Spring arrived early that year. An increased number of motorcycles were showing up on the highways. Included in the first wave of riders was Muskrat, a 49-year-old man who was sitting high and proud on the seat of a Harley Davidson.

It was a Sunday afternoon and traffic was light. Muskrat appreciated the free space. He could make a left-hand turn without holding his breath and there was no one around to cut him off. The longhaired man with a face full of whiskers may have looked rough around the edges, but he was a reformed Christian with a gentle nature. The only beef he had was with drivers who did not watch out for motorcyclists. The man had 30-year-old scars to back up his grievance.

Oddly enough, coming up fast on his left was a driver who made a point of keeping an eye out for motorcycles. His nickname was T.W. The initials stood for ticket writer. The veteran traffic officer went through a 25-page citation book in less than a week. He was not a rogue cop with a spiteful attitude. He was just a tad obsessive-compulsive about safety. He firmly believed that citations cut back on accidents and saved lives. T.W. zoned in on bikers because he had seen too many of them loaded into ambulances with white sheets over their heads. A $50 ticket was a good reminder to slow down.

Muskrat was surprised when the cop pulled him over. He had maintained the speed limit and signaled for every lane change. "He probably thinks I'm a Hell's Angel," he groaned. T.W. stepped out of his car and walked up to the Harley with his ticket book in hand and pen primed. "Your brake light's out," he said. "This equipment failure could lead to a rear end accident." The staccato voice sounded like a recording.

"I'll take care of it right now officer," Muskrat promised. He dug around in the small compartment under the seat and brought out a new bulb. While the violator replaced the brake light, the cop inspected the bike. He was admiring the polished chrome when he noticed the vehicle did not have a horn. He tapped Muskrat on the shoulder. "Sir, under 41 dash 6 dash 146 (a) of the traffic code," he quoted from memory. "You are required to a have a device that emits a warning sound for no less than 200 feet."

The nervous biker pocketed the burned out bulb and rubbed the back of his neck. "I believe I do have a warning device that meets that standard," he said after a lengthy pause. "And if you pace off the distance, I can show you how well it works."

The efficiency expert was curious. He counted his steps as he walked down the shoulder of the road. Feeling generous, he stopped at 150 feet, turned around and put his hands on his hips."

Muskrat climbed back on his bike. He cleared his throat and then leaned forward into the wind and demonstrated his warning device: "GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY!" he screamed.

The fastest pen in the West stuffed his citation book under his arm and trekked back to his car. "Works for me," he called out as he signaled and drove away.