No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP by Ian Parsons Page A
Authors: Ian Parsons
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be described as bittersweet. Since the detachment was located in a national park, members were required to wear red serge while on duty. The detachment commander was Corporal Wallace Warren, a fearsome-looking man sporting a large handlebar mustache. A Second World War veteran, he proudly displayed two rows of campaign medals on his left breast. When I reported for duty, he projected a distinct aura of authority and even intimidation. As I stood at attention, he rattled off his expectations, informing me I was to appear before him after lunch in red serge.
After lunch, I presented myself as ordered. Inspecting me thoroughly, the corporal expressed his concern about sending me downtown in red serge. His worry was due to my height, and he told me to keep moving because the dogs might mistake me for a fire hydrant and piss on my shiny high brown boots. He then instructed me to remove my spurs and don a set of green coveralls. After complying, with some puzzlement, I was told that as junior man my first duty of the day was to go to the liquor store and purchase a case of beer, the coveralls being my disguise. That errand set the tone and routine for the rest of the summer. This paragon of authority turned out to be a paper tiger driven by a great thirst. Routinely, the day-shift members and the odd local civilian could be found ensconced in a barrack room drinking beer. I felt a sense of impending disaster permeating the work environment.
One afternoon, with the detachment entrance unlocked and no one tending the counter, the day-shift members gathered in a small room for a beer. There was a timid rap on the door leading to our retreat. Corporal Warren commanded, “Enter!” Standing at the opened door was Superintendent Little, the officer commanding the subdivision. While we all froze in terror, Little’s response was apologetic. He explained he had driven out from the city for the day. An avid golfer, he requested the free RCMP golf passes issued to the detachment by a famed local golf resort. Corporal Warren, breathing a sigh of relief, immediately obliged him, and Superintendent Little departed without a word of concern. Had the superintendent exercised his responsibilities as a manager and taken us to task, perhaps what happened later could have been averted and Corporal Warren’s career saved.
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HARLEY HEAVEN
As I face my 70th year, the sting of embarrassment has faded to the extent that I can now share this incident. Part of the Mountain View detachment fleet was a Harley Davidson police motorcycle. Because there were no members authorized to operate the bike, it languished unused in the detachment garage. I had long been a closet motorcyclist and wished mightily that I might one day even command my own police bike.
One glorious summer afternoon, I noted that the downtown area seemed awash with attractive damsels, as was frequently the case. The detachment commander had left me to my own devices. It occurred to me that one quick patrol astride a police motorcycle in red serge would give me a high profile that might lead to an innocent dalliance. In addition, it would elevate the general traffic-enforcement identity of the detachment. As I entered the detachment garage, the splendour and majesty of the police motorcycle was undeniable. The key had been hanging very vulnerably in the corporal’s office. I turned it in the ignition and the Harley thundered to life. I quickly shut it off, cowed somewhat by the power of the beast.
As I returned to the detachment with the key, the vision of myself upon the Harley returned. The dark side won, and I returned to the garage, climbed onto the cycle and turned the key. As it rumbled, I wrestled with the clutch and shift lever, feeling more comfortable all the time. Opening the garage doors, I slowly and carefully teetered out onto the street. As I approached 10 miles per hour, I gained more and more confidence. The bike seemed to stabilize as I approached 15 miles per
After lunch, I presented myself as ordered. Inspecting me thoroughly, the corporal expressed his concern about sending me downtown in red serge. His worry was due to my height, and he told me to keep moving because the dogs might mistake me for a fire hydrant and piss on my shiny high brown boots. He then instructed me to remove my spurs and don a set of green coveralls. After complying, with some puzzlement, I was told that as junior man my first duty of the day was to go to the liquor store and purchase a case of beer, the coveralls being my disguise. That errand set the tone and routine for the rest of the summer. This paragon of authority turned out to be a paper tiger driven by a great thirst. Routinely, the day-shift members and the odd local civilian could be found ensconced in a barrack room drinking beer. I felt a sense of impending disaster permeating the work environment.
One afternoon, with the detachment entrance unlocked and no one tending the counter, the day-shift members gathered in a small room for a beer. There was a timid rap on the door leading to our retreat. Corporal Warren commanded, “Enter!” Standing at the opened door was Superintendent Little, the officer commanding the subdivision. While we all froze in terror, Little’s response was apologetic. He explained he had driven out from the city for the day. An avid golfer, he requested the free RCMP golf passes issued to the detachment by a famed local golf resort. Corporal Warren, breathing a sigh of relief, immediately obliged him, and Superintendent Little departed without a word of concern. Had the superintendent exercised his responsibilities as a manager and taken us to task, perhaps what happened later could have been averted and Corporal Warren’s career saved.
----
HARLEY HEAVEN
As I face my 70th year, the sting of embarrassment has faded to the extent that I can now share this incident. Part of the Mountain View detachment fleet was a Harley Davidson police motorcycle. Because there were no members authorized to operate the bike, it languished unused in the detachment garage. I had long been a closet motorcyclist and wished mightily that I might one day even command my own police bike.
One glorious summer afternoon, I noted that the downtown area seemed awash with attractive damsels, as was frequently the case. The detachment commander had left me to my own devices. It occurred to me that one quick patrol astride a police motorcycle in red serge would give me a high profile that might lead to an innocent dalliance. In addition, it would elevate the general traffic-enforcement identity of the detachment. As I entered the detachment garage, the splendour and majesty of the police motorcycle was undeniable. The key had been hanging very vulnerably in the corporal’s office. I turned it in the ignition and the Harley thundered to life. I quickly shut it off, cowed somewhat by the power of the beast.
As I returned to the detachment with the key, the vision of myself upon the Harley returned. The dark side won, and I returned to the garage, climbed onto the cycle and turned the key. As it rumbled, I wrestled with the clutch and shift lever, feeling more comfortable all the time. Opening the garage doors, I slowly and carefully teetered out onto the street. As I approached 10 miles per hour, I gained more and more confidence. The bike seemed to stabilize as I approached 15 miles per
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