With the Indy Mile coming back to town I felt it was appropriate to post an ole Roscoe story leading up to the Race. This is a Trail Riding site but I grew up with a flat track racing father along with moto and trail. Its all good fun, and I am truly looking forward to the renewed interest in the Indy Mile and the next day I zip out to the Moto Gp on my 640 adventure. We band of brothers…well we just have to stick together.

Location: Indianapolis

A life on the road gets complicated at times. I tell this so others may learn from my mistakes. The short version goes a cavalry of emergency equipment arrives, cop draws gun, and Roscoe goes to jail.

A more detailed version begins as we found ourselves accommodated by a family friend in the lavish parking area of a famous racetrack. Leelee and I enjoy our morning, the calm after the storm in a typical crisp day. Tater sulks in the camper shower / toilet concluding a 48 minute fit. He’s angry because we told him we would not attend the Dallas-Fort Worth Primate Expo and Monkeyrama. Our serenity brakes as we hear sirens and see familiar blue and red flashing lights approach. Looking to make a good impression, I sprang from my chair and grabbed my jacket. An officer exited his prowler and asked ” Mister, are you wearing a KTM jacket?” I smiled and puffed my chest expecting to hear “You a bike rider? Me too! “. . . “YOU’RE UNDER ARREST! We’ve received a screaming 911 call and GPSed a signal to this location. Have you been abusing the lady?” As the cop car door closed, Tater waved the cell phone and Leelee promised to call a lawyer and vowed to remain ever true, as long as it takes.

The People at the police station seemed to be a little easier to get along with than the arresting officer. I asked the lady taking fingerprints who the hard nose was. She replied “He’s Patrolman B. V. Davidson. The inmates call him Sheriff Skivvies”. The guy hates bikers. When his wife ran off, she took his bike and hooked up with a lady junkyard dealer. (Ouch! That sounds familiar, kinda.) They played the 911 tape and it sounded pretty bad. ” If you don’t quiet down, you’re gonna get smacked “. Then you hear unexplainable screams.

They took me to the cell. It was a large, bench lined, room filled with guys in coveralls. The real jumpy small guy sat down next to me and began talking. Everybody has a story in prison. He said “One day you’re swiping golf carts, just funnin’. The next day you’re somebody’s man-girlfriend “. I told him about Tater throwing the fit over his monkey jamboree and poop fling. I suggested to the guy that using “finger quotes” when he said ‘man-girlfriend’ might get him in trouble. You hit rock bottom when the littlest guy in prison tells you that you are screwed. At this point the biggest guy in the cell walked over and I thought here we go. . . . But all he said was ” monkeys are funny. ” I started telling stories about monkeys and motorcycles. I told stories of our adventures meeting famous people like Boyd Sivle, Ted Nugent, Vince & Linda McMahon. The inmates gathered, some sitting cross-legged encircling the floor. I told stories of Amish go-go barns, boat wrecks, Weiner Mobiles, and Mount Rushmore. The guards amassed and listen attentively. I told legends of Edsel collections, explosive diarrhea, talking badgers, and the Cushman Scooter boys. I even started an open debate; Steven Hawking v Christopher Reeves in a fight. . . does anybody win? One guy began writing notes on his clipboard. It all sounded like a terrific summer flashback TV show but before I knew it, it was time to go to court.

At the arraignment the judge looked over her glasses and asked if I was a violent man or a drinker. Behind me, Freak Show Roy, dressed in shorts, sandals and a tank top, objected from the gallery and proclaimed himself my legal counsel. He and the judge argued at the sidebar for a least 10 minutes and he returned. ” Roscoe, there are no witnesses. Leelee couldn’t wait for you to get out of jail and left for Barstow to follow her show business dream. . If you tell the judge about Tater, she’ll put you in the nut house. The jailhouse psychiatrist says you’re delusional. Tell them you need rehab and you’ll do two weeks max. You’re out of here”…

“Judge, the Tequila and Tang has a grip on me. I need help.”

Rehab later. . .