In this motorcycle Christmas story, first published in the December 2021 issue of the magazine horsemancollaborator Scott A. Williams recounts my story of being fired from my Massachusetts State Army post and receiving an unexpected gift in return.
It’s one of those Christmases where families are in faraway places. With only my wife, daughter, and I at home, important holiday obligations were settled in the early afternoon. The sun is burning in the clear blue sky as the temperature rises to 50 degrees Celsius – a rarity in late December in Massachusetts – and your humble scribe is growing restless.
“Get a hitch,” my wife insisted. “We will bake cookies and you will get in the way. Out of here.”
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Making a plan as I cycled along, I headed west across the Connecticut River toward hill towns for interesting, traffic-free trails. I figured I’d have time to get to Huntington before turning north, then turning east to get home before dark.
Traveling on US 20 through the suburbs of Westfield, I saw a carriage stop at an intersection on the left, just ahead. (“Statie” is what the natives of Massachusetts called the soldiers of our state.) Ideally, he would turn right, back into town, but without warning the cruiser cut in front of me. I hit the brake – hard – and let out a bwaaaa! from my bike horn. Hey, hey, hey, I’m riding here! Inside my helmet, I uttered words that I would not recommend speaking directly to a police officer.
If I had cut off an officer in such a way, I would have presented my license and registration. It was clear to me that the officer had not looked before abruptly retreating. If he looked, he’d see me approaching, wearing a high-viz and white helmet, burning four arrays of accessory lights along with OEM headlights, and driving over the speed limit on one The road is clear of obstacles on a clear day. I was there. If a careless civilian had cut me off, I might have dropped my gear and sped past, but it was a statue.
Now, however, he’s hit the mark. There are no lights or sirens, just noticeably off-limits. I decided to keep up. Perhaps this wasn’t the wisest decision, but I kept what I concluded to be a respectful distance – and I’m starting to have a really good time. This part of US 20 is the Jacob’s Ladder Scenic Byway, and from here to Becket it’s my favorite 20 in the state. The road parallels the Westfield River to Huntington, then ascends at Chester up to Becket through a series of S-shaped curves. I know the road well, but I’ve never driven it so fast.
There’s a state police barracks in Russell, and I’m starting to think that this blue-gray cruiser will show up, but it’s not. Approaching the village of Huntington, the statue slowed down. I follow. Is he preparing to turn north onto Highway 112? It’s another great winding road west of the Mass that has earned the title of state-issued scenic road. That’s where I was meant to be, but given these unusual circumstances, I felt I should be open to alternatives. One was presented as the statue continued westward on the 20th.
The brisk pace continued through Blandford State Forest to the town of Chester, where again the road eased a bit as it passed through the village. But when those S-curves appeared, the Ford Police Interceptor sped up for that familiar, winding, uphill run.
By now, this unexpected and exhilarating trip had taken me 40 miles, and I knew I had to start heading back east at some point. Unusually warm weather during the day causes the snow to melt, and with clear skies, temperatures will plummet as the sun sets, so black ice will pose a threat. But with little traffic other than a leading legged statue, I wanted this trip to last.
At Becket, the cruiser turned right onto Route 8 north. Recalculate… I could go north through Becket and Washington to Hinsdale, then start the trip back east on Route 143 through Peru, Chesterfield and Williamsburg. From an entertainment point of view on a motorcycle, this is fine. When I get to Northampton, I can hop on Interstate 91 and then on to Mass Pike for the last leg straight home.
I stuck with the statue and turned north on Route 8. The tar zigzagged across the landscape through forests and farms, but I realized it couldn’t last much longer. As I approached downtown Hinsdale, I moved, signaling my intention to turn right onto 143. The monument flashed the light bar twice and continued straight.
I interpret those flashes to mean, “Sorry, I interrupted you there, hope you enjoyed the ride.” Yes, officer, I enjoyed the trip. Another forty miles flew by in less than a minute, leaving me with a grin and a wonderful Christmas memory. No hard feelings, sir, but please watch the motorcycle.
