Gerald Benson v. SERVICE OKLAHOMA

Let’s cut right to the chase: a man is suing the entire state of Oklahoma over a 70s-era mini motorcycle that looks like it belongs in a backyard obstacle course, not a courtroom. We’re not talking about a rare Ferrari or a mint-condition Harley-Davidson here — we’re talking about a 1970 Honda CT70 Mini Trail, the two-wheeled equivalent of a go-kart with delusions of grandeur. And yet, here we are, in Alfalfa County — yes, Alfalfa County — where one Gerald Benson is locked in a legal showdown with SERVICE OKLAHOMA, which sounds less like a government agency and more like a roadside tire shop with a grudge. This isn’t just a lawsuit. It’s a full-throttle descent into bureaucratic absurdity, fueled by paperwork, nostalgia, and the kind of stubbornness that only comes from a man who really wants to ride a motorcycle that barely clears 30 mph.

So who is Gerald Benson? A quiet retiree from Alva, Oklahoma, population roughly “you can’t get a decent espresso.” He’s not a celebrity, not a politician, not even someone with a viral TikTok account (yet). He’s just a guy who, like many of us in middle age, probably looked at his life one Tuesday and said, “You know what this needs? A vintage mini bike.” And fair! The 1970 Honda CT70 is a charming little relic — a “dirt bike” that wouldn’t scare a squirrel, with a fuel tank the size of a toaster oven and a top speed that’s basically “faster than mowing the lawn.” It’s the kind of vehicle you buy because it makes you feel like a kid again, not because you’re trying to outrun the law. Benson got his through a Bill of Sale from one Jim Schribner — no last-known address, no middle initial, just a name on a piece of paper and a handshake deal, probably in a driveway somewhere with a cooler of lukewarm soda nearby. But here’s the hitch: no title. And in the wild world of motor vehicle bureaucracy, no title means no proof, which means the state doesn’t believe you own it, which means you can’t legally ride it, register it, or even park it in your own garage without the ghost of DMV regulations whispering, “You don’t really own that.”

So Benson, being a man of action (or at least a man with internet access and a printer), did what any self-respecting Oklahoman would do: he filed a petition with the Alfalfa County District Court to get a lost title — basically, a court order saying, “Yes, Gerald, we believe you. That tiny motorcycle is yours.” But here’s where it gets gloriously petty: he didn’t just file against a person or a dealership. No, he sued SERVICE OKLAHOMA, which, based on the mailing address and the vibes, is likely a division of the Oklahoma Department of Public Safety or the DMV’s bureaucratic cousin who handles vehicle titles. In other words, Benson isn’t suing a person who lost his paperwork — he’s suing the entire machinery of state government because it won’t cut him a new title for a motorcycle that, in today’s market, might be worth between $1,500 and $3,000 if it runs and has all its original decals. That’s right — this is a legal battle between a man and the state, over a vehicle that wouldn’t make it across Texas on a single tank of gas.

Now, let’s talk about what actually happened — or rather, what didn’t happen. According to the filing, Benson tried to get a title. He probably went to the tag agency, filled out forms in triplicate, showed the Bill of Sale, maybe even brought photos of the bike looking cute in the sunset. And then? Silence. Or worse: a clerk saying, “Sorry, sir, we can’t issue a title without proof of prior ownership, and Jim Schribner isn’t in our system.” So instead of giving up and using the CT70 as a planter for petunias, Benson doubled down. He didn’t appeal. He didn’t write a strongly worded letter. He filed a lawsuit. In court. With a notarized affidavit. He’s demanding the state recognize his ownership — not damages, not money, not a new bike, just a piece of paper that says he owns a 54-year-old mini trail bike. The legal term for this is likely a “quiet title action,” which sounds like a meditation retreat but is actually a court process to clear up ownership disputes. But here’s the kicker: the filing doesn’t ask for money. It doesn’t demand punitive damages. It doesn’t even request a jury trial. It just says, “Give me my title.” Which makes this less of a lawsuit and more of a paperwork tantrum with constitutional backing.

And what does Benson want? Not cash. Not vengeance. Just recognition. A state-issued acknowledgment that yes, Gerald Benson owns VIN CT70-153707. Is that reasonable? Sure. Is it necessary to drag the state of Oklahoma into small claims court over it? Debatable. The total demand? Unknown. But here’s the thing: even if this case costs the state $10,000 in administrative time — clerks photocopying, lawyers skimming filings, court staff scheduling hearings — it’s still wildly disproportionate to the stakes. We’re talking about a vehicle that, at best, could be resold for enough to cover a down payment on a used lawnmower. And yet, the machinery of justice in Alfalfa County is being set in motion — summonses issued, court dates scheduled, the full weight of the legal system brought to bear on a dispute that could’ve been resolved with a stamped form and a stamp pad.

So what’s our take? Look, we’re all for standing up to bureaucracy. We’ve all been to the DMV and wanted to scream into the void. But suing the state over a Honda mini trail? That’s not civil disobedience. That’s civil absurdity. The most ridiculous part isn’t that Benson wants a title — it’s that he thinks a court order is the fastest way to get one. Did he consider, maybe, calling a different office? Filing a different form? Appealing through administrative channels? Did he Google “how to get a lost title in Oklahoma” and just skip to the “sue the government” option? And let’s be real — SERVICE OKLAHOMA isn’t some evil empire. It’s probably an underfunded, overworked state agency that deals with actual fraud, stolen vehicles, and people trying to register tractors as sports cars. And now they have to respond to a legal action about a motorcycle that, let’s be honest, probably hasn’t seen dirt since the Nixon administration.

But also… kind of respect it? There’s a weird nobility in refusing to back down, even when the odds are a state agency versus a man and his tiny motorcycle. You can almost picture Benson in his garage, wiping down the CT70 with a soft cloth, muttering, “They’ll never take your title, little buddy.” And maybe that’s the heart of this whole thing — not ownership, but love*. This isn’t just a bike. It’s a memory. A project. A symbol of freedom that happens to have a 70cc engine. And if the price of that freedom is a court date in Cherokee, Oklahoma, then so be it.

We’re not lawyers. We’re entertainers. But if we were on the jury, we’d say: Gerald, take the win. Ride your mini trail. Let the wind whip through your hair at a blistering 28 mph. And next time? Maybe just frame the Bill of Sale and hang it on the wall. It’ll save you a lot of paperwork.