Author: michaeldexterhankins

Much like junk mail that’s lucky enough to be sent via airplane instead of by truck, I travel third-class as do most people. That’s always been my mode of travel when flying because of cost. I once flew fourth-class or “cargo status” in a tiny Cherokee Arrow aircraft, sitting on cases of food destined for a rural Alaskan village. There was no seat or seatbelt.

My tail was frigid by the time we arrived—warm flesh becoming well-acquainted with Green Giant brand frozen vegetables before touching down in Flat, Alaska.

A friend tells folks he strictly flies first-class. I once corrected him by saying he actually travels second-class. That upset the fellow and he quickly responded,

“There’s no such thing as second-class!”

I’ve had other friends, family, and acquaintances tell me the same with them all being wrong. By now, you’re probably wondering what is this guy talking about? Keep reading and you’ll see.

I thought I’d flown “first-class” twice in my life, but eventually came to the realization it wasn’t true. The first time I believed this happened was when I transported our Yellow Nape Amazon parrot “Jesse” from Alaska to Arizona.

Alaska Airlines made me purchase a supposed first-class ticket, saying there’d be more room up front where his small traveling cage was concerned. It cost me a few extra dollars to do so but was worth it in the end (pun intended).

The airline should’ve paid me, because Jesse entertained the dozen or so passengers around me from takeoff to landing.

The second time was when a flight attendant politely inquired if I’d mind sitting in the first row. They’d overbooked coach and my seat was needed. Why they picked my carcass I’ll never know. I’m sure it had nothing to do with good looks. Believing that I was flying first-class those two times was actually a misnomer.

Leaning back in my cushy leather seat on that second trip, I was on top of the world. The flight attendant had just brought a steamy hot towel, at the same time, asking what entrée I wanted for dinner—miraculously there was a choice. It was during this second excursion that I “saw the light” regarding what first-class really is.

Glancing around the cabin, I observed what appeared to be business people, yet recognized no celebrities, sports jocks, or politicians. Business folks generally sit up front because of their abundant frequent flier miles and nothing else. Frugal folks like me choose to save a few bucks and join the commoners in back.

On that second, supposed first-class experience—as we waited for a motorized tug to pull the Boeing 747 away from our terminal, I looked out the window spotting something that immediately caught my eye. Several hundred feet away was a red brick, two-story, executive flight facility, with sleek Lear Jets and Cessna Citations parked on the asphalt tarmac in front of it.

“Just one time,” I thought to myself.

As I continued staring, a shiny black limousine rolled up. The driver stopped in front of a short set of stairs connected to one of the executive jets. A man in a suit quickly exited, and then walked to the rear of his limo, opening doors for a middle-aged couple and their two children.

The family looked excited as they boarded their stylish jet. Continuing to stare as the limousine driver unloaded bags, he accepted a tip from what I assumed to be a crew member. That’s when reality slapped me upside the head.

“Now, that’s first-class!”

From that point on, first class on a commercial jet became second-class to me. For those wanting to argue the point, go ahead. Each time I drive by the Lake Havasu City Airport, I generally see a couple of sleek jets parked outside. Without question, this is the ultimate way to fly, and I’m sure the lucky folks owning or leasing these multi-million dollar planes will agree.

Years ago, my brother equated passengers boarding airplanes to cattle being herded onto trucks. That unique thought stuck in my mind and hasn’t let go. On a car show junket several years back, my brother-in-law, Calvin, bellowed like a steer upon entering the cabin. He could imitate this animal sound to perfection. As if rehearsed, another guy standing behind him let out another perfect,

“Mooooooo.”

Several people in line laughed with a flight attendant doing the same. As we slowly moved through the second-class section, not one chuckle came from those folks.

If you were to ask me why, I’d say they didn’t want anyone thinking they came from the same herd!

I love it when carnivals come to town. The sweet smell of cotton candy and caramel corn permeating the air takes me back in time. There’s generally a carnival at the Havasu Balloon Festival, and years ago, one came to Lake Havasu City about once a year, setting up on an open lot on Lake Havasu Avenue. I don’t believe it’s been there for some time now.

My family first visited Disneyland in 1957, when there were many more “stress free” attractions for little kids back then. For me, three years old at the time, Disneyland was a large carnival. I liked the Teacups and vintage automobile rides best, avoiding anything beyond that level of excitement.

My late dad’s favorite was a 3-D theatre attraction called: Rocket to the Moon.  This venue was located inside a building which sat opposite a futuristic looking rocket. Ticket holders sat in chairs watching this supposedly realistic movie about a rocket ride to the moon and back. I wouldn’t know—never surviving blastoff. The mere resemblance of motion was enough to turn my stomach inside out. Mom grabbed my sick carcass from a chair just in the nick of time, although someone did have to cleanup the concrete walkway afterwards.

I remember my first carnival roller coaster. It was in Selma, Alabama, either in 1961 or 1962. My brother and I climbed in the front car, and after only a few times around, I was screaming to the top of my lungs wanting out. Mom once again filled me in on the rest. Seeing that I was petrified with fear, she asked the person running this ride to please stop and let me off—which he did. To this day, I’ve refused to get on another roller coaster and never will.

My brother, a couple of years later in Lubbock, Texas, coaxed me into riding a mechanical creation called the Tilt-A-Whirl. He said it wasn’t bad—most likely thinking of scary carnival rides he’d been on before like: The Hammer and The Scrambler. Jim could conquer them all with no problem, including that wild roller coaster in Las Vegas named: High Roller.

Telling myself that I’d be okay that night, I came uncorked before the Tilt-A-Whirl ride ended, sending spray everywhere. I’m sure that wasn’t the first time this happened. From that point on, the only carnival ride I’ve taken part in is a Ferris Wheel. To me, they’re much like a giant swing set and my stomach can handle things with ease.

In 1972, having just graduated from high school, three friends from East High, along with me, late one night went to a small carnival next to the Valu-Mart shopping center. All went well until Jeff, Michelle, and Cathy, decided we needed to ride the Tilt-A Whirl. I wasn’t keen on the idea, remembering the last time I tried such, but didn’t want to come across as being wimpy.

Making it through the whole ordeal without getting sick, I quickly excused myself after getting off, finding a spot behind the generator trailer to hurl. My friends never knew. The next morning around five, noticing my wallet was missing, I drove back to that carnival, checking different Tilt-A-Whirl cars until finding it on the floor of one.

It was probably a good thing, because a former carnival employee told me that after closing, “carnies” have a field day going through all the rides looking for lost change, money, wallets, clutch purses, jewelry, and watches. He mentioned they found others things as well like baggies of pot and coke. This guy said that The Hammer and Scrambler were the worst for robbing people of their earthly goods along with breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

I always wondered why I couldn’t handle extreme rides like other kids, not finding out until age 40 that I have vertigo, along with something called Meniere’s Disease. Without going into a long drawn-out medical explanation, both ailments have something to do with the inner ear. With a carnival slated to return to the Havasu Balloon Festival in 2024, I was prepared to give the Tilt-A-Whirl one last try, just to prove I can master it without getting sick.

After recently reading about a carnival in Canada having one of their Tilt-A-Whirl cars come completely off its circular track when a large pin broke, injuring several people, plans have quickly changed. I’ll still be going to that carnival, riding their Ferris Wheel and eating caramel corn, while pulling sticky cotton candy from my beard and shirt. If there’s a Tilt-A-Whirl, Hammer, or Scrambler at this venue, I’ll give them wide berth while walking past. You see, I don’t want anyone’s spray coming my way.

I attended public schools for twelve years, those facilities being in Selma, Alabama, Lubbock and San Antonio, Texas—ending things in Anchorage, Alaska. Overall I’d say I got a decent education. Early on, our class would say the Pledge of Allegiance each morning, while at least once a week, all students and teachers walked outside to sing the “Star-Spangled Banner” – this taking place while standing at attention with hands over hearts. The word for such is patriotism.

Disruptive behavior was not tolerated during my school years from 1959 – 1972. Paddling’s were given out for smarting back to a teacher, and as far as I know, no kid was sent to a hospital afterwards. I got my fair share of swats, all of them justly deserved.

While attending grade school at Southside in Selma, I got into a scuffle with another boy on the playground. The man overseeing things that day—I now assume to be a teacher—stopped us from rolling around on the ground as small kids do when they fight. He quickly walked inside the building, coming back out with a pair of small yet puffy boxing gloves.

I know what you’re thinking here, but you can’t make this stuff up. My brother will attest to the truth of it because he was there. The two of us first graders attempted to box, yet within minutes we were tired and ready to call it quits. Those gloves were brought out on more than one occasion, never again for me, but for other boys that didn’t see eye to eye. I doubt anyone ever got seriously hurt while wearing them. Snowflakes would now have that man arrested if this took place, although boxing gloves are much safer than guns in removing pent-up hostilities.

Before I graduated in 1972, a questionnaire was given to students. It asked questions such as: do you believe marijuana should be legalized, and do you think the Vietnam War is justified. The war was just winding down at this time. This questionnaire had three choices: Yes, No, and I’m not sure. I didn’t put two and two together at that time, but they were checking to see how liberal or conservative a graduating student was. I always kept that in the back of my brain.

Several years ago, when Kathy Lee Gifford was a morning talk show host, she mentioned her children quite often. Generally, the praise this Christian mother gave them was for academics or funny things they’d done. Her kids were in private schools, as were the Obama’s, Trump’s, Clinton’s, and other high profile people. That should tell you something.

It was during this time that I came across an article written about the Gifford’s, with forthcoming comments below it most distasteful—some folks skewering her for bragging about her children on television, and then laughing at the woman for husband, Frank Gifford, having an affair.  My late mother told me that some people were born to root against those who are successful in life. She equated it to jealousy.

After seeing that take place with Kathy, I decided to keep my children and grandchildren out of things I write about, that is until here lately, when I started seeing erroneous information coming out regarding school vouchers. I’m a firm believer in school vouchers because I know they work.

My two children went to Christian schools. We had to pay for it as vouchers weren’t available. Not only did we pay, but we still were taxed for public school as well. Joleen and I didn’t complain, and for a while I worked two jobs just to make sure all of the other bills were paid.

Our son, Gunnar, graduated Valedictorian of his class, including being presented with a congressional appointment to the Air Force Academy, where he graduated in 2000. Miranda received scholarships to attend Colorado State University, where she graduated with Magna Cum Laude honors.

Gunnar just retired from the United States Space Force as a Lt. Colonel – with Miranda operating her own business in conjunction with husband Dennis. I’m sure I’ll now be harpooned by my two for doting on them, yet I, like Kathy Gifford, believe that bragging on one’s children is most appropriate, unlike what school psychologists might say. My guess is these self-acclaimed experts on kids don’t even have children of their own.

I want their children, my grandchildren, to attend Christian or private schools, mainly because these educational facilities continue to instill morals and character into youth, discipline, patriotism to their country, and most of all, teach them about Jesus.

If the National Education Administration would stop trying to indoctrinate kids to their liberal way of thinking, like they attempted to do with me during my three years of high school and failed, and if they’d take a cue from private schools on what teaching methods work best, a greater number of students would be academically better prepared once they leave high school.

Vouchers do work and the numbers prove it. If private schools didn’t offer quality education, you can bet your bottom dollar that Bill and Hillary would’ve never sent daughter Chelsea to one!

My family was vacationing in Lake Havasu City on, June 28, 1994, when a state record was set for highest temperature. We were staying at the old Holiday Inn on London Bridge Road at that time, now the Hampton Inn.

The wife and kids were hanging out at the pool, although earlier that day we’d rented wave runners for a couple of hours, with the Yamaha I was on ultimately sinking. I’ll save that for another story.

A few years prior to this, Joleen and I purchased the old Lake Havasu Police Department building at 296 London Bridge Road, and on that 128 degree day, I met with the owner of Allstar fencing back then, to see about some fence upgrades on a vacant lot next to the structure.

I can’t remember the gentlemen’s name, but as we stood outside and talked prices, I asked him if a heat record was about to be set as we’d been told by a hotel employee. He paused for a few seconds, looked at the sun, and then spoke,

“Nah, I don’t think so. Once the temp gets over 120 a person can’t really tell anyway!”

The only reason I asked, was that my shoes and feet were getting plenty hot standing on black asphalt. It wasn’t until getting back to Alaska that I looked to see how hot asphalt would’ve been that day. A graph showed between 140 – 150 degrees.

Our biggest problem that trip was that airplanes were delayed getting out of Phoenix because of thin air caused by the heat. We were fortunate in changing schedules to a late night flight. I was more than happy to get back to cooler weather after that experience, although the wife and kids would have gladly stayed.

Since that time, I’ve seen up to 123 degrees on our house thermometer. I’m now wise enough to not stand on asphalt during those warm days, nor outside at all for that matter. My experience with heat fatigue came from not being outside, but inside.

When our Arizona home was finished in 2005, the first thing I did on a two week trip to town was start putting my car lift together. There was no air conditioning in the garage, but I did have a large, useless, portable “swamp cooler.” This was in August and the temperature in that garage at night was barely under 100.

I was close to wrapping things up around midnight, and decided to keep at it as we were leaving early the next morning. By the time I finished tightening the very last bolt, I was wobbly on my feet, having to go inside, strip down, while Joleen sprayed cool water on me. All of this took place as I lay underneath a ceiling fan turned on high.

The next morning, I felt no ill effects after my brush with heat stroke, yet inspecting the lift, I’d mounted the hydraulic pump completely upside down. It was quite evident getting overheated had messed with my clear thinking. I learned a big lesson from both of those trips. These days when it’s above 100, unless it’s absolutely necessary, I avoid working outside. The garage now has A/C so that’s no longer a problem.

This past month, on a daily basis, I observed construction workers toiling away in that Havasu heat. I don’t envy these guys and gals, because over time, it will do irreparable harm to their bodies. They might not think so now, but after several years it’ll start showing up in different places. Just ask any good heart doctor.

For folks not having to work, yet electing to hike, jog, or bike, when it’s way above 100, I suppose they do so in an effort to appear macho. For those unwise people, I figure Havasu heat has already got to their brains.

One thing I like most about Lake Havasu City, is the variety of cool and unusual transportation devices I’ve observed zooming around town on a daily basis. Side-by-side vehicles (SXS) are the most popular, along with Harleys, and tricycle style motorized bikes. On rare occasion, I’ve spotted a vintage 1970s three wheel Honda with large knobby tires destined for offroad use only.

A monowheel, electric-powered gizmo with female rider passed me on McCulloch early one morning— the gal evidently going to work. Was it legal? Who cares! Electric bikes are the latest craze with those folks buzzing around town on them seemingly enjoying the ride.

Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Ford GT40, Porsches, Hellcats, and Corvettes up the ying yang are a common sight, especially on weekends. Muscle cars, lifted trucks, deuce coupes, and hot rods, are as common as pontoon boats on our lake.

Driving down Highway 95 one afternoon I saw an older style speedboat converted into an automobile. Spotted it just as this craft drove by the other direction—with my wife missing out. When I told her she was skeptical, that is, until viewing a photo on Facebook that someone thankfully snapped.

A realtor here in town, Dean Baker, owns an Amphicar. This vehicle, unlike the rolling boat that I saw, was manufactured in West Germany from 1961 until 1968. I’m sure Dean has had his in the lake a time or two.

At one point Segway stand up scooters were seen quite often riding on city sidewalks. I believe there was even a place in town that rented them. Unfortunately or fortunately depending on how you look at it, Segway has discontinued production. They’ve went the way of the Edsel automobile.

Inline rollerblades or skates appeared to be going the same direction as Segway, because they’re rarely observed anymore unlike twenty years ago. In an article I just read on them, the writer said that they’re having a resurgence in, Great Britain, so most likely the same will happen here. I owned a pair when younger, but never used them on neighborhood streets unlike some of my friends. “Bicycle trails” as they were called back then worked best for me because I fell quite often.

Two wheeled electric-powered and foot-powered scooters are still alive and well, looking to be here well into the future, along with skateboards. They’re seen more often in neighborhoods and not main throughfares, although on occasion some daredevil will give it an unsafe try.

When I lived in Anchorage, Alaska, the Harley Davidson motorcycle shop was located directly across the street from us. I’m talking late 1960s here. David “Pappy” Burns owned the place and he also sold Scorpion snowmobiles. Pappy’s two boys mounted wheels to the skis of one Scorpion, driving it up and down Muldoon Road a few times during summer, just because they could get away with such. Highly doubtful they could these days.

I’ve never spotted a snow machine on the streets of Lake Havasu City, so there’s a challenge for some brave and adventurous soul. As long as the machine’s registered with plates and having all required lights, I believe this would even be legal. This is a feat I’d love to do myself, but have already been told no by higher powers.

Another sight I haven’t come across is a motorized barstool rolling down the road. I hear there are some out there, being told a fellow in town has a fast one parked in his garage. Would love to see that stool zipping up and down McCulloch Boulevard during our Thursday night car show. Perhaps even have the inaugural “Havastool 500” staged there each year. Those things should be able to go 500 feet no problem as long as the driver’s sober. Helmets and safety gear required!

Better yet, mount a barstool on a paddle board and take it to the lake. A pair of barstools on connected boards sitting in front of the London Bridge, with Dean Baker towing them with his Amphicar, would definitely make for a photo worthy of local and national attention. Game on!

rough draft – unedited – unfinished

I spent very little time at Rotary Park over the Fourth of July, finding it much quieter, cooler, and safer in my garage. My wife and I did go down for an hour on the third, watching a fellow scuba dive with a metal detector along the shore. Afterwards, he took off his scuba gear and did a little dry sand searching.

Joleen and I have done our share of metal detecting over the years, finding loose change in various areas of town, including WWII 50-caliber bullets and brass cartridges in Standard Wash. We finally ended up with enough change for a raspberry mocha at The Human Bean and found enough lead and brass to fill a toolbox drawer.

I’ve been a coin collector going way back. My grandfather got my brother and I hooked by giving us a couple of real silver dollars. From that point on we were on our own.

In Lubbock, Texas, Jim and I would buy ten rolls of pennies at a bank and go through them looking for wheat pennies, always hoping we’d end up with an Indian head. That never happened and we went through several hundred rolls. I did find one in the backseat of an old car at a wrecking yard in Texas, giving it to a friend, who’s dad owned the salvage yard.

My brother-in-law discovered an 1899 Indian head penny stuck inside an antique door lock on their old farmhouse in Kansas. Some kid evidently slipped it into the large keyhole years ago, with the coin dropping to the bottom and there it sat for almost one hundred years.

In a Hardy Boys mystery series book I read years ago, there was mention of Pine Tree shillings and pieces of eight being uncovered by Frank and Joe Hardy. I have an authentic piece of eight, but the Pine Tree shilling is a replica that I purchased. An original Massachusetts Pine tree shilling is quite rare and expensive.

Before the United States mint started producing coins, residents used Spanish “Reale” coins. A whole, one ounce, silver Reale was worth one dollar, yet if it was cut eight equal parts, each “piece of eight,” one bit was worth twelve and a half cents. It took eight bits back then to equal a dollar. This value remained in effect up until 1963, when bulk silver finally traded for over one dollar an ounce. At that point a bit increased along with it.

The American colonies produced their own coinage early on, before the US mint started producing silver dollars and lesser denominations made of pure silver in 1796, ceasing production in 1935, this when the “Gold Act” was enacted. I’ve been able to score a Liberty Bust 1799 silver dollar, but never one of the first minted dollars as they’re quite spendy.

My old East Anchorage Highschool cheer, “Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar, all for East High stand up and holler!” no longer holds water, even in 1972, with silver worth over two dollars an ounce the latter part of that year. When I graduated, two bits of silver was worth precisely fifty cents if a person wants to count brass tacks.

This catchy slogan was first used in the 1700s, when two bits was worth twenty-five cents. With silver now hovering around twenty-three dollars an ounce, one bit is equal to approximately two dollars and nineteen cents, with two bits double that amount. Some misinformed folks still believe that two bits of silver is only worth a quarter. Those that do are living in the past and I’ll take all the bits have for that price.

In 1965, pure silver coins were eliminated from circulation in the US, and replaced with what is called clad coins. These bi-metal coins have less valuable materials inside such as copper and nickel. Those are the type coins Joleen and I always find. I call it junk money, because there’s limited value where precious metal is concerned, yet it still buys a good cup of coffee.

Before I depart this life I’d love to have a real Pine Tree shilling. It’s doubtful I’ll find a bag of them like the fictitious Hardy Boys did, so the replica I purchased for four bits will have to suffice. When I say four bits here, I’m not talking fifty cents. I paid a little under twelve bucks for it. Chalk this increase in the value of silver bits up to inflation.

If they want to be totally accurate, students attending high school these days should be singing out at pep rally’s and games: Two bits, four bits, six bits, twenty-three dollars, all for (fill in the blank with your school)________ stand up and holler.

I’ve observed my share of diesel pickups running around town, deliberately blowing black smoke out their exhausts—these drivers I suppose thinking they’re impressing folks or being cute. This act is called “rolling coal” for one specific reason.

Wikipedia offers the following explanation: “Rolling coal is the practice of modifying a diesel engine to emit large amounts of black or grey sooty exhaust fumes—diesel fuel that has not undergone complete combustion. It is a predominantly an Anglo American phenomenon, despite being illegal. Rolling coal is sometimes used as a form of anti-environmentalism.”

Having been behind a few of these rigs, I watched them leave stoplights pedal to the metal, leaving behind huge black clouds of unburned particulates and carcinogens. My dashcam generally catches the action, along with the license plates of those vehicles creating this pollution. Mine isn’t the only camera out there doing so.

I’ve talked with a few guys having modified their trucks to puke out this smoke, with them telling me in Arizona there’s no law against such. Their analogy may be correct, but there’s a federal law, and it’s a heavy hitter as the Diesel Brothers will attest.

At one time there was a reality television show called “Diesel Brothers.” It was a favorite of mine, but I sometimes wondered how they got away with what they did, namely, modifying diesel engines to put out noxious smoke, and then putting it out there on television for all to see.

Several seasons after this show came out, owners of the Diesel Brother’s shop, along with television producers, were sued by a group of Utah doctors for violation of the clean air act, and ultimately socked with an $850,000.00 lawsuit. The EPA was directly involved in these court hearings. That entertaining show went off the air soon afterwards.

The State of Arizona nor Lake Havasu City may not do anything to these rolling coal fanatics, although they could, yet the EPA definitely will. Coal rollers seem to forget that dashcams are being used more and more these days, with some newer cars and trucks either coming with them, or available as an option. “Smile, you’re on candid camera!”

All a person recording this violation needs to do, is send in their digitalized SD card with a clear image of the infraction, also showing vehicle license number, to the EPA, and they’ll take over from there. A hefty fine to the violator could soon follow. I’m not one to go this extreme, but some folks concerned about air quality would, and probably have, and I don’t blame them.

What these ignorant truck owners are doing, is no different than intentionally setting a rubber tire on fire in their backyard, and then blowing that toxic smoke to the surrounding neighbors. A similar act where water pollution is concerned, would be akin to a boat owner dumping their porta-potty contents into our lake, near Rotary Park Beach, where people are swimming just to get a reaction.

In the country we live, some people believe under the guise of freedom, that they have the right to pollute air that others must breathe. Citizens having heart, lung, asthma, and emphysema problems are most affected having to inhale these toxins. Rolling coal polluters might find their acts funny, yet probably won’t be laughing so hard after being hit with a mega-thousand dollar EPA fine. I’m sure the Diesel Brothers aren’t laughing about theirs.

By now, most everyone having a driver’s license, has encountered someone texting or playing with their electronic smartphone or iPod while behind the wheel. My top three encounters with inattentive drivers on electronic devices, all happened while I was driving a certain Chevrolet pickup truck, them taking place in the 1990s, with cell phones still only cellphones, and not mini computers like they are today.

The first time, I was sitting at a redlight close to my home during winter. Looking in my rearview mirror, I noticed a small car slowly sliding towards me, and could also see the driver with a hand to his ear. My truck, like most of those here in Lake Havasu City, had a receiver and trailer ball under the rear bumper. This guy hit just hard enough for his bumper to go over that ball. Spinning both front tires on a slick road while trying to get loose, he couldn’t. It took three of us, lifting as he backed up, to free the car. This fellow, a businessman from Korea, acknowledged that he was distracted by his phone. No harm was done to either of us, so we shook hands and that was the end of things.

The second time was near identical to the first. A couple of gals, the driver on a cellphone, slammed into that same hitch with her Saturn. No damage was done to my truck, yet the ball and receiver punched a nice size round hole through the frozen plastic facia or bumper of that car. Once again it was winter. The teenager driver pleaded with me to not call the police, saying it was her dad’s car and she was going to be in trouble anyway. My wife sided with the distraught girl, talking me out of it as well. I wondered later on, somewhere down the road, if I’d be the one in trouble. That’s generally how things go for me in decisions like that.

My third incident involving a distracted driver was a bit more serious and involved either drugs or alcohol. I was sitting at the redlight at Lake Otis Parkway and Tudor Road. This is the same intersection where that Toyota pickup struck me on a bicycle a couple of years later.

Holding a soda in one hand, watching straight ahead and not my rearview mirror this time, an older Chevy pickup hit me from behind hard enough to send the cup flying—Pepsi splashing everywhere. Jumping out of my truck, I hustled to the rear asking if this driver was okay. He said that he was good to go, and was sorry, as he’d been talking to his wife. Where stereotyping is concerned—based on looks alone—I immediately pegged him as trouble and was correct in my analysis.

Rather than get out to see if there was any damage, he quickly threw it into reverse and took off. I did the same, and a slow motion chase took place, with heavy traffic both directions making him unable to get out of my sight. I followed the fellow down Lake Otis Parkway, through several subdivisions, and then onto Bragaw Street. He made a serious error and turned onto a neighborhood street that was blocked with concrete bollards. This dead end was directly near a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant.

Bailing from his vehicle, I did the same from mine, chasing the guy on foot through this KFC lobby full of diners, and out the back door. Immediately outside this kitchen exit was a patch of frozen water on asphalt with a slight amount of snow on top. When his feet hit that ice he did a near flip in the air, landing hard, with his head and backside coming down on hard ground. It temporarily dazed and knocked the wind out of him. As if that wasn’t enough, I jumped on top, holding him until a big and strong Army soldier took over for me. It turned out this Military Policeman from Fort Richardson was following both of us, because the distracted driver had sideswiped his Bronco right before he hit me. Before the Anchorage police got there, the either high or inebriated driver glared at me, then said in a loud enough voice for all to hear, “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance!” At that time I laughed it off.

Minutes later, cops came from all directions and arrested the man. He was a wanted felon with a mile long list of convictions. When I mentioned to one of the officers about the guy saying he’d kill me, this policeman told me I was lucky, because there was a loaded revolver in his truck. The officer went on to warn me that it wasn’t smart on what I’d done. It’s taken close to thirty years for me to realize such, but I’ll now finally admit the policeman was right.

I’ve come across several folks here in town driving erratically, and generally, if I’m able to pull up next to them, an electronic device is visible in one of their hands. A pen and notebook is always within my reach, with a small dash cam recording things front and rear as I drive.

Should someone run into me, there’d be no need for a chase, because it’s all there on a small digital SD card for police and attorneys to see. These same cameras are available for bikers to wear, and if I was still riding, I’d have one for sure. The data recorded on them is admissible in a court of law. It’s too bad they didn’t have these handy devices back in 1990, because it would’ve kept me from having to take the law into my own hands, although I must say, it was quite the adrenaline rush.

I recently read and enjoyed Publisher Rick Macke’s piece in “Bikers Corner” titled, An explanation of lane filtering (Today’s News-Herald – 06/30/2023). I could never fully understand the reasoning behind lane filtering, because in Alaska, unlike Arizona, there is no such thing, legally that is. Some cyclists in Alaska still pull up between cars at stoplights, just because they can. I always cringe seeing that, thinking someone will intentionally open a door as a motorcycle rolls through, just because they can.

After reading Rick’s article, I better understand the principle behind this is to be seen. That was one area I always had problems with on my bikes, because as seasoned bikers well know, those folks driving cars and trucks oftentimes are not on the lookout for harder to spot smaller, two-wheeled vehicles. Mr. Macke’s article dealt with one young lady in particular, carelessly driving her BMW while toying with her phone or iPod. This all took place while he was out on a Saturday motorcycle ride to Hope and back.

I was never hit while riding my motorcycle, yet was struck by a Toyota pickup as I pedaled a Cannondale bicycle. That’s a story for another day. My encounters with inattentive drivers on electronic devices all happened while driving a certain Chevrolet pickup truck, them taking place in the 1990s, with cell phones still only cellphones and not mini computers like they are today.

The first time, I was sitting at a redlight close to my home during winter. Looking in my rearview mirror, I noticed a small car slowly sliding towards me, and could also see the driver with a hand to his ear. My truck, like most of those here in Lake Havasu City, had a receiver and trailer ball under the rear bumper. This guy hit just hard enough for his bumper to go over that ball. Spinning both front tires on a slick road while trying to get loose, he couldn’t. It took three of us, lifting as he backed up, to free the car. This fellow, a businessman from Korea, acknowledged that he was distracted by his phone. No harm was done to either of us, so we shook hands and that was the end of things.

The second time was near identical to the first. A couple of gals, the driver on a cellphone, slammed into that same hitch with her Saturn. No damage was done to my truck, yet the ball and receiver punched a nice size round hole through the frozen plastic facia or bumper of that car. Once again it was winter. The teenager driver pleaded with me to not call the police, saying it was her dad’s car and she was going to be in trouble anyway. My wife sided with the distraught girl, talking me out of it as well. I wondered later on, somewhere down the road, if I’d be the one in trouble. That’s generally how things go for me in decisions like that.

My third incident involving a distracted driver was a bit more serious and involved either drugs or alcohol. I was sitting at the redlight at Lake Otis Parkway and Tudor Road. This is the same intersection where that Toyota pickup struck me on a bicycle a couple of years later.

Holding a soda in one hand, watching straight ahead and not my rearview mirror this time, an older Chevy pickup hit me from behind hard enough to send the cup flying—Pepsi splashing everywhere. Jumping out of my truck, I hustled to the rear asking if this driver was okay. He said that he was good to go, and was sorry, as he’d been talking to his wife. Where stereotyping is concerned—based on looks alone—I immediately pegged him as trouble and was correct in my analysis.

Rather than get out to see if there was any damage, he quickly threw it into reverse and took off. I did the same, and a slow motion chase took place, with heavy traffic both directions making him unable to get out of my sight. I followed the fellow down Lake Otis Parkway, through several subdivisions, and then onto Bragaw Street. He made a serious error and turned onto a neighborhood street that was blocked with concrete bollards. This dead end was directly near a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant.

Bailing from his vehicle, I did the same from mine, chasing the guy on foot through this KFC lobby full of diners, and out the back door. Immediately outside this kitchen exit was a patch of frozen water on asphalt with a slight amount of snow on top. When his feet hit that ice he did a near flip in the air, landing hard, with his head and backside coming down on hard ground. It temporarily dazed and knocked the wind out of him. As if that wasn’t enough, I jumped on top, holding him until a big and strong Army soldier took over for me. It turned out this Military Policeman from Fort Richardson was following both of us, because the distracted driver had sideswiped his Bronco right before he hit me. Before the Anchorage police got there, the either high or inebriated driver glared at me, then said in a loud enough voice for all to hear, “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance!” At that time I laughed it off.

Minutes later, cops came from all directions and arrested the man. He was a wanted felon with a mile long list of convictions. When I mentioned to one of the officers about the guy saying he’d kill me, this policeman told me I was lucky, because there was a loaded revolver in his truck. The officer went on to warn me that it wasn’t smart on what I’d done. It’s taken close to thirty years for me to realize such, but I’ll now finally admit the policeman was right.

I’ve come across several folks here in town driving erratically, and generally, if I’m able to pull up next to them, an electronic device is visible in one of their hands. A pen and notebook is always within my reach, with a small dash cam recording things front and rear as I drive.

Should someone run into me, there’d be no need for a chase, because it’s all there on a small digital SD card for police and attorneys to see. These same cameras are available for bikers to wear, and if I was still riding, I’d have one for sure. The data recorded on them is admissible in a court of law. It’s too bad they didn’t have these handy devices back in 1990, because it would’ve kept me from having to take the law into my own hands, although I must say, it was quite the adrenaline rush.