Dave and Dave Matterhorn Hotel Ouray Colorado, 1975.  We have ridden motorcycles together for the last 54 years.

Editor’s Note:  The names and places have been changed in case the statute of limitations for traffic offenses in Kentucky is longer than 40 years.  Let’s call the subjects Tom and Bill, who were college roommates and loved to ride off-road.

It was 1975 and life was pretty good.  We had no idea how dismal the Jimmy Carter years were going to be for America; we were just ready to ride.  It was Saturday morning and Tom and I had excellent enduro motorcycles, a great weather forecast, and an outstanding place to ride in Northern Kentucky.  This was in the days where places to ride off-road were abundant and rarely closed to riding.  To make matters better, just south of the Ohio River in Metro Cincinnati they were in the process of building the south loop of Interstate 275. There sitting before us was 24 miles of rough-bulldozed roadway that ran from River to River. Crews were rarely working on the weekend. Lots of dirt bikers zoomed around the area, and law enforcement seemed to rarely make an appearance.  Also, since the terrain in the area is so hilly, one could always take a diversion from the main roadway and rip his way up dozens of quite steep hills. It was one of the coolest places we had ever ridden!

            Driving down from Columbus, Ohio, that morning, my wife and I had just arrived at Tom’s house and were in the process of unloading a Puch 175 enduro from my brand new Ford van.  We were greeted by music to my ears—the beautiful high buzzing sound of a two-stroke engine.  Soon we observed Tom performing wheelies on his Suzuki TS185 down the newly finished streets of his subdivision in the quiet village of Elsmere, Kentucky.    Tom lived in a brand new subdivision. Today the residents might be termed “yuppies” trying to escape the monstrous Cincinnati traffic to a quiet, but quickly growing suburb to the south in Kentucky.  The plat had several streets that just dead ended into open space that would soon be developed into more homes. Tom’s extended one-wheel performances, while tolerated by some of his younger neighbors, apparently had raised the ire of others, a fact that would soon cause us quite a bit of trouble.

What made this subdivision’s location so great was that one had to just traverse through a few adjacent acres of undeveloped land to arrive at a very long water culvert that ran all the way under Interstate 75.  Riding into and  through this twelve foot  culvert was always a bit of a challenge because sometimes it had more water than at others and those enduro headlights didn’t help much in the couple of hundred-yard dark journey to the other side.  What lay on the other side was always well worth the trip for before us lay the massive I-275 construction area.   

            At any rate, Tom finally ended his wheelie demonstrations and returned to his house.  He grabbed another beer, and we suited up to go riding.  The wives were left at the house to, no doubt, discuss what fools they had apparently married.  We headed down toward the dead street that led to the Interstate culvert.  Per normal riding faire, we parried our bikes back and forth, leading one another and popping wheelies, zipping in front of one another trying to get a few yards ahead.  Tom D. was in front of me, and we were still on a paved section of the street when I looked behind me to see a police cruiser, lights flashing about 30 feet behind me. 

            Startled, with my heart racing, I hit the gas, pulled up beside Tom, waved and tried to get him to look behind us to see the predicament we were in.  He turned and looked at me, then smiled and gassed his bike quickly jumping off the end of the pavement toward the woods!   What was I to do?  My van was parked in his driveway and I would have to go back there eventually.  If I stopped, and accepted the citation, how would Tom escape the long arm of the local law?  As I watched the police cruisers come to a screeching halt at pavement’s end, I made a quick “management” decision, gassed it and also jumped off the pavement following Tom into the woods.  What in the world had we gotten into?

           Riding deeper into the woods, eventually I was able to get Tom to stop.  “Why did you run?  You know they are going to nail us.  Now they are just going to throw the book at us.”   With a quizzical look on his face he said: “What are you talking about?” he deadpanned.  “What am I talking about? It’s about that *&*% police cruiser that almost ran me over back there. I tried to get you to stop, but you just gassed it.”   “Huh? What the *&*% do you mean?”   I went on to explain what had occurred.  “Police cruiser? I didn’t see any police!”   Uh, Oh, Tom really hadn’t seen the police cruiser.  He just thought that when I pulled up beside him that I was trying to race him and he wasn’t going to let me pass him.

After some heated discussion, we accepted the fact that we were in deep do-do, but there was no reason to go back immediately, as the police would never buy the fact that it was just a big mistake.  We needed to think about this a bit. So we continued on to enjoy an afternoon of trail riding.  We would deal with the situation only when we had to.  As the afternoon wore down, we decided to ride back toward the neighborhood and assess the situation.  We stashed the bikes in the woods and snuck through the backyards of houses which were in various stages of construction and into Tom’s house via the back door. 

 As we entered Tom told the girls, “I think we may have a problem.”  However, before he could continue, my wife, with a look that was part terror and part disgust said, “We KNOW.”  She went on in near tears to explain “The police have been here.  He says he wants to talk to you, AND your friend from Ohio!”  We tried to explain. However, no amount of explanation reduced the distress of our wives. There was a building apprehension that bordered on terror hanging over the room. 

            What to  What to do? In those days before credit cards and paying bills by phone, if you didn’t have cash when you were arrested, you sat in jail until you were arraigned—even for traffic offenses.   Well, we could just eat pizza, and hope that it would blow over.  Hmm… the police are not here now; possibly it is best that my wife and I just mosey back north.  I am sure you guys can get this misunderstanding worked out.  So we loaded up the van, and slowly exited the neighborhood feeling that surely there would be a police cruiser stationed on the only exit route out of the neighborhood just waiting to slap the cuffs on me!  Fortunately, no such interdiction occurred and we sped north across the bridge over the Ohio River.  We were happy to have exited Kentucky without chains. 

As Paul Harvey used to say, there is always the “rest of the story.  In this case, I did not witness the events that followed, but they were soon passed on to me by a very incredulous Tom.

            About a half hour after we left, a village policemen came back to the house to confront Tom.  As the officer entered the home, it was obvious from his demeanor that he was taking this case personally.  “Are you some kind of traffic maniac, or what?  We just don’t live like that down here.”   He had come prepared with an arrest warrant.  It stated the following charges, and he read it with gleeful look of retribution in his eye:  Reckless operation of a motor vehicle, speeding, failure to stop at not just one stop sign, but two, and the piece d’la resistance—eluding the police!  His intent was to cuff Tom and transport him to the Kenton County lockup.  I am sure that in his mind this case was wrapped up.  No college educated, piss ant, relocated-to-Kentucky suburbanite was going to ignore his authority in their small, tight-knit community.

            The fact that Tom lived in such a small place, meant that there was little judicial structure to crawl through for an arrest of this nature.  All that it required was to inform the “magistrate,” who was also the small court judge, before the officer completed the arrest. The officer asked where the telephone was located, and he wasted no time dialing the phone. Tom and his wife listened in with grave interest as the officer recited the situation and the long list of charges to the Magistrate.  When Tom’s wife heard the officer mention the Magistrate’s name, she remembered that his daughter was a fellow teacher at the elementary school where she worked.   She said, “Officer, may I please speak with the Magistrate. I know him and I think he would be willing to speak with me.”  Obviously perturbed that he was interrupted, but realizing Tom’s wife knew the judge, he grudgingly gave up the phone and allowed her to talk to him.  

“Sir, my name is Susan, and I work with your daughter at the elementary school. You and I met a few weeks ago: do you remember?  We have your officer here at our house, and this whole situation is just one big comedy of errors.  My husband is a very law abiding citizen. He has no arrest record, here or anywhere else.  Your officer is going to arrest him and take him to jail.  Sir, he is a good man with a responsible position at Proctor and Gamble.  If he is arrested and can’t show up for work, this is going to be a terrible problem for his career and our family.  Isn’t there something we can do short of arresting him this evening?  The officer just rolled his eyes as he heard her side of the conversation.  Susan then handed him back the phone and said the magistrate wants to speak with you. Confused he took the phone. “Yes judge… no judge…, just a minute judge, this guy has been terrorizing the neighborhood with this motorcycle. We have had complaints…  Yes judge, Yes judge. What? No. Sir, we really need to take this guy in. We can’t let people treat the law like this.”

            Crestfallen, the policeman handed the phone to Tom and said, “The magistrate wants to talk to YOU.”  Tom picked up the phone.  The Magistrate said, “Tom, this is a very serious charge, but I see no reason to cart you off to jail this evening.  I am going to direct our officer to bring the warrant to me for review.  I will take a look at it before I act.  Can you be at my house Tuesday evening at 7 P.M? I would like to meet and talk with you.” “Yes, absolutely,” Tom said, “I will be there, have no doubt, I will be there.” “Good,” said the Magistrate, “let me speak with the officer.”  Tom handed the phone back to him.  As he spoke with the magistrate, Tom could see him first get furious, and then seem to get deflated right before their eyes.  “Yes, judge,” he said, and hung up the phone. “The judge says be at his house Tuesday evening at 7 P.M.—sharp.  As he headed for the door he said to Tom, “You are one lucky son of a bitch; I hope to see you again, soon!”

You readers would have to know my buddy Tom.  In my estimation he has led a pretty charmed existence for a great portion of his life.  He just seems to have a knack of skating his way out of problems. He had a reprieve, but he feared the worst was yet to come. He dutifully arrived at the magistrate's house Tuesday night.  Despite his earlier trepidation at the nature of the meeting, he found the magistrate to actually be a very friendly individual.  He invited Tom down to his recreation room for a game of pool. He inquired into Tom education, his current responsibilities and career aspirations. Tom could hardly believe it; they were chatting on entirely light-hearted subjects for over a half an hour. This is too good to be true, he thought.  When is the hammer going to drop?

            Well it didn’t take much longer.  The Magistrate halted his game of 8-ball and, turning serious, told Tom that he was charged with more than enough citations to warrant jail time, loss of license, and at least a thousand dollars’ worth of fines.  Tom, quietly gasping for air, envisioned his life and corporate career quickly flushing its way down the Northern Kentucky Wastewater treatment system. After a moment, the magistrate looked at Tom and said “You seem like a responsible young businessman. My daughter speaks highly of your wife.  However, these are serious charges, and we just cannot let this situation pass unenforced. I do have some latitude in how I can deal with this situation.  Would you be agreeable to one charge of speeding 10 miles over the limit, pay the appropriate fine, and accept 3 points to your driver’s license?  After nearly falling out of his chair with relief, Tom officially pleaded guilty to the Judge, pulled out his checkbook, wrote a check to the city of Elsmere for the fine, and quickly exited to the street.

            Over the years we have joked about the dire situation that we faced, and how it had turned out so unbelievably well. For the next two years, until Tom was transferred out of state, I continued to go down to Kentucky to ride with him in various off road spots.  However, I had a standing deal with Tom.  I would call ahead and let him know when I would be coming.  He was to make sure that his driveway was clear and that his garage door was opened. I always pulled in directly, and we shut the door quickly.  I wanted to make sure that my all too familiar blue van (with Ohio license plates) did not lead to the promised conversation