Yamaha RD350 Part 6: Rubber Match

One day many years ago, when I was around 12 or 13 years old, I took my metallic blue Honda Mini Trail on the road. My older buddy, Russ Adamson, who was legal on a Honda CL100, was with me on the street adventure. My Mini Trail didn’t have a tag, I didn’t have a license or any business on the pavement, but that didn’t stop us. I just wanted to ride, to be free without being hassled by The Man, like Peter Fonda said in those biker movies from the late 60s/early 70s era. Unfortunately, The Man had other ideas. I made it all the way to Milam Dairy road in the town of Medley, about 10 miles from home, when I was pulled over for obvious reasons.

The cop was a real stickler for details. He arrested me and called a tow truck to haul away the mini bike. I sat in the back of the patrol car looking out the window as he took me to the cop shop. Russ checked out ok so he was allowed to ride back home. At the cop shop the other cops looked at my cop like he was crazy. “You’re arresting him?” My guy held firm to his principals. I was booked, finger printed and was going to be put in a jail cell when one of the cops said, “You can’t put him in a cell, just let him sit here behind my desk.” I didn’t know exactly where I was, South Miami I think. We had driven a long way to the station. I called my house but nobody was home so I sat there wondering what prison food would taste like.

The situation was so unusual I didn’t know I should be scared. Other cops were stopping by and talking with me, trying to keep me in good spirits. I had quite a few spectators. I was a real celebrity collar. Some cops would just look at me and shake their heads in disbelief. One of the cops told me, “We’ll see you back here in a few years on a big Harley,” and then laughed at his joke.

Russ had gone to my house and told my mother what happened but he wasn’t sure who arrested me. Miami in the area I was pinched had several overlapping police departments. There is Metro Dade, Medley Police, Sheriffs and a few others. My mom started calling the various forces patrolling the city.

“Your mother is coming down to get you,” the desk cop told me. Mom came in the police station as angry as I ever saw her. I figured I was done for: no more mini bike. Astonishingly she was not angry with me. She read the riot act to any and all cops within earshot. Turns out I was like 30 miles from home. In lieu of bail, Mom had to show her voter’s ID card to spring me and all the way home she was mad as hell. But not with me.

Events were getting out of hand. My mother called Charles Whitehead, a writer for the local Miami paper and he wrote a humorous column titled, Dangerous Joe Rides Again.  In it he joked about the police arresting and fingerprinting a little kid. Whitehead claimed that a desperate crime spree was stopped by the brave actions of the police. Remember, this was before kids routinely shot up schoolyards. I think Whitehead was pining for a gauzy, Norman Rockwell, soda fountain type of police encounter. The upshot was Whitehead felt the cop should have tossed the mini bike in the trunk of his patrol car and taken me home. Which would have been worse for me by far. By arresting me the cop took all the attention away from my stupid actions and took it on himself.

With my mom and dad by my side I had my day in traffic court. After a long day of waiting we were the very last case on the docket. I was charged with driving without a license and having an unregistered vehicle on the highway. Neither of which you normally get arrested for. Since I had no license I couldn’t lose it or get points against it. I plead no contest. I don’t remember the fine but it was like $100 I think. That was a lot of money. I never did manage to pay them back.

This old story came to mind when I rode the untagged RD350 down to the La Luz post office to sign for a package of new rubber carb tops from India. India makes a lot of parts for RD350’s. I haven’t switched over the title so the RD is still in the previous owner’s name. I haven’t registered it for a tag because I’m still working on it and to get a tag you have to buy insurance. The title was safely at home so I had no proof the bike was even mine. It was as if I hadn’t learned a thing from that arrest so long ago.

Like that Honda Mini Trail, the urge to ride the RD350 defies common sense. I think that’s the appeal of vintage motorcycles: they make you feel like a kid again. I just want to be free, to go where I want without being hassled by The Man, you know? The bike still needs a lot of work but I think I’ll focus on getting it legal next. It’s obvious I lack the willpower to stay off the thing. Dangerous Joe indeed.

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