Bad boys, whatcha gonna do?

I rode in the 100-mile Defeat of Jesse James Days Bike Tour last Saturday, just one day after I realized how much I have in common with the famous outlaw. For months, it seems, I have been living the life of a criminal.
OK, so my crime isn't anything as glamorous as robbing banks in the Old West. Or insider trading. Or even serial jaywalking. Nobody sent a posse after me and I didn't even get thrown in the hoosegow when I got caught.
Although the State Trooper who pulled me over did give me a ticket and refuse to let me drive my car.
Here's the thing. Apparently I was wearing my glasses the last time I got my driver's license renewed. As a result, I had a restriction on the license that required me to wear corrective lenses whenever I was driving. Only, nobody ever told me that, and I never bothered to read the back of my license, where the restriction was printed. My particular prescription has always been pretty weak, so when I lost my glasses a few months ago, I didn't bother to do anything about it.
That’s right. I was living outside the law. Sticking it to The Man. Next thing you knew I’d be cutting off mattress tags.
For a while, nobody even noticed. I lived my lawless existence and reveled in the danger of it all. I didn't hit any old ladies in crosswalks or drive through any shopping malls. None of which swayed the trooper when he pulled me over last Friday south of St. Peter.
"You have a restriction on your driver's license," he told me, the sunlight glinting cruelly off of his own pair of lenses. He knew he was bringing down a hardened criminal. "That's a problem. I can't let you drive."
"I have a what?" I said, hoping to throw him off with the fallback of most hardened criminals: genuine ignorance. "Nobody ever told me that."
"It says it right here on the back of your license. Can you see that."
I could see it, a fact I thought should have strengthened my case. But apparently being able to read the fine print on the back of a driver's license was not adequate proof of my ability to drive safely.
I considered claiming I was wearing contacts (What’s a little lie to police to serial lawbreaker?) but it occurred to me if I was going to start lying to police officers I should not do it with a claim that could be so easily disproved.
The trooper asked if there was anyone I could call to bring me glasses or to drive my car. I pointed out, as politely as possible, that I live in St. Paul and was currently sitting somewhere just north of Mankato. I know very few people who like me enough to drive that far and the few I do were all at work, it being 9:30 on a Friday morning.
I neglected to mention that I no longer actually own a pair of corrective lenses. We outlaws don't like to give cops any information we don't have to.
The trooper eventually left me by the side of the road but not before warning me that if he caught me driving he'd tow my car and throw me in jail.
In the end, I called one of my co-wokers, Michelle Leonard, and made her leave the same training session I was late for when I got pulled over. She brought me to the training, then chauffeured me to a license center, where I took the eye exam -- without my glasses this time -- and got the restriction removed.
I felt a little bad about caving in so quickly. Who is The Man to tell me what I have to have on my face when I drive? Why shouldn’t I continue the Bad Boy life I had unwittingly been living for most of a year?
In the end, though, I pushed myself away from the Dark Side’s temptations. I figure it’s the wiser course of action. It’s not in my nature to scoff so openly at the laws of society. It’s just not who I am.
Besides, being an outlaw is hard.