing lights and the face of a policewoman into my visor’s field of vision. There was a fierce look in her eyes, and she stood like she was braced for a fight.

So, what is an R1? Why did I buy it? And why was this policewoman ready for a flight-risk confrontation?

I guess I am a bit of an adrenaline junky, which has its ups and downs. But when my son introduced me to the R1 five years ago, I became… attached.

November 2021
Colorado Springs, CO

I embraced the bike. I didn’t know you could embrace a bike, but there isn’t a better way to describe it. I’ve ridden motorcycles all my life—dirt bikes, cruisers. With those bikes, you sit upright, the bike is beneath you, and you ride it. But this was a superbike, a barely road-legal 1000cc monster. You embrace that bike. You lay yourself over the fuel tank, grip the waist of it between your thighs, and feel the heat of the engine in the squeeze. The fuel tank is wide enough to hold between your upper arms. And when that power is unleashed and starts to pull you along with its gut-wrenching acceleration, you hold on for dear life with a full-body embrace. You become one with the motorcycle, just a part of a screaming, adrenaline-infusing machine.

When I’d first arrived in Colorado Springs to look at homes to purchase, I was staying at a SpringHill Suites. I had just checked in and was seated on the sofa, and my son, Taylor, was on the ottoman scrolling on his phone. He had joined a motorcycle riding club at the Air Force Academy. He’d fallen in love with riding, and finding Dad a motorcycle was task number one. I hadn’t even met with the realtor yet.

We did the practical thing. We got Dad a Yamaha FZ-09. It was what I would now call an old man’s sport bike. It had a ton of power and acceleration, but it was a “naked” sport bike—stripped of the plastic fairings—and it was a “sit-upright” bike. Then we headed to the motorcycle supply store, where we purchased riding boots, a helmet with Bluetooth so we could chat while we rode, and other protective gear. We left the motorcycle shop all decked-out in new gear, and as I fired-up my new, screaming FZ-09, it occurred to me that I didn’t have a place to park the bike. Better find a home.

I eventually got a home with a nice garage where Taylor and I parked our bikes (along with several of his friends, who did not have covered parking at the Academy).

We were out on a ride one day. Taylor had just purchased a new bike: a 2000 Yamaha R1. This was Yamaha’s flagship superbike. 1000ccs. A monster. We pulled over at a convenience store, and Taylor asked if I wanted to try it. I didn’t really want to. It was twenty-one years old and pretty rough looking. It had needed some work before it even ran right, and there was something loose that rattled a bit.

Apparently, I quickly forgot my trepidation, because I was now embracing this machine. We had merged onto Marksheffel Road in the Springs. It was a wide-open, four-lane highway, and it was empty of cars. I had just been casually riding until now. But once I began accelerating aggressively, this bike revealed its pedigree. It wasn’t made for sitting in a parking lot, rattling. It was made for this: death-defying acceleration. The purring had built into a thrumming roar that reverberated through my entire body along with the full-throated scream of four Mikuni carburetors sucking in 90 liters of air per second.

My right hand rotated the throttle as I shifted through third, fourth, and fifth gear. As the R1 accelerated, she squatted down, closer and closer to the road. I felt one with the bike, and one with the road. I felt more stable and comfortable with this bike than I had at 140 mph in my car. I shifted again, and looked down at the gauges for the first time, to see that I was already traveling 150 mph. I hadn’t even accelerated into sixth gear.

April 9, 2026
Seattle, WA

I got off the bike.

I removed my helmet and asked the policewoman, “What did I do?” The way she was behaving—and now backup had just arrived—I figured she must have mistaken me for another red sport bike riding BOLO, maybe an armed gang member or something.

“This is a traffic stop,” she said. “For one thing, your tabs are expired.”

“Oh,” I said, “I just bought the bike tonight. I haven’t registered it yet.”

“I need to see your driver’s license.” I gave her my driver’s license.

“I have the title and Bill of Sale in my...”

“Do not reach into that backpack!” she barked.

Woah, oKAY…

So, apparently, with my limited peripheral vision and the also limited rearview mirrors, I didn’t notice her behind me when I turned into McDonald’s. She must have gotten behind me in the turn lane because I was “suspicious,” and then noticed my 2018 expired tabs, which made her even more suspicious. She had followed me into the parking lot and probably had her lights on for a while, which I apparently also didn’t notice. Maybe she even blipped her siren at me? I don’t know, but my hearing was also dampened by my racing helmet. Anyway, all that might explain why she thought I was about to “dash” as soon as she got out of her vehicle.

Once my license had been cleared she came back and explained that “You Guys” (I had apparently joined a Bad Boy club when I got this bike) “always try to get away. And we are trained to knock you down if you don’t get off your bike immediately.”

I said, “Really? They (hey, man don’t categorize me—I respect police) actually try to get away?”

“All day, every day.”

Then it occurred to me that if I was a violent criminal with warrants for my arrest, this was exactly the bike I would buy. With a top speed of around 190 mph and acceleration that would leave any police car in the dust, by the time an officer returned to their vehicle, I could already be a bad memory. I guess I just have to welcome the opportunity to have a nice little chat with a police officer now and then and show them that some of us “bad boys” are kind and respectful of police.

And, I resolved, next time I’d sing them a song.