Well, it’s Saturday, after all, and I’ve been travelling all week, and while it’s raining a bit, it was damned time for a motorcycle ride. After a spirited couple of hours on the back roads, I found myself well north of home and needing to get back, so I hopped on I-5 and headed south briskly. Just south of Everett I was in the HOV lane and saw something on the left shoulder that I thought could possibly be…well, not sure… ah shit, yeah, it’s a cop. Motorcycle cop standing there with the hand held radar. I grabbed a fist full of brake but too late. He turned on his flashers. Busted. Well, after all this time, it was inevitable. I pulled off the road right behind him. "Seventy seven” he yelled at me, but I said “Hang on, I have my earphones in”, and removed my gloves, helmet, and extracted the earphones from my earbones. He repeated “seventy seven”. I assume the speed limit on this stretch was 60. “Yeah, I was going pretty fast,” I said. So the cop looks me over and says “Ok, you’re wearing leathers, a white helmet, you’re obviously a seasoned rider, and you were honest. I’m gonna give you a huge break. Lemme see your license.” Which he takes, types into his computer, verifies that I’m not wanted, and comes back. “Where are you coming from?” “I’m not coming from anywhere,” I said, “I’m just riding. I was up in Mt. Vernon.” Well, to make a long story short, pretty soon he comments on my Michelin Road Pilot 3s, saying “Those are about the best rain tires you can find” and we’re shooting the shit about what kind of bike he rides when he’s not on duty (Honda Interceptor), how tragic it is that Buell isn’t making bikes anymore, and he’s giving me shit for riding with a heated vest in April. I have a bumper sticker on my case for Tripplehorn beer and he tells me “I only drink Manny’s” and then we’re arguing about beer and next I’m telling him I don’t care if he IS a cop, even ONE beer is too many if you’re on two wheels. And that was it. Could have been worse.