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Sliding to Disaster

A CHiP's mangled motorcycle isn't the whole story

by Richard E. McGinty

After high school, I attended the California Highway Patrol Training Academy in Sacramento. After graduating from the Academy, I joined the force in 1967. Five years later, I decided to become what I considered the ultimate in law enforcement—a motorcycle officer for the California Highway Patrol (CHiP).

To me, being a motorcycle police officer was like being a fighter pilot. You had to have guts, and it didn't hurt to be a little crazy.

After a grueling two weeks of training that included hours of slow-speed balancing work on a motorcycle, I was ready to become Ponch and Jon, my heroes from the popular late 1970s television show "CHiPs."

I reported to my area office in Torrance, eager to begin my thirty-day training with experienced motorcycle officers. My part was easy. I didn't have to write tickets, investigate accidents, or even arrest bad guys. I just rode the freeways of Southern California looking cool.

Every ten days I worked with a different training officer. One, a crusty veteran officer named Jack Woods, didn't like the assignment.

"In my day they didn't have training officers," he grumbled. "They just gave me a motorcycle and told me to write some tickets."

Jack's idea of training was to ride fast and force me to catch up. Our first day together, on the 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. shift, he said, "Pay attention, son. Your job is to stay on two wheels and follow me for ten days. Don't ask a lot of questions, just do what I do." And with that, Jack cranked up his Harley-Davidson, twisting the throttle like he was trying to get away from me. I took off in hot pursuit.

Not much happened that afternoon. I just tried to keep up. At dusk, Jack took an off-ramp, stopped on the right shoulder, and motioned me to pull beside him.

"Let's have a little fun," he said with a shady grin. "We're gonna finish the shift riding on surface (non-freeway) streets."

---

Jack's idea of training to be a
motorcycle police officer was to
ride fast and force me to catch up.

---

It was scary riding through the business districts with Jack. He took corners so fast that it seemed his bike's handlebars would scrape the pavement as he leaned into the turns. A shower of sparks rooster-tailed from his foot boards each time he leaned into the turns. When I attempted the same tight turns, I thought I was going to crash, burn, and die.

I couldn't get my foot boards down low enough to make the sparks fly without causing my rear wheel to slide out from under me.

I finally caught up with Jack at a red light. I sheepishly asked him how he managed the impressive pyrotechnics.

"First thing you do tomorrow," Jack advised, "is take your boots to the shoe shop and have metal taps put on the heels. Then when you're riding, you can casually let your foot slide off the foot boards when you take the corners. You'll always get real nice sparks." Once I knew the trick, I wasn't so impressed. I never got metal taps.

Speeding with the Toad
I survived Jack. I was now down to my last training partner—another cantankerous officer—Wilbur "The Toad" Kennedy. He was nicknamed "The Toad" because his voice on the police radio sounded like a toad croaking.

Wilbur's job was to orient me to extreme high-speed pursuits. After practicing for days, Wilbur decided it was time to hit the Harbor Freeway (now Interstate 110) that runs from downtown Los Angeles to the L.A. harbor. Wilbur instructed me to enter the freeway and then run at progressively higher speeds to build my confidence in the machine and my abilities.

On the last high-speed run, urged on by Wilbur who rode behind me and talked through the radio, I managed to get my 800-pound machine over 100 miles per hour. I was petrified. Suddenly my handlebars started oscillating. I had entered the high-speed wobble zone, a phenomenon unique to Harley-Davidsons that usually occurs only on motorcycles operated by inexperienced riders. I tried to get out of the wobble—by easing the throttle and then re-applying it—but nothing worked. I just knew I wasn't going to live to see tomorrow.

Then I heard the Toad's voice on my radio. "Rick, I think you're in a wobble."

No kidding, I thought. Was your first clue the fact that I'm violently weaving side-to-side, using all four lanes?

The Toad's instructions crackled over the radio: "The best way out of a wobble is to very, very slowly decelerate." Then I heard him calling our dispatch center. "Los Angeles, this is 77-110 Mary (his radio call sign). 111 Mary (my radio call sign) is in a high-speed wobble. Start an ambulance, code 3, to southbound Harbor Freeway at the I-405."

Desperately, I tried Toad's advice. It worked. As I pulled to a stop on the shoulder of the freeway to let the overdose of adrenaline clear from my system, I thought, That old Toad just saved my life. A moment later, Wilbur was beside me.

"That was great," he grinned. "I've never seen a high-speed wobble before. Amazing."

"Then how did you know what to tell me to do?"

He grinned, punched me in the shoulder, and roared back onto the freeway. "Just a wild guess," he radioed back.

Move over, Ponch and Jon
I successfully completed my thirty days of training. But about a year later, I had another brush with death.

I was working alone, patroling the San Diego Freeway near Los Angeles International Airport. I noticed a man in a pickup driving at warp factor two. I knew he couldn't see me; I was in his blind spot.

Keeping out of his sights, I paced him at a speed in excess of 75 m.p.h. As I sped up alongside him, the driver looked over—giving me an unforgettable "Three Stooges" triple-take. His eyes bugged out like a stomped frog. He immediately decreased his speed to about 45 m.p.h.

It was his lucky day: I hadn't paced him long enough to justify ticketing him. But I'd been successful in slowing him down.

I was still clipping along at 75 m.p.h., though, when I spotted what appeared to be a disabled vehicle on the shoulder ahead of me. I decided to find out what I could do.

Still running at my high speed, I started to pull to the right shoulder. Within seconds, it became apparent that I had misjudged the distance between me and the disabled vehicle.

Try to imagine what happens when a motorcycle is aggressively braked while its operator is rapidly down-shifting, standing on the rear brake and applying as much front brake as possible without making the front wheel skid. The laws of physics naturally come into play. All of the machine's weight is thrown forward, causing the front forks to compress, dropping the entire frame closer to the ground. My front forks were fully compressed as I hit the curb.

This is going to hurt
Instantly, I went from a vertical riding position to a horizontal sliding position on the pavement. I was careening, left side down, toward the vehicle I had intended to assist. The initial impact slammed my left hip to the pavement and destroyed the left side of my blue and gold helmet.

I mentally composed a letter to my commander explaining why I had hurt myself, destroyed my helmet, and wrecked his motorcycle. I slid nearly 100 feet into the rear end of the small Toyota. As I was sliding, I felt no pain and suffered no open wounds.

Completely out of control, my motorcycle (with me still on it) slid underneath the Toyota, propelling it into the air. That Toyota came down right on top of my foot, trapping it between the car and my safety bar. I was pinned under the car, in a lot of pain, and embarrassed by my mistake.

I screamed at the driver, "Drive it off of me!" The panicked woman jumped into her car and turned the key. I inhaled a puff of smoky exhaust, then saw two rear lights flash white. It was too late to explain that I meant for her to drive forward.

---

By all logic, 7:05 should have
been my last minute on earth.

---

Amazingly, both wheels of the car just spun. My right foot was suspending the vehicle's rear tires just off the ground. The car was going nowhere. I reached for my radio, pressed the mike key, and screamed for help. After several moments, six or seven officers arrived. They picked up the back of the car and pulled me clear.

At the hospital I was diagnosed with numerous broken bones in my right foot, and a dislocated little toe. I was treated and sent home with a cast almost up to my knee.

Startling news
The second Sunday after my accident I went back to my church, First Baptist of Torrance, on crutches. The first person to greet me—Bob Charness—told me how sorry he was about my accident. Then Bob mentioned he had been praying for me on that very day.

"What compelled you to pray?" I asked.

"I was listening to the radio on my way to work," he said. "It was seven in the morning, because the news had just come on. I felt led to pray for all the Christian cops that I know. You're the only one I know, so I prayed for you."

For several days I thought about Bob's words. I called my dispatch center and asked them to check the records on the day of my crash.

I wanted one question answered—what time had I reported I "was down?" After checking the records, the supervisor told me I had called in at 7:05 a.m.

Well, I thought, my friend prays at 7:00, and I crash at 7:05. If that's an answer to prayer, I'd appreciate no further prayers on my behalf.

But there was more to this story. Before getting on the freeway that morning I had filled my Harley with seven-and-a-half gallons of fuel. Fuel systems on our Harleys were vented, so when I slid into that car, fuel began to pour out of the fuel tanks, soaking my left thigh and spilling onto the pavement. I was lying in a pool of gasoline.

I had been taught to never use my radio when fueling or even near uncontained fuel, because the radio emits enough electrical energy to ignite gasoline vapors. When I slid under that woman's car, the sparks flying from the metal hitting pavement or my call for help should have ignited the fuel. An orange fireball should have enveloped me and possibly others. By all logic, 7:05 should have been my last minute on earth.

So why wasn't there an explosion? I believe it was because at 7 a.m., a Christian man prayed to a powerful God who still works miracles.

After 25 years and several more injuries, Richard McGinty left the police force on disability in 1992. He graduated from Western Baptist College (Salem, Oregon) and since 1994 has been pastor at First Baptist Church of Tenino, Washington.

Adapted from Conquest (Spring 1995, Vol. 28, No. 3), © 1995 Richard E. McGinty. Used by permission.

Copyright © 1998 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian magazine (formerly Christian Reader).
Click here for reprint information.

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