My Name is Dario. I was born in Sicily a long time ago, and I have been riding ever since. In 1997, I moved to the USA to become rich. While I clearly failed at that, I’ve had the opportunity to own and ride more bikes than I have hairs on my head (maybe a few more). This is one of the many stories, observations and experiences I have had riding and living the motorbike lifestyle with the Yankees.

I got a speeding ticket going to motorcycle race, once. I love this country. No, really I love it. In Europe there would be a camera hidden somewhere and the picture of my spiked R1 and a European bigger-than-life license plate nice and visible. No way to fight a ticket when you are in a picture. But here?? Here the cops have to use a radar gun and they must stop you to give you, personally, the ticket. Well, ok … that is not quite something you can as proudly frame, but it is something you can decidedly disagree on with a firm “I DIDN’T DO IT!”.
I know what you are thinking*... of course I did it…. But that is not the point.

The problem here is that the beloved California Highway Patrol thrives on tickets. Or so the rumor says. I mean they really love it. For them it is not just business, it is pleasure. No Eric Estrada cute smiles, there. You can see it in their eyes, when they don’t have cool sunglasses on (never). You can tell from their body language as they look like the sole judge of a life you must spend below the speed limit. And I know they are smiling inside.

And then… the inevitable $303 question: “Do you know why I stopped you?”

You can feel your brain racing between lies and truth, truth and lies. Ironically enough, neither would do you any good. You know it, he knows it. Yet the pantomime. In Europe and in Italy for sure, it would be the perfect moment to come up with a million excuses - none plausible- but that somehow do the trick. I decided to go for the truth: “I was rushing to visit my dying brother at the hospital.”  I don’t have a brother, but I was taught that it is not a lie, if you really believe it.  The CHP officer didn’t even let me finish the sentence. I was justifiably served the ticket (I knew I should have lied!).

What happened that day is that the CHiPs knew there was going to be a race at the Laguna Seca racetrack, and knew that there are only 2 ways to get there. So instead of “to protect and to serve” us from ourselves – the future Ben Spies - they decided to create a speed trap and make some good, once-valuable (ask the mint printer) US bucks.
 
And the reaction of yours truly was - as we say in Italian - “@#$@  a te, e tua sorella” (I think it is the same everywhere, actually).

How to translate vulgarity in legal terms: Trial by declaration. You write to the judge that you were the victim of an unfortunate misunderstanding between the traffic, the radar gun, and your almost-successful attempt to tame your motorcycle’s unreasonable 160 bhp. Naturally no one will ever believe you, but with some luck, the cop that gave you the ticket will be too busy to write the report, or to remember what the hell happened a summer day in 2008 when Valentino Rossi passed Casey Stoner using the dirt of the corkscrew and *then* had him in the dust of turn 11, in one of most memorable MotoGP races we can remember.

To do justice to the poor officers doing a though job without a smile, I must say that they try to help motorcyclist. In California they occasionally organize “motorcycle safety seminars”.  I never took one but I should do it. It was a real proof of skill and safety for the officer that gave me the ticket to catch-up with me. Hell, I should probably apply for a job there, and get paid to prove I can go faster than most and make them regret they ever tried.

 
I love this country.

*100 mph in a 65 zone