CAN'T WE ALL JUST RIDE ALONG?

Copping a feel for PDX's bike officers.

BY JOHN MOTLEY 243-2122

KILLER BEE: Lourenco buzzes through Old Town.

Earlier today, I met The Killer Bees.

I'd always referred to them as bike cops--bike officers, to their faces--until Officer Mace Winter leaked the nickname. Judging by his partner Officer Stephanie Lourenco's groan, it's not a name they gave themselves. Nor is it simply a reference to their signature black-and-yellow uniforms, angular helmets and orange Oakley sunglasses (which, yes, make them look like bumblebees). It's more likely a name given by petty criminals who have been stung by the Portland Police Department's patrolling bike officers.

Officer Lourenco, a five-year veteran of the Portland Police who has been on the bike squad for the last two, agreed to take me on a ride along. When I met up with her, she'd just returned from teaching a class of 50 Northeast Portland sixth-graders about gang resistance through the GREAT (Gang Resistance Education and Training) program.

Lourenco, Winter and Rachel Stroebel make up Portland's squad of three full-time bike officers. The bike cops patrol the lower westside of the city, usually dealing with petty crimes such as littering and drug use.

Lourenco says the work of the bike squad can be, well, unpredictable. "I was hit by a bike last week," Lourenco says, before Strobel relates a recent story about pursuing a man through the first floor of Nordstrom while on her bike. Before the department-store dash, the man had been swinging a chain at pedestrians in Pioneer Courthouse Square.

As evidenced by the tale of a high-speed retail chase, the officers claim the bikes offer flexibility, which can help them stop crimes in progress or build rapport with the community. "There's a psychological component to removing the physical barrier of the squad car," Lourenco says. "We're more approachable. People talk to us."

As we start to ride, the rain, which has been threatening all morning, begins to pour in earnest. "Rain means all the drug dealers have gone home," she says. "They don't like to get wet, but after a couple days of rain, they'll be back."

I brace myself for the slow day she has predicted as we pedal toward a warehouse dock at Northwest 3rd Avenue and Glisan Street where five transients are sleeping. Lourenco dismounts her Trek and gently toes the nearest blanket-covered lump. The man underneath jolts awake, his arms and legs stiffening suddenly. "You scared me," he says.

Lourenco toes a couple more blankets, and recognizes two of the men. "What are you doing down here?" she asks one. "Last time I saw you, you had an apartment."

As we ride along Waterfront Park and pass under the Burnside Bridge, a series of call-and-response, owl-like hoots ensue. Lourenco explains that it was a signal alerting drug dealers and users that police are in the area, and I realize that every person we pass--whether they are doing something wrong or not--is observing me and the cop. This creeps me out.

We circle bus depots, hit parks throughout her beat, and slowly cruise through parking lots. She instructs me to look for legs sticking out from under parked cars.

"Car prowlers?" I ask.

"No, it's usually just junkies trying to hide while they shoot up."

We stop at an apartment walkup, where a minor is drinking a Bud Light. As Lourenco pours the beer out into the gutter and writes him a ticket, I observe people on the other side of the street taking note of her presence and scattering discreetly.

An hour later, when my ride-along is finished, I complain to Lourenco that I haven't seen any action yet.

"It's probably for the best," she says, "because with your bike skills, I'd be nervous you'd fall and hurt yourself if we had to pursue someone."

I had been determined not to admit that it had been years since I was on a bike, but she's a Killer Bee and picks up on these things.

As I'm about to leave, she asks me where my car is, and I tell her it's about a half-block away. "Do you think you'll make it there OK?" she says with a smirk.

Ooh, that stings.