I’ve now driven my motorcycle into construction signs, had my tail light clipped turning in front of an oncoming car and driven my right leg into the bumper of a parked truck. I realize I have to figure out a safer way to blindly drive my motorcycle. An opportunity presents itself. My friend Roy Otterman is a big, powerful car mechanic and, although he is deaf as a post, is willing to sit behind me and navigate. As we drive, he yells out commands in in his squeaky, excitable voice: “Red light! Red light!” or “Turn right! Turn right!”
(Unbeknownst to us, a Winchell’s Donut Shop has just been robbed.) I hear a siren blaring behind us and I pull over to the curb. In a no nonsense voice the officer commands firmly, “Put your hands up and step away from the bike and I mean right now!”
The officer frisks me then asks me for my license, but since I don’t have one, I instead hand over my proof of motorcycle insurance.
Then he asks Roy for his driver’s license, which he quickly provides. The officer examines the documents and then peers over at Roy, “It says here, that you’re deaf! Is that right?”
Roy, who reads lips very well, nods affirmatively.