Allow me to preface this story with the statement “I don’t do things like this anymore”.  I had an Awakening back in ’88 and set sail in a new direction. That being said, for entertainment purposes only, here is the story of my encounter with the Mountain Man.
I lost my drivers license right after I got it, the State revoked it for a long time. However I still had a motorcycle and a job at the local dealership that I needed to get to every day. I tried not to ride on the road any more than necessary because if I got caught driving with a revoked license, the consequences could be severe. I would ride trails through the woods and some roads, till I reached the railroad tracks then I would ride beside the tracks and they eventually brought me right behind the motorcycle shop. I didn’t have a tag for my bike so I plucked one off a wrecked bike in the warehouse and put it on my bike. Things were going well, I kind of enjoyed riding the rails, I would race the freight trains to work.
Coming home one day, I reached the four lane highway that I had to cross, it was the only major road on my commute and all I had to do was cross it. I must not have come to a complete stop at the stop sign or something and I attracted the attention of a county cop. I saw him out of the corner of my eye; he shifted to the left turn lane and accelerated. My sixth sense (or maybe it was my guilty conscience) told me he was after me.
There are a lot of risky sports that raise the adrenaline level nicely, but I am here to tell you, there is nothing like running from the law, ‘cause this is for keeps and if he catches me it’s gonna be bad. My pulse was racing and I had a death grip on the handlebars. I had to get off of his element (the road) and back into my element (the woods). I spied a break in the foliage on the side of the road that led into an empty, freshly plowed field. I made a hard left into the field and glanced back, he was real close and had his lights on. If my bike had been more powerful, I think I could have sprayed some dirt on the hood of his cruiser. My bike handled the furrows in the field better than the cop car. I looked back again, each furrow was causing him to smack his head against the roof of his car and mash that cop hat he was wearing.  Halfway across the field he gave up and turned back. I escaped into the woods on the other side of the field. I won!
I found a deserted clearing deep in the woods, shut my motor off, leaned against a pine tree and tried to catch my breath.  I listened for the sound of a helicopter, I knew they wouldn’t put one in the air to look for me, but if there was already one in the air and nearby, they might ask him to swing by and have a look for the outlaw cyclist who caused the cop to mash his hat. But all I heard was birds, distant traffic, and the tink, tink of my air-cooled motor cooling. My fear was slowly turning into cockiness as I reviewed what happened in my mind. My gaze fell on the license plate….I wonder if he got the tag number…. Oh no…. I may have a problem here.
Yup, the cop got the number and it didn’t take long for him to access a database and then he had a name and an address too. But it wasn’t my name and address. Then he rounded up a few of his cop buddies and went to the address to apprehend the criminal. I can’t remember the guy’s name, but he went by the handle “Mountain Man” he was real tall, bearded, and he had just been paroled. Mountain Man was home on this particular day. He was sitting at his kitchen table cleaning his guns (guns that a convicted felon isn’t supposed to have) when the coppers knocked on the door. They pushed there way through the door, and slapped him around a bit and handcuffed him, or maybe they handcuffed him THEN slapped him around. “Thought you got away, eh?”. They put Mountain Man in the back seat and took him to the station for a night in jail.
The next day was a sunny day and I was assembling a new ’77 Kawasaki KZ650 outside on the concrete lot behind the shop, when Mountain Man, the cop, and Diamond Dave, the owner of the dealership (we called him “Diamond Dave” because he was a sharp dresser and wore a big rock on his pinky) walked by headed to the warehouse. Dave gave me that “I-know-this-has-something-to-do-with-you” look as they walked by. They gathered around Mountain Man’s wrecked four cylinder Honda and confirmed the tag number (I had put the tag back where I found it). The cop shook his head; this is definitely not the bike I pursued. Mountain Man goes free!  I paid special attention to my work as they passed, that was a close one. I don’t know which would have been worse, to fall into the hands of the police, or to fall into the hands of the mountain man.  But it makes for a good story, and I guess it’s safe to tell it now.