The day started like most others…
I rolled into the station, killed the motor on my Road King and coasted down the series of ramps to the underground parking area. I do this so my slightly-too-loud Vance and Hines pipes don’t reverberate the Chief’s coffee mug off his desk and unleash his fury upon me.
With my baby safely parked, I walked past the Police Model Electra Glide that I get paid to ride (quiet giggle to self) and past dozens of cruisers to the elevators. Next stop, third floor, home of the Motor Unit.
Before the doors could fully open I spotted the boss stomping my way with his game face on. Had I caused yet another coffee related emergency in the Chief’s office?
“Get into your gear quick. Briefing in five minutes. You guys are picking up the rock star.”
Four minutes and fifty-nine seconds later, the boys of the Motor Unit hustled into briefing, already starting to sweat in our heavy leather coats and high riding boots. Each of us had a pile of route maps, contact information, emergency routes, timelines and instructions waiting for us. This is the usual for these details, and as usual, there was no time to read any of it.
“You guys know the piano man is playing the casino grand opening tonight, right? Pick him up at the airport and escort him to the show, then get him back to his jet after the show. We’re already behind the eight ball on time, so get moving. The event is all VIPs and Members of Parliament, so look sharp!”
Back down the elevator to the bikes. No time for a proper detailing, but the bikes will surely be filmed and photographed later, so a bottle of Harley gloss is passed around for a record setting speed waxing. Six bikes, three minutes. We’ve had some practice.
No matter how many times I hear the sound of our pack of Harleys fire up simultaneously it gives me goose bumps. It’s part of the reason officers sacrifice transfers, promotions and raises to stay in the unit, to stay with their bike.
The bikes seem to know the formation; three rows of two, side by side, uniform distance apart. The formation rumbled off in the direction of the airport, taking the route of the escort to “pre-run” it, checking for construction, potholes, detours, anything.
We reached the airport and passed through a secret gate and onto the designated runway. A number of sports teams, celebrities, and VIPs go slightly out of their way to use this small airport to avoid media, crowds and hassles at the nearby international airport.
The summer sun was just beginning to set and we enjoyed the surreal experience of riding down the disused runway in twilight, then stopped and dismounted in unison at the prescribed spot on the edge of the tarmac. We were three minutes ahead of schedule and quickly huddled to scan the route plan and timetable.
Right on cue, the ultra-bright runway lights blazed to life and the dot of an approaching plane appeared in the distance. The rock star’s private jet roared onto the tarmac, reversed thrusters, and coasted leisurely up beside us. The jet engines spooled down into silence and we were joined by a limousine as the jet’s stairs descended onto the asphalt. From the opposite side of the jet we saw the bottom half of a man in loose fitting sweatpants and a tiny dog step away from the stairs and stretch. Judging by the entourage who fell over themselves rushing to greet and hobnob with this man, it must be our rock star. There was much welcoming and handshaking, but when the sweat-panted rock star peeked under the jet toward us, the hobnobbers were forgotten, and there was Billy Joel, grinning at us like a kid on Christmas morning.
I knew Billy Joel was supposedly a “bike guy”, but I always take such monikers with a grain of salt, especially after the last celebrity “bike guy” we met heatedly argued that our Police Model Electra Glides were actually Hondas. I had read about Joel’s motorcycle collection, which includes Harleys, Indians, a custom Orange County Chopper, and more, but again, owning them and riding them (not to mention knowing which is which) is another animal. But Billy didn’t waste any time proving that his reputation as a motorcycle aficionado is well deserved.
Without ever taking his eyes off us or losing any of his Christmas morning grin, Billy distractedly shoveled the yappy lap dog to an assistant and left the mortified hobnobbers behind as though they didn’t exist. It was obvious from their sour expressions how they felt about Billy Joel choosing to hang out with lowly motorcycle cops over them. Joel became the star-struck fan to our collective rock star persona. “Big deal” you say? Did I mention that one of those hobnobbers was trying to hand Joel a cheque for a couple of million bucks for his one night only concert appearance? But at first sight of our motorcycles he was oblivious to handshakers, hobnobbers, photographers and a humungous paycheque (rumour has it that Sir Paul McCartney’s manager laughingly dismissed an offer for double that amount!). Now that is a man who loves bikes!
Mr. Joel lived up to his reputation as one hell of a nice guy too. “Call me Bill” came with a round of handshakes as he busily checked out our bikes. “Are these still 88s or are they the new 96s? Are they comfortable with the air bladder seat? Are you guys allowed to switch pipes? Do you guys have your own bikes too? What’s the training like for you guys?” His obvious love of bikes, technical knowledge and down to earth demeanor won us over immediately. For a short while we swapped stories about the bikes we owned, the bike trips we’d taken, and the crashes we’ve had, and Bill has had some doozies.
Reluctantly, and after asking several times if he could take a police bike for a rip down the runway, he acknowledged the growing chorus of ‘would you get over here?’ throat-clearings and said, “I better get over there and take care of business”. The hobnobbery and shaking of hands for the camera resumed and in short order, Bill was ushered to the waiting limousine. Time for us to take care of business too.
“Rockstar One is rolling”, referring to Billy’s limousine by its code name, came across my helmet speakers, alerting our escort riders who had already gone ahead to man the gate and clear intersections that we were moving out. Why a code name when everyone in town knew he was coming? Probably for professionalism sake, since code names are the norm when we escort political VIPs. Or maybe it just sounds cool.
Our small motorcade left the airport and made its way to the concert hall. In much the same way offensive linemen provide a pocket of protection for the quarterback, we do the same for the VIP in a motorcade, ensuring the VIP, ambulance, or special cargo arrives safely at its destination. The police bikes’ lights and sirens command attention and give the motorcade a greater visual presence and we arrive in intersections ahead of the motorcade to reduce the chances of someone running a red light and hitting it. If the limousine gets T-boned and Billy can’t play, someone is out two million bucks! The repercussions get even more serious if the motorcade is for a Prime Minister or a visiting President. We also escort emergency ambulance transfers between hospitals and even organs for emergency transplants. The safe, timely arrival of the motorcade can be life and death, and the best way to manage the risks and get the job done is motorcycle escorts.
Escorting Billy was less stressful, but the boss told us to look sharp and we really liked him, so he was getting the full presidential treatment. Each time I buzzed past the limo I would catch a glimpse of Billy watching out a half-open rear window, cheering us on, thoroughly enjoying the precision motorcycle work.
Things went smoothly and we arrived on time at the concert hall. Before the limo could completely stop, Bill bounced excitedly out the rear door. “That was incredible! I’ve never had a police escort like that! I didn’t know you guys were going to bring us right in! That was so great!” How could you not love this guy? Another round of handshakes and Billy disappeared into the sold-out venue.
We spent the next few hours wrangling VIPs through the heavy downtown traffic to the black tie event attached to Billy’s concert. By all accounts, Billy gave his all on stage that night. When he and his small entourage emerged out a service door hours later, crowd still cheering inside, he looked happily spent, but paused long enough to pump his fist toward us and mouth “thank you”, a kind gesture between bikers. I’m always amazed at what an effective bridge motorcycles can be between people. Titles like rock star, police officer, politician, or celebrity fall away and you are just bikers, part of a giant fraternity. A fraternity that consistently brings out the best in people. Who is quicker to offer help, or rally to a charity’s assistance than the motorcycle community?
We delivered the limousine safely back onto the runway and across the dark tarmac to the waiting jet, engines already coming to life. Billy emerged from the limo, spoke briefly with Customs and headed up the stairs to the jet. Before disappearing inside the fuselage Billy paused long enough to give us the “I’m not worthy” bow and a huge smile, a last salutation between fraternity brothers. Moments later the jet taxied off into the darkness, taking the Piano Man home.
Billy Joel isn’t a celebrity who happens to own bikes; he’s a biker who happens to be a celebrity. And a hell of a nice guy.
