Why I Started Designing Gear: The Moment I Realized We Needed Better Equipment
Updated: Oct 12
“So There I Was…”
The Transport Calls That Made Me Realize We Needed Better Gear**A dark-humor patrol story for the officers who’ve lived it.
If you’ve ever worked patrol, you already know: Nothing in this job ever goes according to plan. And if it does go according to plan… that’s usually because the universe is saving up something special for you later.
This is the story of how two transport calls—four minutes of chaos in one, five minutes of stupidity in the other—convinced me that we desperately needed better ways to restrain suspects. Not because I’m weak, or because the suspects were “ninjas,” but because sometimes this job hands you situations so absurd you either laugh or cry.
I chose laugh… eventually.
The Sock, the String, and the Suicide Olympics
Picture this: It’s early morning. Birds chirping. Coffee kicking in. A perfect “ease into the shift” kind of day.
We get a call: Male hiding in a shed.
Okay, easy enough. We find him. Verify a low-level felony warrant. Arrest him. Load him into my beautifully caged car with its hard plastic seat—the kind of setup that makes admin sleep well at night.
Thirty seconds into the transport he looks at me and very casually announces:
“I’m gonna kill myself.”
Now, if you’re in this line of work, you already know… that sentence has the same energy as “I’m gonna tell your sergeant.” You’ve heard it a million times, and usually nothing happens.
Usually.
Ten seconds later this man goes full Houdini. Seatbelt off. Hands magically in front. Sock comes off. And he shoves it into his mouth like it’s the world’s saddest homemade pacifier.
He’s gagging. He’s red. He’s realized socks are surprisingly breathable.
So he upgrades.
He rips his hoodie string out, loops it around his neck, and ties the other end to the cage bars.
Boom. Suicide attempt #2.We're not even one minute from the start point.
At this moment I am flying toward the jail because the last thing I’m going to do is pull over, pop the door open, and offer him a scenic escape route.
We get there. I open the door. He flops out like a fish dropped on the dock.
The jailer looks at me like I just delivered Satan himself.
We cut him loose. I cut the other hoodie string. Jail says, “Hospital clearance.”
Great. Fantastic. Nothing says “fun” like transporting a suicidal Houdini to the hospital.
During the four-minute drive he manages—again, magically—to:
Unbuckle
Under-cuff
Remove his shoelace
AND get a legitimately solid choke going
At this point I’m convinced he’s not suicidal… he just enjoys recreational asphyxiation.
I pull into the hospital. Open the door. Flop. Round two onto the pavement.
I prop him up against my knee while he gasps for air like a goldfish at low tide, waiting for staff like, “Hi yes, one clearance for this discount escape artist.”
That was the day I thought: Maybe the equipment could be better. Maybe the system is setting us up for failure. Maybe… just maybe… we shouldn’t rely on ‘hope’ as a safety device.
The Dodge Charger, the Drunk Rollercoaster, and The Kick Heard ’Round the World
By the second story, I’d switched departments. This one didn’t have cages at all. Just a regular Charger interior and a rifle rack between the front seats. What could go wrong?
We get a call from our favorite second responders (you know the ones):“A guy yelling, cussing, and possibly drunk. Also maybe he hid something under a car.”
Classic.
We find him. A known mental health subject. Hammered. Just absolutely marinated.
I get voluntold—sorry, selected—to transport.
Rear-cuffed, buckled, and doing that emotional rollercoaster:
“You’re the coolest cop ever.” “I hate you.” “You’re so nice.” “I’m gonna fight you.”
You know the type.
At one point he slouches just enough in the seat to get leverage and starts kicking. First the seat. Then the rifle rack.
Then—because the universe hates idle feet—He kicks the rifle.
Not enough? Okay then. He threads his leg past the rifle and kicks me in the arm while I’m driving.
Not hard enough to injure me. Hard enough to make me want to retire.
I’m one minute from the jail. One. Minute.
And I’m sitting there thinking:
“Why do we transport people like THIS with equipment like THAT?”
This wasn’t an outlier. This was the job. This was daily life. This was the system.
And the system sucked.
Why I Finally Said “Screw It, I’ll Build Something Myself”
These weren’t Hollywood-level transports. They weren’t SWAT callouts or foot pursuits. They were the everyday nonsense we all deal with—the exact kind of nonsense we laugh about in the breakroom while stress-eating stale donuts.
But the danger was real.
A suicidal suspect can and will find whatever they need. A drunk suspect will find a way to kick something they shouldn’t. A determined suspect will under-cuff, unbuckle, wiggle, thrash, slam, spit, reach, or Houdini their way into making your life miserable—or dangerous.
And there was no middle-ground tool. Nothing between “seatbelt” and “hope” and “pray they don’t contort like a circus acrobat.”
So I made one.
The Valkyrie Link wasn’t born from a brilliant whiteboard session. It was born from two transports that made me question why the equipment hasn’t evolved since the 90s.
It’s not meant to punish. It’s not meant to hogtie. It’s not meant to violate anyone’s dignity.
It’s meant to:
Stop undercuffing
Stop unbuckling
Stop accessing waistband weapons
Stop head-banging
Stop reaching the partition
Stop kicking the rifle rack
Stop harming themselves
Stop harming you
Stop the nonsense we all know too well
It’s meant to keep the officer alive. And keep the suspect alive. And keep the transport from becoming a viral video with tragic outcomes.
If You Know, You Know
If you’ve ever had a suspect go full “Cirque du So-Lame” in your backseat…If you’ve ever screamed into the void while someone unbuckled themselves...If you’ve ever arrived at the jail sweaty, confused, and questioning every life choice…
Then you get it.
This job doesn’t need more heroes. It needs better tools.
And that’s why I started building them.
Comments