It wasn't the first time we encountered the police that day that caused my heart to palpitate. I met Bryce yesterday at a Shell parking lot and he agree to show me some roads on the Hawaiian island of Oahu. He said he was a military police officer and spoke about great roads leading to secret parts of the island. Roads only he could get me on.
After renting a cruiser the next day I called Bryce and he agreed to meet me at Sandy Beach, on the island's southern face. "Ja Bra ya ready a ride." Hawaiians speak a strange dialect.
Having curled around the north part of the island, Bryce and I were riding south, speeding past the avocado trees and sugar canes growing in auburn earth. The air was temperate and the breeze tickled my unshaven face. We passed a white police car and I peered in my rearview mirror only to find the cop had turned around-but worse than that an undercover police car had been following us for an unknown amount of time. Then came the sirens. After a verbal warning we were allowed to leave. My heartbeat slowed.
After visiting the Dole Pineapple plantation, Bryce reiterated that we should ride through the military base. He said we would have to tell the Military Police that we were meeting a friend. After arriving and dismounting, the short woman whose skin was the color of a coconut rind began the interrogation. "What are you doing here?" "Visiting a friend," I retort smartly. "Where does your friend live?" she responds. "In the barracks," I say. This goes on for 15 minutes where I respond to her specific questions with generic answers. Then she turns her attentions to Bryce.
He can't find his Drivers License but knows the number. It comes back suspended. "You know its a crime to drive on a base with a suspended license," she says. "It shouldn't be," he says. Then she starts asking about his military experience. "Im a MP," he says. But when she asks who is commanding officer is Bryce doesn't have answer. Then she gets a call saying Bryce is not a Military Police Officer. "You know it illegal to impersonate a police officer," she states. A shouting match ensues and she calls for back up.
In all of the havoc I run back towards my cruiser, start the bike and gun it. Jumping on the sidewalk I avoid the line of car leaving the base and cut off a Samoan woman who responds by trying to run me into a ditch. I peer over my shoulder and see Bryce being handcuffs and accelerate away, hoping this is the last time I'll encounter a police officer today. Real or otherwise.
After renting a cruiser the next day I called Bryce and he agreed to meet me at Sandy Beach, on the island's southern face. "Ja Bra ya ready a ride." Hawaiians speak a strange dialect.
Having curled around the north part of the island, Bryce and I were riding south, speeding past the avocado trees and sugar canes growing in auburn earth. The air was temperate and the breeze tickled my unshaven face. We passed a white police car and I peered in my rearview mirror only to find the cop had turned around-but worse than that an undercover police car had been following us for an unknown amount of time. Then came the sirens. After a verbal warning we were allowed to leave. My heartbeat slowed.
After visiting the Dole Pineapple plantation, Bryce reiterated that we should ride through the military base. He said we would have to tell the Military Police that we were meeting a friend. After arriving and dismounting, the short woman whose skin was the color of a coconut rind began the interrogation. "What are you doing here?" "Visiting a friend," I retort smartly. "Where does your friend live?" she responds. "In the barracks," I say. This goes on for 15 minutes where I respond to her specific questions with generic answers. Then she turns her attentions to Bryce.
He can't find his Drivers License but knows the number. It comes back suspended. "You know its a crime to drive on a base with a suspended license," she says. "It shouldn't be," he says. Then she starts asking about his military experience. "Im a MP," he says. But when she asks who is commanding officer is Bryce doesn't have answer. Then she gets a call saying Bryce is not a Military Police Officer. "You know it illegal to impersonate a police officer," she states. A shouting match ensues and she calls for back up.
In all of the havoc I run back towards my cruiser, start the bike and gun it. Jumping on the sidewalk I avoid the line of car leaving the base and cut off a Samoan woman who responds by trying to run me into a ditch. I peer over my shoulder and see Bryce being handcuffs and accelerate away, hoping this is the last time I'll encounter a police officer today. Real or otherwise.
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