Then I heard the Toad's voice on my radio. "Rick, I think you're in a wobble."

No kidding, I thought. Was your first clue the fact that I'm violently weaving side-to-side, using all four lanes?

The Toad's instructions crackled over the radio: "The best way out of a wobble is to very, very slowly decelerate." Then I heard him calling our dispatch center. "Los Angeles, this is 77-110 Mary (his radio call sign). 111 Mary (my radio call sign) is in a high-speed wobble. Start an ambulance, code 3, to southbound Harbor Freeway at the I-405."

Desperately, I tried Toad's advice. It worked. As I pulled to a stop on the shoulder of the freeway to let the overdose of adrenaline clear from my system, I thought, That old Toad just saved my life. A moment later, Wilbur was beside me.

"That was great," he grinned. "I've never seen a high-speed wobble before. Amazing."

"Then how did you know what to tell me to do?"

He grinned, punched me in the shoulder, and roared back onto the freeway. "Just a wild guess," he radioed back.

I successfully completed my thirty days of training. But about a year later, I had another brush with death.

I was working alone, patroling the San Diego Freeway near Los Angeles International Airport. I noticed a man in a pickup driving at warp factor two. I knew he couldn't see me; I was in his blind spot.

Keeping out of his sights, I paced him at a speed in excess of 75 m.p.h. As I sped up alongside him, the driver looked over?giving me an unforgettable "Three Stooges" triple-take. His eyes bugged out like a stomped frog. He immediately decreased his speed to about 45 m.p.h.

It was his lucky day: I hadn't paced him long enough to justify ticketing him. But I'd been successful in slowing him down.

I was still clipping along at 75 m.p.h., though, when I spotted what appeared to be a disabled vehicle on the shoulder ahead of me. I decided to find out what I could do.

Still running at my high speed, I started to pull to the right shoulder. Within seconds, it became apparent that I had misjudged the distance between me and the disabled vehicle.

Try to imagine what happens when a motorcycle is aggressively braked while its operator is rapidly down-shifting, standing on the rear brake and applying as much front brake as possible without making the front wheel skid. The laws of physics naturally come into play. All of the machine's weight is thrown forward, causing the front forks to compress, dropping the entire frame closer to the ground. My front forks were fully compressed as I hit the curb.

Instantly, I went from a vertical riding position to a horizontal sliding position on the pavement. I was careening, left side down, toward the vehicle I had intended to assist. The initial impact slammed my left hip to the pavement and destroyed the left side of my blue and gold helmet.

I mentally composed a letter to my commander explaining why I had hurt myself, destroyed my helmet, and wrecked his motorcycle. I slid nearly 100 feet into the rear end of the small Toyota. As I was sliding, I felt no pain and suffered no open wounds.

Completely out of control, my motorcycle (with me still on it) slid underneath the Toyota, propelling it into the air. That Toyota came down right on top of my foot, trapping it between the car and my safety bar. I was pinned under the car, in a lot of pain, and embarrassed by my mistake.

I screamed at the driver, "Drive it off of me!" The panicked woman jumped into her car and turned the key. I inhaled a puff of smoky exhaust, then saw two rear lights flash white. It was too late to explain that I meant for her to drive forward.

Amazingly, both wheels of the car just spun. My right foot was suspending the vehicle's rear tires just off the ground. The car was going nowhere. I reached for my radio, pressed the mike key, and screamed for help. After several moments, six or seven officers arrived. They picked up the back of the car and pulled me clear.

At the hospital I was diagnosed with numerous broken bones in my right foot, and a dislocated little toe. I was treated and sent home with a cast almost up to my knee.

The second Sunday after my accident I went back to my church, First Baptist of Torrance, on crutches. The first person to greet me?Bob Charness?told me how sorry he was about my accident. Then Bob mentioned he had been praying for me on that very day.

"What compelled you to pray?" I asked.

"I was listening to the radio on my way to work," he said. "It was seven in the morning, because the news had just come on. I felt led to pray for all the Christian cops that I know. You're the only one I know, so I prayed for you."

For several days I thought about Bob's words. I called my dispatch center and asked them to check the records on the day of my crash.

I wanted one question answered?what time had I reported I "was down?" After checking the records, the supervisor told me I had called in at 7:05 a.m. Well, I thought, my friend prays at 7:00, and I crash at 7:05. If that's an answer to prayer, I'd appreciate no further prayers on my behalf.

But there was more to this story. Before getting on the freeway that morning I had filled my Harley with seven-and-a-half gallons of fuel. Fuel systems on our Harleys were vented, so when I slid into that car, fuel began to pour out of the fuel tanks, soaking my left thigh and spilling onto the pavement. I was lying in a pool of gasoline.

I had been taught to never use my radio when fueling or even near uncontained fuel, because the radio emits enough electrical energy to ignite gasoline vapors. When I slid under that woman's car, the sparks flying from the metal hitting pavement or my call for help should have ignited the fuel. An orange fireball should have enveloped me and possibly others. By all logic, 7:05 should have been my last minute on earth.

So why wasn't there an explosion? I believe it was because at 7 a.m., a Christian man prayed to a powerful God who still works miracles.

After 25 years and several more injuries, Richard McGinty left the police force on disability in 1992. He graduated from Western Baptist College (Salem, Oregon) and since 1994 has been pastor at First Baptist Church of Tenino, Washington.