Kansas Breakdown

 

 

The time spent in Billings, Mt. was unusually strange, if not a little fantastic; but the story I’d like to tell didn’t begin until two weeks later in Kansas. 

 

Just after Sturgis, while on the road to Montana, the weld on my transmission’s shifting arm (I always weld those damn things) broke. The entire arm began to wobble and I knew it was just a matter of time before the thing failed leaving good old Betsy un-shift-able, and stuck in a single gear. This was not an easy fix. The parts are relatively small and inexpensive, but the job required removing the entire outer and inner primary, clutch and compensator. The transmission needed gutting before anything could be installed. 

 

 

Earlier that year an old friend conned me into coming to Lyons, Kansas with the promise of a re-roof job (I was a roofing contractor in another life).  It involved one of his mother’s rental houses. I agreed. This was very good news indeed.

 

Derek McCloud is an entrepreneur workaholic, who grew up in the little town of Lyons. Although he’s built and sold a variety of successful businesses, over the course of his lifetime, for many years now Derek bought and sold wholesale Big Dog custom chopper parts.  Having visited with him before, I knew his world would easily accommodate my needs and my little Evo transmission dilemma.

 

 

Set in a vast sea of wide open no-man’s land, Lyons makes one wonder what it is that people do in such small and isolated places. On the outskirts of town a little cloud of dust trailed the old FL as I gazed from the pilot’s seat to beyond the arrow straight dirt road and across miles of farmland peppered with sporadic trees. They were separated by only an occasional ranch house. It was beautiful country.

 

 

The gate leading to Derek’s own 85-acre parcel was left unlocked, and I turned into the driveway. To the right, his old house, the one I was familiar with, sat abandoned while farther on and to the left stood the new place constructed in the image of a huge barn. Three of its sides were surrounded by a large man-made pond stocked with fish while beyond stood a line of trees for added privacy. A three-bay garage was attached to the house with two SUVs parked out front and farther down the driveway sat a large metal building. It was an impressive sight.

 

 

Derek met me at the door and I was ushered into what was quite possibly the nicest “barn” in existence. Derek’s wife Donna greeted me with the Boston accent and warm welcome I’d come to expect from her. After dinner (Derek cooks, Donna doesn’t) we all retired to lawn chairs set before the rock fireplace built into the back patio. Both of my hosts are beer drinkers and the bullshit session dragged on long into the evening. 

 

 

Again I wondered why this guy has always liked me so much because, in general, he hates people. This is why most of his business is done over the internet. In colorful contrast to this oddity, he also has an uncommon sense of community. As a service to the little town, since he doesn’t really need the money, Derek works one day a week as an elected official to the County Commissioner’s seat. He’s in charge of the town’s money. And it’s because of his uncanny ability in this arena that the townspeople continue to favor him at every re-election. He has also made a few anonymous contributions to the little community. And still he generally hates people. What a trip.

 

I love than listening to the exploits of his strange world. I continually goaded him to tell more stories. For to him the world’s business is one big Monopoly board. It’s just a game. But again in contrast, Derek wears everyday clothes and his favorite tennis shoes are held together with duct tape. This guy totally entertains me.

 

 

I was offered a room in the house but, since I’d become unaccustomed to houses, I opted instead to make camp in the metal building.  Morning brought a moment’s disorientation as I came awake to the sight of a metal roof hovering high above, then noticed my bed was pushed against a wall, set on a concrete floor, surrounded by a sea of high-dollar choppers, and a rather large family of cats. Then I remembered, “Oh yea, Derek’s metal storage building.” Reaching for the container of cold coffee always on my bike I took a sip then, as usual, spent a good stretch of time on the ritual of waking up. Eventually the driveway led me to Derek’s front door and from there the day was spent mostly bombing around town in his SUV. We visited Derek’s warehouse in town and I searched through racks of parts in an attempt to locate those needed for the repair job. But it was more than the transmission that I intended to fix.

 

 

A couple years ago I learned the reason older bikes scream down the highwayl. They were geared lower than the five speeds of today; turning about 3,400 RPM at 70 MPH. Very irritating. The factory’s switch to higher gears was in the early ’90s by simply changing clutch and compensator ratios in the primary. One year ago a friend talked me into rectifying this inconvenience by simply installing a front belt-pulley, with two extra teeth. It accomplished the same thing. , and try an Andrews EV 27 bolt in cam to gain the needed power. In Derek’s sea of high power chopper parts however, there was not a mellow, bolt-in, cam to be found.

 

This inexpensive mod reduced my ratio to only 3,100 RPM at 70 MPH which provided a much improved highway ride. Problem was my Electra Glide now lacked the power to get its fat ass up steep high-speed grades like the grapevine. Not wanting to give up the new gearing, I’d decided to deviate from my motto of: “Stock lasts longest.”

 

 

Back at the house Derek led me to an older stashed Softail. He said if I made it run I could use it, while my bike was down. Then he’d sell it. It took less than an hour to breathe life into the neglected thing.

 

That night Derek ordered my cam from the net with his own credit card because I’ve never owned plastic money.  Again we sat through a long bullshit session before the evening fire.

 

 

Next day, the work began and I set to the task of gutting my transmission and cam compartment. Although necessity pushed me to become a fair H-D mechanic over the years (there’s not much I can’t fix), I don’t work on bikes everyday and I’m generally sorta slow. I allotted the better part of a week for this job.

 

 

That evening I bombed around town on my new Softail, while visiting or running into a few friends I’d made on previous visits.

When installing a new cam it’s always a good idea to have the gear pressed off the old one and then installed on the new one. Failure to do so can cause either serious gear clearance problems, or simply a lot of unneeded noise. Fortunately All Things Chopped was only 20 miles away in the town of Great Bend. A small, one-man H-D shop, the owner and sole proprietor swapped the cam-gear for a reasonable $20.

 

 

Within a week my FL tranny was right again.  After enriching the carburetor, as per the new cam instructions, the bike immediately contained a considerable power boost and ran better than it ever had. Stock cams are governed by EPA regulations, and the valves want a  more duration to accommodate the V-twin’s long stroke. In other words, this simple bolt-in cam was not hot rod stuff, it simply made the engine run like it was originally designed.

 

 

With that segment of the work behind, a short break seemed in order. I said goodbye to the Softail, loaded a jacket onto the old FL and lit out for the town of Hutchinson and the “Kansas Cosmo Sphere and Space Center” located some 40 miles away. Although far bigger than Lyons, Hutchinson is not a major city and it truly amazes me that such an incredible museum is located in a small and relatively isolated Kansas town.

 

A good friend of mine left San Diego many years ago and lives in Hutchinson, so I decided to pay him a visit. Hell, we’d known each other for 25 years. Clint rides a late model Softail. We talked late into the night at his small bachelor pad. Before I left for the ride back to Lyons at 2 am, we vowed to do some riding together on the weekend when he had time.

 

Next came the roof job and I spent the better part of a week on the project. When the smoke finally cleared I was $1,500 richer.

 

 

But now I was in debt; for besides the new cam charged to Derek’s card, I’d also purchased a new set of boots, new tent, and a few other odds and ends. And although Derek wasn’t really worried about my bill, I certainly was. But rather than paying cash, Derek always welcomed the option to simply work your debt off. So again the labor began.

 

 

Derek makes his living by buying large loads of brand new, and possibly slightly dinged or defective, chopper parts and the occasional complete or partially disassembled motorcycle at an obscenely reduced rate then selling them on eBay. What a racket. This business generates the great piles of slightly screwed up or partially disassembled transmissions, engines, and other parts littering the floor of his warehouse in town. To settle my debt, I set to assembling whole, functioning six speed transmissions for later sale to Derek’s customers. Later I was put to work on the choppers surrounding my camp inside the metal building beside Derek’s house.

 

 

On weekends Clint and I made a habit of getting together to carouse the area on our bikes while often ending up at a party, BBQ, or whatever. He was, after all, a local and generally knew where the happenings were.

 

While riding through small, isolated towns, I often wonder what people do. I learned during this extended stay. If there is any kind of small event going on, in the tiniest most backwoods town, then people will often ride up to 100 miles to be there. Because of this farmland ritual, we were able to travel throughout a lot of beautiful country, and I came to see the same faces again and again.

 

One weekend Clint called to invite me to a birthday BBQ. It was held in the backyard of his X wife’s house. He said that his two kids and all of her X husbands would be in attendance; and that the food was free.

 

 

 

She lived in a big old house and besides ourselves there was only one other rider in attendance. The air was friendly and, in a low budget sort of way, it was a good backyard party. Although she had aged a bit (as have we all) the X that I’ll call Kathy was pretty much as I’d remembered from some 20-odd years back and it was really good to see her again. In private Clint explained that Kathy’s present husband and the X number two are best friends. Both were in attendance and a closer look revealed that he was probably right.”; which struck me as being extremely funny. Nevertheless everyone was friendly and the vibe seemed uncommonly good. It’s a mystery how she pulled that one off. 

 

Then there was Clint (X number one), a couple of old boyfriends, even I had gone out with her way back in the day. It seemed like a “who banged Kathy party.”

Hell, if I tried something like this, the said women would probably crucify me. Nevertheless, I had a great time that day.

 

 

 

With the bike again mechanically sound, my pocket filled with change and, as it always does to the motorcycle drifter, the road called me again. Chilled air hinted to the coming Fall made the highways that meandered toward the warm southern climates seem the best choice. As the old Electra Glide beat its fateful rhythm against the southbound pavement of this American dream, my mind wondered back over the strange events. Once again, they replenished the simple needs of this nomadic life.

 

 

–Scooter Tramp Scotty

605-430-8801 cell

scottykerekes@yahoo.com