RIDING THE BLUE LINE

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Acknowledgments

About the Author

RIDING THE BLUE LINE

Scott Christopher

Copyright © 2024 Scott Christopher

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2024

ISBN 979-8-89427-175-0 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-89427-176-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

For Charri and Kayli, the light in the dark and the reason the world will always be a special place.

And for Steve, thank you for showing me the adventure of finding the world and a better part of myself on two wheels and always being my friend.

Prologue

Fuck me! I could see the dark clouds rolling in ahead of us. We had been riding most of the morning and afternoon and had crossed into Idaho with no problems and had continued into Montana. As soon as we crossed the state line, I could see the shit waiting for us to the north. This was a typical situation we always found ourselves in, especially if I was along for the trip. I attracted bad weather on most bike trips. If you want water in the desert, put me on a bike and let me ride across.

This was the twelfth year me and Steve had been riding together, and the rides always were an adventure. Between weather, the occasional breakdown, and the search for the best watering hole we could find, it was better than two kids at a carnival. Steve would be one of the best friends I ever had. A brother, mentor, and a second father. Besides my dad, Steve had the greatest influence of any man in my life. Steve had just retired a couple of years earlier, but I still had a few more to go in my current career.

This was always a form of personal therapy for me to get on the bike and ride to help forget some of the day-to-day shit I dealt with at work. I was still working in law enforcement, and the ups and downs always continued to happen. Drinking heavily, a random piece of ass, or coping in other ways was not something I did when the stress piled up. I didn't realize how bad things could get at work in the years to come. My bike would always be my escape from stress and aggravation. How Steve made it to retirement from his department was a great motivator for me.

Steve and I were the last two standing of a group of people we were riding with starting around 2004. Steve, Alex, Leslie, Bill, Jeff, Mark, Diane, and some others were always there. But slowly, over the years, life and other influences kept making the group smaller and smaller until it was just me and Steve. We had gotten to know each other to the point we knew what to expect, and we didn't get on each other's nerves or piss each other off on the road.

Our rides always were a mixture of fun, craziness, and just plain luck that we found some of the best roads in the US. It was the summer of 2016, and this ride was going to take us into Canada, my first time out of the country on my bike. Little did I know how bad the weather would be for the next three days as we continued into the Great White North. Steve was always more matter-of-fact when it came to weather or breakdowns. Oh well!

One of his favorite sayings about any problems that could pop up, I would always hear it continually over the years. Nothing ever seemed to worry him about being on the road, in any situation, and it made me a better rider for it. But I never always followed suit when it came to life lessons, and Steve would always shake his head at me. He also believed the road was the best teacher you could have when it came to riding on long trips.

The clouds kept getting closer as we cruised at our usual 82 mph north on Interstate 15. We were about thirty miles south of Dillon, Montana, and the first small raindrops began to fall. I could tell by the darkness ahead that they would be getting bigger and harder. I was in the lead, even though this was a ride Steve planned months earlier. Usually, the ride planner was up front. This was a new trend when we hit the road, me out front. I think Steve liked to watch me and how the years had improved my riding abilities—not that's that saying a lot. I have always been average on the bike. Steve was a consummate pro on a motorcycle and even rode with the police motor squad for years.

The rain started to get heavier, and I pulled off at a small parking area for semis just off the interstate. We started digging into our saddlebags to get our rain gear out. I moved things around, tools, leather jacket, wash kit, and finally my rain pouch. Rain jacket, check. Let's get that shit on. I reached in a second time; no rain pants. The fuck. I kept digging, nothing. I pulled the rest of the stuff out of the saddlebag. No pants.

Steve was already geared up and getting on his bike. He looked over and asked what was up. I gave a stupid shit-assed grin and said, I don't have my rain pants.

Steve just smiled and shook his head. He said, I always keep my rain gear in both of my bikes all the time.

No shit. This was true. Steve had two Harleys, and so did I, but Steve had double everything for both his rides. Steve was riding his 2010 Electra Glide Standard on this trip. His beautiful 2003 Softail Standard was sitting at home in the garage. On this trip, I had my newest Touring bike, bought about three years earlier. My pride and joy was my 1998 Fatboy at home, a motorcycle I still have and will never give up. I was riding my 2012 Electra Glide Ultra Limited on this trip.

So I had two bikes, but one rain suit. I must have not put the pants back in the pouch the last time I pulled them out when I had them on a ride with the Fatboy. I had my chaps with me and figured they would have to do until I got to a store that would have a rain suit.

This was not the first time I had been with Steve looking for any type of hardware or a sporting goods store in the middle of nowhere for shit I forgot to bring or lost.

I slid into the chaps and prayed they didn't get totally soaked. Steve and I decided to get to Dillon and look for a store. We needed to gas up there anyway. Butte was our first overnight stop on this trip and one of the longer mileage legs on this adventure, with 528 miles from my place to the city limits of the home of Evel Knievel. We knew we would need gas before Butte from our last gas stop in Idaho.

We got back on the interstate and blazed north. Lucky for me, the sky did not give up the goods, and the rain was light.

We exited at Dillon, and I was able to find a Shopko. I ran in and went to the sporting goods section and found two rain suits, one for camping and one for emergencies, a pocket size. Well, pocket size wasn't going to work, so the camping one it is. Maybe the nice olive drab color would look sexy on the bike.

I paid the clerk as she looked at me in my biker gear, and I could tell she was thinking that suit wasn't going to work. Maybe it was He's a dumbass, who knows?

We rode next door to the gas and sip, filled up, and I put on my new pants. They were thin as hell, but maybe they would hold up.

Out onto the interstate and north to Butte. The rain for some reason was still holding back, but it was getting dark as hell. Slowly I got back up to highway speed and settled in. So far so good. After about fifteen miles in, I was listening to music and happy the rain was not heavy when Steve came up to the side of me and pointed. I looked down. Typical. The pants were shredding and looked like something out of a seventies disco nightmare. All I needed to do was to pull over, play some disco, and the shredded tassels would make me look like I was headed to Studio 54. I could hear Olivia Newton-John singing Xanadu in my head. The pants looked like a costume she wore in the movie.

Well, nothing could be done about it at this point, so I pointed to the north to continue on.

We made the change from I-15 to I-90 East and were about five miles out, and the skies finally gave way. It came down hard. We exited and headed to the hotel and pulled under the entry. Damn, what a shit show. Steve just laughed and reminded me again about keeping gear in the bike all the time.

Into the hotel, checked in, and up to the room for a quick libation. Out came the plastic Gatorade bottle from Steve's pack, but it didn't have electrolytes in it—whiskey as usual, Jack Daniel's to be specific. A quick look on my phone showed a sporting goods store three miles away.

We went back out, and the rain had stopped, but it was threatening another downpour. I headed to the store, and to my luck, they had a broad selection of rain gear, in separates even. I picked out a new set of rain pants, one size bigger than I wear, because I always wanted a pair that would go over my chaps for the extra layer. Pay the man good, sir, my conscience told me. These did the trick for that trip and years to come.

Those pants were the best purchase of the trip and stayed on for the next four days. The rain only let up for short periods in Canada, and we didn't see the sun until we crossed the border back into the US.

Steve's riding never wavered during that trip, and I was always amazed at his ability to ride in any conditions. Even with Steve's twenty-seven years seniority over me, he never rode to his age and could ride the youngest into the ground. His stamina alone is what made us the last two standing after riding with larger groups over the years. This was a common theme in our adventures, and I always had a great ride no matter the conditions because of Steve's outlook and matter-of-fact attitude.

Steve was one of the people in my life who would make an impact, even after his death, and his presence is with me to this day. As I remember the rides we had, it would remind me time and time again why we planned longer trips anytime we could. I can hear it over and over in my head another one of Steve's favorite sayings: Screw it, let's ride!

Part I

Chapter 1

Late 2001 was the year I really started to get the itch to buy a motorcycle. When 9/11 happened that year, most of us know where we were at and what we were doing. I was at a training course to be certified as a state instructor in Emergency Vehicle Operations and Pursuit Driving. The second morning of the class, I remember one of the instructors coming in and telling us about the attacks. Most of us were in disbelief. Later that day during the lunch break, I went to a local Walmart to the electronics section to watch the TVs in the department for the news. I could not believe what I was seeing. The EVO course where the training was located was on the flight path for Salt Lake International Airport. While we were out driving all day, planes were taking off and landing. After the attacks, when planes were grounded, none came over. It was surreal, to say the least.

Going into 2001, I was in the second year of my first investigative assignment, and I had just gotten out of a bad relationship a few months earlier and was still dealing with the fallout. The woman I broke up with went off the rails and was trying to make my life a living hell. To this day, she is one of the few people who truly scared me. Here I was, an armed police officer, and sometimes afraid to go home. That story could fill hours of conversation on making better decisions in a person's life.

To go along with the breakup, I had just come out of a tough situation with a fellow detective who had done some questionable shit in an investigation, and I was put in a position to be the one to report it. Shitty place to be. So I was looking for something to bring fun and relaxation to my life.

I had two guys I worked with in detectives, Alex and Dick, who each owned Harley-Davidson motorcycles. I didn't think at first a Harley was what I needed to start if I wanted to ride. A few other guys in the department had motorcycles, Hondas, Yamahas, etc. I looked at theirs and started doing research on pricing and what it would cost to pick up a used one. I was pretty much putting the cart before the horse because I had little to no riding experience. What little I had was mostly off-road UTV stuff. So I knew I probably needed to take a rider's course to get experience and get my endorsement.

Alex was the biggest influence for me to start looking into Harleys. I heard some of the stories he had about riding and places he had ridden to. Alex was a great guy and an incredible mentor to me when I became a detective. He was already respected in the department, county-wide really, and one of the go-to guys when it came to major cases. His primary work was in child abuse and special victims cases. He would later take me under his wing and help me along and start me off on the right path as a detective. I would go on to take his place investigating child abuse after he retired and went on to be a lead investigator with the Salt Lake County District Attorney's Office.

Alex had a 1998 Road King that was purple and a good-looking ride. Alex had just upgraded to a second bike, a Harley Electra Glide with the police edition colors for this motorcycle. His wife at the time also had a Harley and loved to ride. She rode a black and silver Dyna that was a head turner as well. So I was starting to get the Harley bug after seeing these motorcycles and looking through some local ads for hogs that were up for sale.

Dick was also a hard-core Harley guy. Dick would later order his own Harley Ultra police edition after seeing Alex's. Dick for years had been riding a 1988 Sportster that was tricked out and the one and only color to have in a Harley, black. Dick was planning to take a trip to the Sturgis Rally and talked about it all the time around the office. This led to me focusing more and more on a Harley.

Dick was a fun guy to work with, and we were partners for a few of the years I was assigned to the division. He was another officer I learned from over the years, and I liked his no-nonsense way of saying things. He was the type of guy who would tell you straight up that you were a dumbass if you did some stupid shit, instead of smiling at you and talking shit when you left the room.

He and Alex were almost twenty years older than me, and watching them every day was comedy in action. They would give each other so much shit, I thought they would start beating the hell out of each other back in the division office. Most cops are teasers and jokers; if you aren't teased, you aren't liked. Alex and Dick would always go at each other, and it was fun to watch the different personalities in action. Dick was part of the predominant culture in Utah, and Alex loved to needle him about the church, especially paying tithing. Something I never understood either was tithing. Expecting me to give a predetermined amount to an organization was odd, even to the government. It was more like paying alimony to an ex-wife.

Even with their differences in views, their love for riding was apparent. So with these two in the mix, my search for a motorcycle continued. Back then, papers still printed the want ads for vehicles, and you could also pick up the cycle trader if you were in market. I was still looking at foreign bikes, but I could already tell I really wanted a Harley after talking with Alex and Dick.

After taking my time and months of looking, I came across what I was looking for, the right price for a good used ride. It was a 1997 Harley Sportster that had a lot of upgrades on it. I called the owner up and asked a ton of questions. Alex and Dick both told me what I needed to ask before I went out to look at this hog. The Sportster was originally an 883, but had a 1200 kit put in it with engine upgrades. The owner said he had some extra parts that went with the bike to whoever decided to buy it. He told me he lived in Farmington, which was about thirty miles north of where I was living at the time. I hit up Dick about it, and he agreed to drive up with me to look at it. I should have realized what I was doing because I told Dick I would drive when we went to see the Sportster because I still didn't have my endorsement yet and couldn't ride it home if I decided to buy it. So on a Saturday afternoon, I picked up Dick, and we headed north.

When we got to the owner's house, he had the garage open, and the Sportster was sitting just waiting for me. I liked the look of the bike right off. It was blue with silver trim and lots of chrome. The owner showed me all the old engine parts and the paperwork from the engine upgrade and work done on the bike. He had a windshield for the bike and two sets of extra handlebars for it. He had just had a set of drag bars put on a few months before. For me, that was the only drawback to the bike. I had sat on a few motorcycles, and I liked the feel of a more traditional cruiser style of bar.

Dick and I walked around it, and the owner started it up. Damn, what a sound. The pipes were great, and a set of Screamin' Eagle mufflers were installed on the head pipes, giving a good throaty sound and nice lope when it was idling. This was before they started shoving the cats in them for emissions and environmental reasons. The sound was deep and loud on the throttle and definitely could be heard by anyone close to you while you were riding.

Dick asked a lot more questions than I knew to ask back then, and when he and the owner were finished, I knew I wanted to take it home. The back-and-forth started. A price was agreed on and the money handed over to the now previous owner of the Sportster.

Hands were shaken all around, and Dick hopped on my new Harley. What a great feeling, even if I wasn't riding it home. On to the interstate we went and headed south. Dick was having a blast. Twice he burned past me on the freeway, and he was all smiles.

We pulled into my driveway, and he got off. He looked at me and said, You are going to love it.

How'd it ride? I asked.

Fantastic, don't kill yourself on it.

No way that was going to happen. Right?

In the garage it went. Over the next couple of weeks, while I was waiting to take my rider's class, I found myself going down to the garage to look at it like a kid looking at presents under a Christmas tree, wanting to tear them open and start to play. I even took it out in the neighborhood a couple of times, and damn, it felt good. I should have known what this was going to set off over the next twenty years.

Chapter 2

One of the guys I worked with, Tyler, was looking to buy a motorcycle too. He signed up for the same rider's course as I did. The class was a full two days with the riding test at the end. You would get your certificate and, after, head to the DMV, take the written test, and present the certificate to the examiner as proof of riding completion so you didn't have to wait to take it there.

We showed up bright and early on a Saturday morning and were ready to ride. The bikes were supplied by the course, and most were 250cc Honda Shadows. When it was time to ride, I went straight for the black one that looked most like a Harley to me. Tyler and I knew most of the instructors for the course because most were Motor officers with the County Sheriff's Department. They recognized us right off.

Looks like someone is getting ready to put in for Motors, I heard. No way. Tyler was interested in motors and would later ride on our squad, but riding was going to be pure escape and fun for me. Not work.

We caught a lot of shit over the weekend from the county guys, but it was good fun.

The head instructor was a guy I crossed paths with a few times. Decent but arrogant as hell when it came to riding, and the reputation he had was he would stick his dick in just about anything. Later he almost lost his job when he and a woman he was dating broke bad. A year after almost getting fired from the shit she stirred with his department, the woman showed up to his house, and he jumped into bed with her again. He told one of his fellow deputies he couldn't help it; it was one of the best pieces of ass he ever had. Dude, try and think with the head on your shoulders. This was a common scene I would see for years with officers I worked with, male or female. They would throw careers away over a quick piece of ass.

We started the morning training with the walk-around and getting familiar with the bikes. I should have known what was coming next. Rain. It started to rain late in the morning and continued through the final riding test that next afternoon. Now since this was a closed course and not on public streets, if it wasn't a blinding downpour or standing water, the instructors said the course would continue. Damn, if this wasn't the start of me and my bad luck with Mother Nature.

I enjoyed the class and learned a lot from it, but little did I know that riding in a controlled environment on a motorcycle, a parking lot, and being on the road were way different. I passed and got my certificate. On Monday morning, I went straight to the DMV before work, took my written, passed again (almost, I hate written tests), and got my endorsement. I was ready to go. So I thought.

I started riding the Sportster when I could, but I really wasn't getting out doing any serious riding. At first. Finally, a few weeks later, Alex called and asked if I wanted to go for a group ride with some people up a couple of canyons and around past the Park City area. I jumped at the chance. We met up at a parking lot in the central valley on a Saturday morning and headed out. Holy shit, was this an eye-opener. I thought I would be riding like a pro. Nope. I was riding like a scared little kid. I tell you what, the first time you hit the interstate and have semi' riding alongside of you, you see how riding in a car gives you that false sense of security. Being on the bike with nothing encasing you and having something that big and cars running past is an experience. I remember being nervous and gripping the bars like my life depended on it.

We headed south out of the valley to the neighboring one and up Provo Canyon along the Provo River. I was making myself relax, going over and over in my head, Relax, lean, you can't steer. Talk about a continuing shit show. I had a long way to go before I was a proficient rider.

We came out in Heber City and back to the northeast, past Deer Valley and Park City. We hit the Interstate 80 interchange from Highway US 40 and started down Parley's Canyon into the valley. For those who haven't been to the area, Parley's usually is in the top five interstate passes in the country for dangerous conditions. Heavy truck traffic and the steep slope and bad weather can make it downright hazardous. What the hell, I made it up Provo; downhill should be easier. The fuck it was. I was trying to watch my speed and remembering to lean and trying not to freak out from every semi near me. Alex and the group got out ahead and made it down the canyon a lot faster than me. I knew where the beer stop was going to be, so I didn't worry about not seeing the group.

As I came out of the canyon onto the I-15 interchange, I could see them pulled over, waiting on me. Embarrassing. I caught up, and on we went to the watering hole. When we got there, poor Alex was catching hell from his wife about leaving me behind. I told him later not to sweat it. It wasn't his fault I had a long way to go, and I was riding like a pussy. Even with the tension I had, I still knew that riding was going to be something I would love. Later, a mountain ride would really wake me up and even give me the confidence I would need to ride any road just about any time.

A few days later at work, I was talking to Sam. Sam was one of the officers I had been hired along with, and he was currently riding motors for our department. Sam's dad had recently been killed in a motorcycle accident in the Uinta Mountains on Highway 150. A deer jumped out in front of Sam senior's Harley, and it went down, and he was killed almost instantly. Tragic. Sam's dad had been the chief of one of the other departments in the area. I even worked at his dad's funeral on the day of services, helping so the department's officers could go to the ceremony. Sam still kept riding for the department after his dad's death, although he never owned a bike of his own as far as I remember.

While I was telling him about my canyon experience, Sam told me that he had some of his dad's old riding gear he wanted to give me if I was interested. I wasn't sure what to say, but I could tell by Sam's look he knew what I was thinking. He reassured me it was nothing his dad had on the day of his death. Cops can be seriously superstitious. I was glad he brought that up because I didn't want to come across as an uncaring dick. I told him for sure, and later that week, Sam brought to work a pair of his dad's chaps and one of his riding jackets. They fit great and looked good. I even felt good after thinking a friend gave me the gear and that maybe someone could look down on me and