Early summer wasupon us and perfect weather oversaw this journey as the two heavilyloaded motorcycles picked their way slowly through the strikinglygreen forests of one small Virginia highway. Behind my aging ElectraGlide Michelle followed on her old Honda Shadow.
Today’s was amountainous terrain and as we topped a long upgrade I went to shiftform third to fourth gear but was instead met by a strange sensation.There was a little hesitation, a kind of light snap, then no gear atall. The others seemed fine, but fourth was gone. This was a new oneon me. We’d just entered a tiny town (as are most Virginia towns)where I found a strip of mowed grass to pull the bike onto and shuther down. Tools were retrieved from the saddlebag and I pulled thetransmission’s top cover (four little bolts). A look inside revealedthe obvious problem: one of the shifting forks had broken whichallowed two gears to engage simultaneously. This action had bustedthe dogs off the side of first gear—which is what engages fourthgear—and bingo, fourth no more. Next, I pulled the shifting drum(four more little bolts) then pushed a magnet-on-a-stick through theoil and to the bottom of the transmission’s insides. All broken gearpieces came out in big chunks. What a trip. Having only limitedexperience with the inner workings of Harley Davidson transmissions,it looked as though I was about to get a crash course on thissubject.
The question waswhat to do next.
The bike wasstill rideable and, in truth, had I known then what I know now I’dprobably have just kept riding until better opportunity for repairpresented itself. But I didn’t know, sothe search for a solution began. Asking around town, I’d learned thata mile back down the road from which we’d just come was a guy whoworked on Harleys. Least that’s what I was told. His number was notlisted and, in the thick greenery of this sparsely populatedhillbilly land, I had doubts that the guy even existed. Still, it wasthe only option so back down the road we went. It took two passes tofinally see the sign at roadside. It had been hand painted onto asheet of plywood and simply read, HARLEY SHOP.
Thedirt driveway passed alongside a small creek as it led ¼ milethrough a little valley completely surrounded by hills and forest. Atthe stream’s far side I could see two buildings while farther up thehill a small house sat alone. One of the closer structures was littlemore than a freestanding garage and I noted the motorcycles parked onits concrete driveway. A little wooden bridge soon crossed the creekand we pulled in. Inside the garage a bearded man sat on the floorbehind a late model bagger as he worked on somebody’s old Sportster.I introduced myself. His name was Shovelhead Steve. But the guyseemed preoccupied, distant, maybe a little lost in his own world.Being in a bind, I began to explain the situation. Steve said he hadnone of the specialty tools required for serious transmission work.Although no expert, I knew that most of a five speed trany can bedisassembled without special tools. Steve obviously had his handsfull with customer bikes and didn’t want to deal with this job, butcouldn’t help seeing we were on the road and in some real trouble.With a slight warmth I watched crease his eyes, that old bikermentality kick in as he said, “I don’t really have time to dealwith your trany, but you can pull the thing apart here in thedriveway if you like. You’re welcome to any tools I have.”
Aftermoving my FL to a spot just outside the shop door, I pulled thetool-bag and started the job.
Sinceit looked like we’d be here a while, Michelle and I picked the bestspot by the stream and set in a semi-permanent camp. Next, I ploppedinto the creek and used about half a bar of soap against the greaseon my body. The night was quiet after that.
Thefollowing day Steve and I took considerably more time getting to knoweach other. Being the only shop for many miles, this place had asurplus of motorcycles in for repair and Steve had himself under alot of pressure to get thesejobs done. It seemed to me that he was so overwhelmed with work,bills, and the making of personal security (money and such) that thisguy spent his time doing little, or maybe nothing, else. He wasstressed out, man. I also learned that Steve suffered from musculardystrophy. As muscle-mass slowly deteriorated, this disease wassapping his strength and, although none of us really gets much timeon this planet, I wondered how many usable days were left for him.
Ineeded another plan.
Yearsago the bike had suffered some other mechanical issue in AshevilleNorth Carolina (100 miles south of Shovelhead Steve’s place) and I’drepaired it in the parking lot of a one man shop called MountainCycle Works. The owner and I had been friends ever since and,whenever visiting that area, I now always make camp in the yard ofhis home. Jody’s Asheville shop was easily equipped to handle heavytrany work so I called him. Jody said to bring it down. That done,the next order of business would be any needed new parts. I put inanother call to an entrepreneurial friend who makes most of hisliving selling Harley parts. Rather than send only what I needed, heinsisted on shipping a complete Andrews gear set brand new and stillin the box. I gave him the address for Mountain Cycle Works.
Thenext question was how to get thattransmission to Asheville? I decided to pull the trany, strap it tothe back of Michelle’s bike, ride double-up to Asheville, rebuild thetrany, bring it back to Steve’s, install it, and ride away. Simpleright?
Bynow Steve and I had put in plenty of hours on the bullshit wagon.More-so than I’d realized, his mind had begun to wonder beyond thebounds of this property line. So when I talked of riding toAsheville, Steve spoke enthusiastically of coming along. There wereold friends in Asheville he’d not seen for a long while because he’dnot left the stress of this property for just as long.
I’dgrown accustomed to birdsong emanating from the impossibly greenforest surrounding Steve’s property and today was no different as wereadied the two motorcycles. I attached Betsy’s transmission to therack of Michelle’s Honda while, oddly enough, Mr. Shovelhead Stevepacked his twin cam bagger. I don’t actually know if he even had aShovelhead. Anyway, the sky offered perfect weather as, with bothbikes packed and ready, we set off into the mountains.
