Motorcycle Granny: A cautionary tale

The drive was a hard one; by the time Lisa and I got back to Chapel Hill we’d logged over 1400 miles. But driving allowed me — en route to the Visioning Council at Summer Hill Farm in Upstate New York — to spend time with my 88-year-old mother in Manassas, Virginia, and the next day see my three grandchildren in Wilmington, Delaware.

Sunday morning found us driving through the D.C. suburbs. At a stop light, Lisa and I both became aware of loud and heated talk. Through my side mirror, I saw someone straddling a motorcycle; and I could see her — for it turned out to be a woman, 70-years-old if a day, zipped up in a black leather jump suit — I could see her leaning over and shouting threats and obscenities at the woman in the car directly behind us.

“What makes you think you can do that? I can’t believe you! You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to follow you home. That’s what I’m going to do: follow you home and beat your ass.” Then she formed her hand into a gun, pointed it at the woman and “fired.”

When the light changed, Motorcycle Granny eased her Harley-Davidson behind the woman’s car and tailed her. I fell back and followed both of them. The driver in the car tried to lose her stalker by weaving carefully across the three lanes of traffic and accelerating or slowing down. Nothing worked. When we came to a second light, Motorcycle Granny pulled along side the woman’s car and resumed her tirade through the window of the empty passenger’s side.

Lisa, who is a psychiatric nurse, thought the motorcyclist was dangerous and probably terrifying to the woman in the car. She called 911 and — a bit lost for words to describe the situation and where she was calling from (since we in fact changed jurisdictions during the call, leaving one county and entering another) — reported her. A mile further down the highway, when the woman in the lead car turned onto U.S. 29, we again called 911. I told Lisa I thought we could defuse the situation by pulling along side the motorcyclist at the next stop light and telling her we’d reported her.

“You keep this distance! That woman’s crazy. She’s just as likely to pull out a gun and shoot both of us through the window.”

Two Fairfax County patrol cars, their lights flashing and sirens wailing, overtook us at the next intersection. We were immediately segregated into three interrogation spaces with invisible walls. After Lisa and I gave our testimony to one of the patrolman, I looked over at Motorcycle Granny, who’d been for the moment left alone in the middle interrogation “room” and was standing-sitting with her butt propped against the Harley. Her helmeted head was hanging; and she seemed deflated, as if all the air — and with it, all her spleen and menace — had been siphoned off.

Lisa and I were both concerned for the driver of the car and wanted reassurance she was all right and wanted to tell her we had called 911 and had been following her. When I’m an angel of mercy this way, I’m rarely angelic enough not to want credit for my good deed. When Lisa started toward the woman’s car, she was promptly intercepted and escorted back to our “room.” She shared her concerns with the officer, who assured her that he would convey them to the other woman. I told him I had not been able to see the driver well, but that she seemed young and slight and had probably been terrified.

“Then you didn’t know,” he asked, “that she had two children seat-belted in the back, a 3- and a 5-year-old?”

Shortly afterwards we were permitted to leave. The police had escorted the old woman to the back of one of the patrol cars and wanted her to lean, spread-eagle, against the trunk while they patted her down for weapons. She was humiliated. “Please,” she pleaded, “you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this.”

I’ve thought a lot about this incident. For one thing, it reminds me of the “lesson in Japanese manners” that Terry Dobson received as a young man on a Tokyo subway (inserted below). But, as Drew Leder in his book Spiritual Passages makes clear, that story is a parable about elder wisdom. This is a very different story. I have been wondering what words one might have said that could have invited the old woman to remember herself. I thought it unlikely her encounter with the legal system, or for that matter, the mental health establishment, would be a path to wisdom. The one thing I can think of that I would have liked to say is, “Grandmother, you shouldn’t be scaring those children.”



On a Tokyo Subway

by Terry Dobson

The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty - a few housewives with their kids in tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.

   At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our car. He wore labourer’s clothing, and he was big, drunk, and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that she was unharmed.

Related image   Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. The labourer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.

   I was young then, some 20 years ago, and in pretty good shape. I’d been putting in a solid eight hours of aikido training nearly every day for the past three years. I like to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. Trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of aikido, we were not allowed to fight.

   "Aikido", my teacher had said again and again, "is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it."

   I listened to his words. I tried hard I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.

   This is it! I said to myself, getting to my feet. People are in danger and if I don’t do something fast, they will probably get hurt.
   Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage. "Aha!" He roared. "A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners!"

   I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so I pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss.
   "All right!" He hollered. "You’re gonna get a lesson." He gathered himself for a rush at me.
   A split second before he could move, someone shouted "Hey!" It was earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it - as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something, and he suddenly stumbled upon it. "Hey!"
   I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.

   "C’mere," the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. "C’mere and talk with me." He waved his hand lightly.

   The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old gentleman, and roared above the clacking wheels, "Why the hell should I talk to you?" The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his socks.

   The old man continued to beam at the laborer.
   "What’cha been drinkin’?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. "I been drinkin’ sake," the laborer bellowed back, "and it’s none of your business!" Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.

   "Ok, that’s wonderful," the old man said, "absolutely wonderful! You see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife (she’s 76, you know), we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree had done better than I expected, though especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening - even when it rains!" He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling.

   As he struggled to follow the old man’s conversation, the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. "Yeah," he said. "I love persimmons too…" His voice trailed off.

   "Yes," said the old man, smiling, "and I’m sure you have a wonderful wife."

   "No," replied the laborer. "My wife died." Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. "I don’t got no wife, I don’t got no home, I don’t got no job. I am so ashamed of myself." Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his body.

   Now it was my turn. Standing there in well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my make-this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was.

   Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. "My, my," he  said, "that is a difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it."

   I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy, matted hair.

   As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love. I would have to practice the art with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of conflict.