Two “Chaps” Go to Bike School

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by Lloyd “LJ” Larry, Chaplain
Mount Vernon (OH) Association of Police Chaplains

Sixty miles. Fifty questions. Nineteen drills. Five days. Seven crashes. Those are my measurable stats from bike school. But Jon and I are different than all the other guys and gals in the class – we are chaplains. When we pulled into the parking lot early that Monday morning, we parked next to a family of law enforcement cruisers from all over Ohio. Doubtless there were two other officers within our Buckeye borders who coveted our spots in the class, but the instructors allowed us to join. We took seats in the back row and looked around the room. Everyone everywhere was an LEO, except for us. Although we serve the officers in our city, we didn’t know if they would want us in their class.

It felt a little like the first day of junior high, when everyone else was wearing Nikes and I was wearing Voits. But we hadn’t even made it to lunchtime before the instructors and classmates made us feel wanted – and not in a “we have a warrant for your arrest” kind of way.

While we were eager to be there, there were some who questioned having a bike school at all. Isn’t riding a bike like riding a bike? You never forget how, right? Surely you can’t fill five days with teaching grown men and women how to pedal. Yes, you can.

We filled five days learning how to use the bike as a tactical barrier between us and the bad guys. When and where to dismount to allow us a running start to chase the bad guys. How to maneuver through thousands of people at a fair or festival without our feet touching the ground. How to go up and down stairs on the bike without losing our balance. How to go up and down curbs. And hills. How to make split-second decisions on the bike without losing our lives or limbs. Where to position ourselves as contact and cover officers. And how to hook-slide on the bike to stop the bad guys and – most importantly – wow the fifth graders.

Some of those were drills we had to perform to pass the class. And then there was “the box”. I would rather be in an interrogation box than in this one. Nine feet of clearance surrounded by orange cones that taunted me on all sides. The object is to ride around inside three times clockwise and three times counterclockwise without touching a single, solitary cone and without your feet touching the ground. As each officer took a turn inside the box, I wondered what I was going to do. Honestly, I wondered what I was doing there. Surely, they taught maneuvers like this at OPOTA (Ohio Peace Officers Training Academy). I was already playing catch-up, and it was just the first day.

When it was my turn, I pedaled my 6’1” frame into the box and started turning. I took out my first cone on my first turn. This was going to be a long week. I didn’t know what to expect from my group. Would they cheer me? Jeer me? Tell me to go home to my Bible study and let the real cops do the work? I clearly didn’t belong there. I didn’t have a duty belt or a gun; just a badge and a blue ballistic vest that reads “CHAPLAIN” in bold, white letters. There was no fitting in. I clearly stood out. After I left a few dead cones in my wake, the instructor looked at my bike and said, “Oh, I see. You’ve got 29” wheels. That’s going to make it harder for you.” Joy.

But the officers in my small group cheered me on. The other six guys and gal treated me like one of them. They didn’t see me as an interloper; they saw me as a friend. I still didn’t belong in the box, but thanks to them, I did belong in the class. When I went home that night, I wondered if I would even pass the class since I couldn’t ride the box. But when we were finally tested, I passed.

The rest of the week, they called me “Chap,” “Chappie,” and “El Chapitan.” Some even affectionately called me by my legal name, “Lloyd.” My chaplain colleague, Jon, crushed one of the more difficult obstacle courses. Officers playfully lobbied to get him a gun since he was training as well as they were. We ran with them. Rode with them. The instructor even allowed us to play orange gun drills with them.

My chaplaincy training warned me that law enforcement officers are guarded and hard to get to know, but I found out after five days in May at an IPMBA class, the twenty-nine officers and deputies in my class are more than just cops on bikes. They care for their cities and counties. They care for their families. They care for each other. They even care for chaplains.

Photos by Travis Reis.

LJ serves as pastor of Apostolic Church in Mount Vernon, Ohio. In April 2018, he and a team launched the Mount Vernon Association of Police Chaplains, serving first responders in Knox County.

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