This is a continuation of a series of articles regarding the different types of stressors that officers face daily, in their personal and professional lives from a personal point of view.
After looking at other bureaus in the department, I finally settled on the Traffic Bureau. I knew I could ride a motorcycle and write tickets. How hard could it be?
I remember the impact on me of the motor officers escorting the funeral procession of Officer Marc Kahre in 1988 and how I thought how professional they looked riding in formation.
I put my transfer in and passed the preliminary riding test. I hadn’t ridden a motorcycle for about 10-12 years, and needed some brief coaching on riding the provided motorcycle before the test (like; how to start it, push it, lift it, turn it, etc).
So after my transfer took effect and being on the department for 12 years, I was now a trainee motor officer.
After an orientation in the briefing room, we were taken out to the “course” at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway. The “course” was a series of coned patterns that we had to ride without knocking over the cones.
I felt the blood drain from my face and sweat began to ooze from my pores. The courses looked impossible to negotiate. The trainers assured us if we listened and practiced, that we would be able to pass the course without problems.
I still felt unsure. The trainers were extremely patient, attentive and made sure we were confident in completing the courses.
As we got started, I was very appreciative that they showed us the proper way to pick up the motorcycle after it “fell” down. (insert motorcycle crash pix here) We fell down a lot. Several riders suffered various injuries, ranging from road rash to broken bones. Many motorcycles required “repairs”, either on site or needed to be trailered to the motor garage.
The final test was the “obstacle course”. We had to complete the course a certain number of times, without errors (knocking over cones, leaving the pattern, “falling down”, etc). We all passed.
Next step, learn how to investigate accidents. We spent some classroom time learning how to calculate speed, stopping distances, know the difference between a “yaw” mark versus a “skid” mark, draw diagrams and other necessary procedures.
After all that, we had to spend some time with a training officer in the field, while we rode.
My particular training officer was an officer that I had initially trained when she came to work for Metro. So the trainer was now the trainee.
One particular nice benefit of being a motor officer was that the bike was yours to take home. No more getting to the station early, checking out a vehicle that may have been trashed by the previous officer, loading your equipment and paperwork into the vehicle, getting dressed in the locker room, every work day. Your vehicle was always ready and clean. You knew the condition of it. And you dressed at home.
After getting ready at home, we logged on the air to our dispatchers and advised them we were enroute to the station for briefing.
Day 5 of my first week in traffic, I was riding to work and met up with another motor officer on the freeway. He was riding his brand new Harley-Davidson with 500 miles on it. I was riding one of the last few Kawasakis left on the department.
On US95, west of Rancho, a driver lost control of her vehicle and slid across the freeway, striking the center divider, blocking our path with her car.
I watched as the entire incident unfolded in front of me.
The part about your life flashing before your eyes? It’s true. My entire life, my loved ones, blurred before me.
Training kicked in. I tried to brake without locking up the rear wheel. Knowing I was going to hit the vehicle, I tried to go limp.
We both slid into the side of the car. I was catapulted over the car, landing on my back on the fast lane of US 95. I remember the crunch of the crash, but don’t remember anything else until I heard a female voice asking if I was okay. I opened my eyes and looked up. Several citizens had stopped and were looking down at me. I then remembered that another officer was with me, hoping he had avoided the accident. I asked about him. No one answered. I then began taking “inventory” of my body parts. I was aching. I realized my left arm was broken. I could move my legs, to my relief. I broadcast on my portable radio (they worked pretty well back then) that 2 officers were down and gave our location. I could hear sirens coming from all directions and that they all were getting closer. Plainclothes officers, uniformed officers, paramedics, City fire all arrived on scene. My training officer also arrived and asked how I was doing. She had medical experience in the military.
Now, as a motor officer, we do have a different uniform that we wear, including riding boots that we buy and alter for our comfort. On average, we spent about $400.00 for these boots. My training officer DID tell me to get zippers put in as it would make it easier to put them on and take them off. As a police officer, most of us wear bullet-resistant vests that cost upwards of $500.00. Some of us had other custom fitted gear that we purchased ourselves.
The reason I bring this up is that paramedics have these very cool “scissors” that they love testing on different materials. Leather (boots and gloves), Kelvar (vests), etc.
My trainer asked if my back and legs were okay. I told her “yes’ and moved my legs to show her. She then began tugging at my boots, cursing at me because I had yet to put the zippers in. The fire department paramedics arrived and began yelling at her for pulling on my boots. She yelled back that I told her that my legs and back were okay. The paramedic then walked over to me, grabbed my broken arm and shook it as if to console me and wondered why I was screaming. My trainer then dropped the foot she was yanking on and almost punched the paramedic.
I was loaded up onto a gurney and an IV was started in my arm (I thought). During a very bumpy, painful ride to UMC Trauma, I commented how uncomfortable I was. They said, “Not to worry” as the pain meds would kick in.
I was wheeled into the hospital and trauma team began cutting the rest of my clothing off and the doctor lifted my broken arm. I again yelled out in pain. Startled, he asked if I felt that. Duh. He checked my IV. I was not receiving any of the meds due to the needle never accessing a vein.
I asked about the other officer involved. Again I got limited info.
My family arrived and checked on me. I was alive and functioning (for the most part) to their relief.
I was shown an x-ray of my arm, showing the clean break of my bone. I then began to shiver uncontrollably. They wheeled me out of the Trauma unit and down a hallway. They told me I was going to surgery and “Good Night”. I watched as they injected something into my IV line and that’s all I remember.
I woke up in the recovery room with my arm wrapped in about 10 pounds of gauze.
They told me I was going home and after a brief recovery time, I was wheeled out in my gown, butt cheeks hanging out as I was loaded into a waiting car.
As we rode home, traveling west on Charleston, we noticed commotion around the intersection of Arville and Charleston, with numerous police running about and police crime scene tape blocking off the area.
I knew the area sergeant and called him as we passed.
Macayo’s had been held up and a responding officer was shot in the face.
I forgot about my injuries and prayed for the officer.
To be continued…
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