I never dreamed slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a residential neighborhood

  could be so incredibly dangerous! Little did I suspect.   I was on Brice Street - a very nice

  neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic. As I passed an oncoming car, a brown

  furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me.

      It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car.

  I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it -- it was that

  close. I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should

  pose no danger to me.

       I barely had time to brace for the impact. Animal lovers, never fear.  Squirrels, I discovered,

    can take care of themselves!  Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing

    on his hind legs and   facing my oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his beady little eyes. His

     mouth opened,   and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt!

       I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Bonzai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking,

    heathen scum!" The leap was nothing short of spectacular... He shot straight up, flew over

    my windshield,and impacted me squarely in the chest. Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not

    know better, I would have sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack.

    Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed

    only in a light T-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern.

    This furry little tornado was doing some damage!  Picture a large man on a huge black and

    chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph

    down a quiet residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing...

       I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally managed to snag his tail.

    With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent off to the left of the bike, almost running into

     the right curb as I recoiled from the throw. That should have done it. The matter should

     have ended right there.  It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of

     the pristinely kept yards  and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home.

     No one would have been the wiser.

        But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary angry squirrel. This was

     an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH! Somehow he caught my gloved finger with

     one of his little hands and, with the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding

     thump and an amazing impact, he landed squarely on my BACK and resumed his rather

     antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with

     him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and

     now I could not reach him. I was startled, to say the least. The combination of the force of

     the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars,and my jerking back

     unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy

     twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. - Torque.

         This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The engine

     roared and the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie

     screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in well .. I just plain screamed.

     Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly

     squirrel-torn t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, and roaring at maybe 50 mph and

     rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel, with a demonic squirrel

     of death on his back.

          The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder. With the sudden

     acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get

     control of the bike.

         This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into

    somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the       

    throttle...my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little

    effect against the massive power of the big cruiser. About this time the squirrel decided that I was

    not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he was an evil mutant NAZI attack

    squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got INSIDE my full-face helmet with me.

    As the faceplate closed part way, he began hissing in my face. I am quite sure my screaming changed

    intensity. It had little effect on the squirrel, however. The RPMs on the Dragon maxed out (since I

    was not bothering with shifting at the moment), so her front end started to drop.

    Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very raggedly torn

    T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large

     puffy squirrel's tail sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet. By now the screams are    

     probably getting a little hoarse.

        Finally I got the upper hand .. I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and

     slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked .. sort-of.

     Spectacularly sort-of ... so to speak.

         Picture a new scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential

      street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork. Suddenly a large man on a

      huge  black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing

      only  one leather glove, moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder

      roars by, and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.

      I heard screams. They weren't mine... I managed to get the big motorcycle under control and  

      dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a

      cloud  of tire smoke at the stop sign of a busy cross street. I would have returned to 'fess up (and 

      to get my glove back). I really would have.

      Really... Except for two things.

          First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment.

      When I  looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car were flung wide open. The cop

      from  the  passenger side was on his back, doing a crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly

      moving away   from the car. The cop who had been in the driver's seat was standing in the street,

      aiming a  riot  shotgun at his own police car. So, the cops were not interested in me. They often

      insist to "let  the professionals handle it" anyway.

         That was one thing. The other? Well, I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and

      upholstery from the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back window,

      shaking  his little fist at me. That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car. A

      somewhat shredded patrol car but it was all his.

         I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right turn off of Brice Street, and

      sedately left the neighborhood. I decided it was best to just buy myself a new pair of gloves. And a

      whole lot of Band-Aids.

      This article was posted by Jon Witmer on the GWRRA message board.

      Life is to short not to enjoy a few good laughs.