Let me say up front that LEO, as a group, defines what is best about this nation. I would rather serve with the Marines (and did) than with the lowliest sheriff's department in the smallest podunk backwoods county in the contiguous 48. The Marines enter combat zones as the exception to their daily life (although with mind-numbing regularity in the last couple of years). Cops live in the combat zone. I don't want to do that. I don't have what it takes.

I don't even want to direct traffic. But Saturday, thirty bikers carved a two-hour charity run out of the middle of Mississippi, LEO providing intersection control in every town on the route, but with varying effectiveness. The ride captain made sure nobody was endangered, but the results obtained by the men in blue ranged from aggravating to...well, there just isn't a word for what I saw in Philadelphia, Mississippi. Although that's where the ride originated, let's skip ahead to the first stop - Carthage.

One stop light defines the intersection of highways 16 and 35. One cop stood vigil at that point, successfully halting all vehicles by himself. Two full lanes of cars heading north, two more heading south, two crossing west-to-east, a turn lane here and there, gas stations on every corner, and half of the drivers either anxious to get lunch or sleepy from having just eaten. No matter which way this cop faced, his back was always turned to at least four lanes of bad drivers. When he saw us coming, he snapped to attention, seized control of the intersection, and waved us through authoritatively.

Only, we didn't go through. We turned right before getting to him and headed up highway 35. A block later, we stopped at a gas station and paused for ethanol-free fuel and YooHoo Chocolate Flavored Drinks (the national beverage of Mississippi). Fifteen minutes later we fired up our engines, but the Carthage PD hadn't been alerted to our need for assistance (what we had here was "failyuh to commun'cate"). So we posted the most authoritative individuals to block traffic and peeled out toward our next stop half an hour away - Louisville. (Note: "most authoritative" means they had on white shirts and volunteered. Not me. I would've waited for the cops and had another YooHoo.)

In Louisville, we stopped at the Shell station perched high above highway 25 on West Main Street. The hilly driveway is a challenge that forces tired bikers to suddenly wake up. We paused again for refreshment and recuperation. I know what you're thinking...YooHoo Chocolate Flavored Drink. Don't be absurd. Twice in one day? Besides, it was getting on towards noon, so I opted for a package of Hubba Bubba.

Departing Louisville was an event unto itself. We had to travel downhill on West Main, competing with traffic exiting a busy McDonald's just upstream of us. One cop was trying unsuccessfully to get drivers to quit sneaking fries out of their paper bags and pay attention, but cars kept leaving McDonald's and edging past him. He finally got mad and parked his patrol car sideways in the restaurant parking lot.

For a split second, we had an opening. Our group pulled in behind a couple of SUVs and rolled slowly downhill toward the traffic light on highway 25. All that stood between us and six lanes of psychotic drivers was a cop. One cop.

He held up his arms and brought cars to a halt in both directions on highway 25. Then he turned and faced us, stopping all downhill traffic on West Main. Uphill traffic, however, just scooted on by. He turned and angrily gestured them to halt. The southbound lanes on 25 mistook his about face as permission to go through the red light. The cop spun around and used much more forceful hand gestures to regain control of the southbound lanes of highway 25, but then the northbound traffic started flowing again.

He finally succeeding in stopping all six lanes and turned his attention to our thundering group of idling bikes and the two SUVs blocking our way. He pointed his index finger at the lead SUV and made a side-to-side waving motion to get the car to pull over and let us by. The driver interpreted it to mean "Go around me", and he complied, barely squeezing between the cop and his patrol car. The second SUV saw the mistake that the first driver had made and steered around the cop to the other side. Nobody understood his subsequent gestures, but cars everywhere stopped. Everywhere. Even in Italy.

Our bikes made it through without too much more excitement. In my rear view mirror I could have sworn I saw the cop unsnap his holster.

Fifteen minutes later, our group passed the final landmark, a little village known as Noxapater (which is Latin for "my father is hitting me"). That day was the annual Noxapater Car and Bike show. The town cop was expecting us and had stopped all traffic at the city's only red light. All traffic, including the two cars in front of us, which refused to obey his commands to go on through because they wanted to turn left. It wasn't the cop's fault, and to his credit he did manage to convince both cars to just get out of the way.

The road open at last, we spent the final fifteen miles following a Toyota that wouldn't go any faster than 45 on a road that didn't lend itself to passing. We arrived back in Philadelphia half an hour late but still in time to eat lunch and reflect on the adjectives that might appropriately define the Philadelphia (Mississippi) police department's escort and traffic control for our little group.

By far and away, this small cadre of law enforcement professionals have consistently been responsive, dependable, and effective to a degree that belies the rural nature of their city. There is no single adjective that can do these cops justice. I've ridden in small groups and large groups in that city...funerals, 9/11 celebrations, and charity events. I can tell you that nothing makes me feel safer than to know that the Philadelphia PD has my back. Kudos.