So it’s Sunday night, mid June and I’m sitting on my back patio listening to the frogs down at the pond, cigar burning in my big ceramic ashtray. Pecking away at my Mac, which I hate, bouncing ideas around in my head for my next biker story for you to read. I keep a list of possible story ideas. It’s on my I-phone. It’s labeled “Musings” in the notes section of an app on the phone, which I also hate. If I think of an interesting biker story or idea born out on the road I jot it down at a gas station or coffee shop for future consideration. I’ve been busy with work and kid’s stuff and have not ridden in a week or so, so kick starting an article was challenging. I actually started tapping out a story I’ve wanted to write for a long time about biker tattoos, as I’m getting some fresh ink in the coming weeks. The story was a slow start and was frustrating me until something odd happened that had me switch story gears.
I heard some crunching and hurried movement down at the pond, 50 yards from my old rocker where I peck on the aforementioned hated Mac. For a brief second I considered grabbing the old model 94 Winchester hanging not 30 feet from me inside my house. Chambered in 30-30, its not a great home defense weapon, but looks cool on my living room wall. Then my yard’s floodlight revealed the quick flash of a small deer hopping over the vegetation at the edge of the pond into the forested darkness of my backyard. In an instant, she was gone. I heard no more movement and certainty saw no more jumping. My heart was racing and I took a deep breath. A year ago I wouldn’t have considered grabbing a rifle off the rack. Deer and turkey and small game constantly traverse my yard in rural Cherokee County. A year ago I wouldn’t have been so jumpy.
But that was before the “situation”. We call it the “situation” out of a lack of reasonable explanation or other namesake. It simply was a “situation” involving my biker writings. I trust my nerves will calm and my senses will dull and it will someday be a funny old story. It’s already a bit funny, which is why I’m relating it to you, my loyal biker reader. Except for the naked dude, or the love letters or the police involvement, or the protective order, it really was amusing. So if you are reading these biker musings I write, I do hope they get you thinking, chuckling, talking, maybe even riding, but at least, for a few minutes, I hope they entertain you. I write this specific story now because perhaps in doing so it will give me some peace with what transpired. In the reflection of the events of the last few months that unfolded as a result of the very stories I’ve written to entertain, I got caught up in a bizarre chain of events with a ‘reader’ (slash) ‘fan’ (slash) ‘stalker’ (slash) ‘nut’. For 15 years I’ve written these stories without one negative email, comment or letter. It’s been ‘all-good’ as the kids say. After all, they’re for your entertainment and my reflection. Stories of being out on the open road, two wheeled, riding free, as it were. Until one story, which one I do not know, caught the attention of someone unknown to me just 6 months ago. Whatever story it was, it sparked the interest of an anonymous fan of my writing that grew into something odd, something really odd. I usually get some emails, some calls, even a visitor from time to time thanking me for one story or another. A handshake, a smile, a suggestion for a fresh story, that’s about it. This particular reader, whose name I cannot divulge, started out by sending some innocent enough ‘fan-mail’ if you can call it that. Emails that I barely recollect in hindsight. I cannot disclose HIS name, not because it would be impolite, but because I’ve been instructed not to do so by a Judge. Yea, it got that crazy. The fan mail became more frequent and wordier and quickly grew into packages sent USPS with notes illustrating an infatuation with the stories and even me. My staff thought it odd that a dude would send me letters so often (weekly at first, then daily). Full disclosure: In a law office, lawyers get SOOOOO much mail that their staff opens the envelopes, date stamps the contents, chucks the packaging and stacks the important stuff on the corner of the lawyer’s desks for personal review. Junk mail, right through the shredder, duplicates and non-essential mail right to the file. Some time in the spring my admin started to come into my office and say: “Mike (not his real name) sent another love letter”, with a snarky smirk, half teasing me, half warning me. Her way of chiding me in a situation where some guy obviously hadn’t taken his meds or dreamt up some fantasy about my writing, or seriously went overboard with a man crush situation in his head! He started sending me drawings, boxes of cookies, rambling essays, locks of his hair, poems, story ideas, riding invitations, and yea……… some love letters too. I thought it all bizarre but harmless at first. In some odd way, I was even flattered. That he would take the time to ponder the stories so deeply and oddly enough incorporate himself into them. He would pick apart the stories and re write them working himself into the script. It grew less entertaining as the months passed. Harmless, until he started to show up at my office. Yup, straight up appear in the waiting room, looking for me. Well, on the occasions where that first happened, I was in court and my very street-smart receptionist got rid of him. Then the naked pictures started to arrive. Yup, 8 ½ by 11 inch glossies. Full frontal baby! When he showed up, the receptionist said she couldn’t tell if it was he by his penis, as she didn’t see that when he arrived, but there were some shots with his face, and Yup, it was Mike. Well, in his defense, he was posed on a pretty sweet old shovel, blue in color. LOL. I figured this was a guy who didn’t have much grip on reality and either took to much medication or too little. Either way, I had to do something. Cookies (that we didn’t eat by the way) are one thing, naked photos, quite something else!! I figured I’d just call him up and straighten the whole thing out. Tell him I had a girlfriend and politely ask him to refrain from the love mail. Well, that backfired. He didn’t pick up so I left him a polite message on his voicemail telling him I was flattered, but that he needed to stop sending letters and gifts and Yup – – – nudie shots!! Polite but firm. He was in my lobby by 9:00 am sharp the next morning. The problem with that is, my secretary wasn’t amused. She called the police who promptly responded and escorted the dude from the premises. Warning him not to return. She said she saw the blue shovel motorcycle pull up outside the office and recognized the bike from the pics he had sent. Both he and bike being naked! Soon he was seen loitering around our office park again and his bike was spotted parked around the corner. The blue shovel.
At this point I had two ways to handle the situation. One, call my biker brothers to handle it, which would inevitably end in bloodshed and some poor warped shmuck in the hospital, or worse, dead. Bad idea. Two, call my detective friend to try to diffuse the situation with a little ‘police-talk’. I chose option two. Well, that backfired too. The guy Mike was simply crazier than a shithouse rat, and didn’t listen to the detective’s warning. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and ended up pissing off the cops who arrested him for trespass several times. He was dragged to jail and I was called to come to court and explain my side of the bizarre tale. I did. The Judge, who was a friend of mine, ordered the guy to stay away from my office, stop the porn mail, quit emailing me, etc… Of course he did not. Things went from bad to worse. I almost felt bad for the guy. Like he had an impulse he just couldn’t control. Obviously a mental illness. My concern was that his impulse would turn into a need to make soup from my bones. I am certain that soup made from my bones would be bitter. AND, I need my bones. I carried a gun EVERYWHERE for months. I constantly looked over my shoulder. I even found myself sitting up in bed some nights when the cat would scamper about my house.
Then it all came crashing down. The guy violated the court order to stay away and started appearing around my office again, leaving love notes. My girls called the cops and they found him sneaking around the office parking lot on our security cameras. The cops went back to the Judge and got a felony warrant. They even drove up to north Georgia with the local sheriff and tried to execute the warrant to lock the poor guy up. But he was gone. They stopped by the office and told me it looked like he had cleared out. Mike had skipped town. On the lamb as they say. They actually pinged his cellphone a few times and noticed that it was bouncing off towers out west. Go west Mike, Go west!
I’ll continue to write these stories as they give me pleasure to jot down. I hope they give you some pleasure to read, even if you are just sitting on the toilet. But if you’re going to send me cookies, macadamia nut is my favorite. Naked pictures? No thanks. Do I think I’ll hear from Mike again? I hope not. I doubt he meant any harm, just a troubled guy that took solace in some biker stories I wrote and his mind took off with them. It’s almost a shame. Mike, if your reading this, I’m flattered. I appreciate the thought, but please, trust me when I tell you that soup, made from my bones, would certainly be a terrible recipe. Either way, life moves on. There are miles ahead and curves to carve and stories to write. I hope you all enjoy them, perhaps with a little less exuberance than Mike!! Mike, ride that blue shovel, ride west. Far west!
Remember, ride hard, ride safe, and in the end make sure you ride home (just not MY home). –Irish