I rarely ride out to Melbourne's northern suburbs, but a work appointment took me out on the ring road to Greensborough today. Heading home along the Greensborough bypass, Her Majesty's finest were pulling cars over and, like flies to the proverbial, they encouraged my participation with overwhelming enthusiasm. Licence check. For some obscure reason, Vicroads issued me with two identical licences. Normally I keep one in the car but I accidentally pulled them both out and handed the first one over. Ooops. The defender of the peace looks at my bike and asks "What year is it?" Maybe this is a trick question...the temptation was to answer "2005" but I resisted. "1978". Hmmm, he says. A bloke wearing a vest marked "Sheriff" takes my licence and heads for the radio - they're doing outstanding warrant/unpaid fine checks. The Sheriff's high-vis vest is a delightful emerald green - Wyatt Earp just got in touch with his feminine side. After circumnavigating my bike twice, he asks "Have you got a registration sticker"..."yeah - down on the front fork" (which is shorthand for "yes, Officer, in accordance with Reg223(4)(c)(i) of the Road Safety (Vehicles) Regulations 1999, which states "A registration label must be affixed—in the case of a motor cycle—in a suitable holder to the left side of the motor cycle so that the front of the label faces outwards from the motor cycle") but I suspect that he already knows the regulations so I don't labour the point. The car in front is getting an on-the-spot roadworthy - a big bloke has walked around and pointed out odd tyre treads. No-one is making notes, so maybe they're just issuing warnings. My personal boy-in-blue is now standing behind the bike, I can't see him. Why not? Because I don't have mirrors. That watery feeling begins in my bowels because my bike is kinda loudish and I can't see what he's doing. Making notes? He comes back into my field of vision - "A 500, is it?"..."Yea - 500 single"..."You need to get a mirror". Moment of truth - do I lighten the mood with a witty jape, like "Damn, it was there a second ago!!!" or "Why, is my mascara running?" Maybe not. "blah blah, Yamaha, left hand thread, stripped thread, on my to-do list, helicoil ...whatever" By now I'm starting to hyperventilate. The perfect time to treat me to a breathalyzer test. I'm a wheezy unfit bastard at the best of times and they've picked today to mow the grass beside the bypass. So the asthmatic emphysemic hayfever gimp does his best to make the little light glow...success. No alcohol. Or oxygen. Over the police radio (speakers courtesy of Spinal Tap and set to 11) I hear "blah blah blah...watch him, he has priors for resisting, over 05 and assault". I'm reasonably confident that this isn't me, but, hell, these are the kind of identity mistakes that get taxpaying citizens deported. Every mirror-shaded eye is trained on the car with the odd tyres and no-one within half a mile is in any doubt as to his police record. So Tenez Le Droit hands me back the licence, takes another close look at my exhaust and says "move on". To be honest, the bloke was pretty good and he must have known something about bikes because mine doesn't look anything like a stock SR500. But my opinion will change PDQ if I get a letter in the post inviting me to pop into the EPA.