Riding on the bus I was contemplating my situation.  I was going to suffer pretty severe embarrassment when I met up with all the people I had told I was going to ride the Pony.  I looked out of the window at a motorcyclist.  “Hey, maybe that’s a way to recover the situation”, I thought.

My experience in riding two-wheeled powered vehicles was limited to a couple of half day rentals on resort islands but it was worth a try.  The first licensing office told me it would take six months to get a license, the second that I could “Line up at wicket number 17, for a learner permit”  One insurance broker said he couldn’t get insurance for me, another quoted $1,730 for a year, but a third I think mistakenly typed in my details in a way which made it appear I had been riding around California for 36 years with no accidents or tickets- $50 for a year!

I visited several shops and found an advertisement on a board in one for ’96, 250cc Honda Nighthawk- price very negotiable.  I phoned the owner, a taxi driver, who explained it had been off the road for a while.  A check-up at a work ship revealed no major defect so we settled on a price.  The necessary tuning and replacement were carried out but here I had my first problem.  The shop was in downtown San Francisco and I had to get the bike back to Oakland.  The choice was to ride all the way round the southern end of San Francisco Bay or cross the high and windy Bay Bridge, 8 ½ miles of packed fast moving traffic.

After a training run around the busy downtown streets, I launched up the on ramp into the torrent of traffic.  Ten fear-packed minutes later I was disgorged into the freeway interchange at the far end and nervously changing lanes ,was off into suburban streets. 

While practicing around Oakland one day, I stopped at a long light waiting to go left about fifth in line to make the turn when I noticed a police car with lights flashing maneuvering to block the lanes ahead.  Then,  first one then a second and third police car drew up along side.  Simultaneously officers carrying shotguns jumped out of their vehicles and raced forward poking the barrels through the windows of a car just ahead.

“Show me your hands!  Out, out, out!” They screamed.  “On the floor.  Now, now, now.

While one policeman had his foot on the suspects neck and shotgun to his head another tied his hands.  On the other side of the car a similar situation was progressing.  I felt in my day pack for my camera but had taken it out that morning as I was going swimming.

“Oh well.  Everyone would probably say it was a scene from a show at Universal Studios anyway”.

Seconds later a rubber gloved policewoman drove the car away and the suspects, both young black men, looking unperturbed by the manner of their arrest were taken off.  The traffic restarted as if nothing had taken place.  It seems gentrification in Oakland has some way to go.

Nervously testing the Honda on open roads I noticed that tattooed bikes with big bellies and long beards riding mighty Harleys would wave to me in passing.  It seemed simple ownership of a motorcycle conferred membership of the brotherhood - a fact that was helpful on the trip.  After ten days I was equipped with a license, borrowed pannier bags and a re-inflated self image and set off again for St. Jo.