The Bikes, Blues and BBQs rally in Fayetteville Arkansas was behind me now and the time spent with old friends there had been uncommonly good. But the chill of winter’s coming now occupied the northern regions and seemed to be moving steadily south—as was I.
Most often drifter life, at least as I know it, is filled with leisure, little stress, and an easy desire to follow the road to whatever adventure might next present itself. But today it was not so.
Just now I rode the southbound highways with bungee cords, rope, and duct tape holding the motorcycle’s trunk and saddlebag together. For, the damage caused by the Gold Wing that had rear-ended me in Pueblo Colorado had only been partially repaired at Randy’s farm in Kansas. But there still remained plenty of broken fiberglass and I guessed that would just have to wait.
But the Gold Wing rider’s insurance company had cut me a check for $3,000 and still let me keep the bike. Shortly after, a reader had sent photos of a low mileage 1991 FLHT he wanted $4,500 for. A replacement? No. Betsy and I had been together over 20 years and, for all the shared adventures, she’d become a very dear friend. I had no intention of letting her go. Still, being only three years newer, the proposed low mileage FL offered a lot of great parts and, after some thought, I’d called an entrepreneurial friend in Kansas to ask if he’d put up the rest of the money for this bike. He’d been bugging me to get a new one for years, and for him $1,500 was pocket change anyway. I’d pay it back in time. Meanwhile he’d have the bike and tittle as collateral. After looking over the photos I’d sent, he’d agreed, then had the new bike shipped to his home in Kansas. Maybe I’d see it in the coming summer.
Just now however, on that southbound Texas highway, it was another mechanical issue that occupied my thoughts. For some months the bike had been vibrating like a high voltage dildo, which was seriously affecting the pleasure of my ride. Damn, this bike and its problems were becoming a real pain lately.
I thought of the destination ahead…
It had been years ago I’d broken down in Beaumont Texas, showed up in the parking lot of Dale’s Bike Shop, and ended up sleeping in the back room for almost a month while Dale’d loaned me use of a lift to make repairs, and a loner motorcycle or the shop truck to get around with meanwhile. Although grumpy at times, inside Dale’s chest obviously beat the big heart of an old school biker. During my stay we’d become tight friends and over the years I’d revisited this shop many times. I valued Dale’s mechanical advice and had called to ask about the vibration problem. He’d said, “Sounds like the crank might have come out of true. Come by and we’ll check it.” So Dale’s Shop had become my next destination.
The shop sat pretty much as it always had along the small highway of what was mostly an industrial area. But closer inspection did reveal a few changes. Added to the full shop and dyno tuning machine that seemed always to have been here, Dale was also installing a full machine shop into one of the adjacent bays. Obviously he wished to delve more deeply into the realm of heavy engine work.
I entered the building to find Bryan, an HD mechanic for over 30 years and Dale’s only full time employee, sitting at a lift as he wrenched a red bagger. We’d known each other from previous visits and Bryan’s reception was warm. Next I ventured into the office to find Dale sitting at his computer—as usual. Although his greeting was more aloof, I knew this to be Dale’s way. He soon ventured outside to look my bike over. “It’s not locked,” I offered as he threw a leg over then took off down the road. Upon return Dale said, “Yup. She’s a shaker.”
I was told to make home in the guard shack/smoking room out back as usual, and quickly stowed my stuff there.
On his own lift, the one I’d be using, sat the Shovelhead Dale’d been building from spare parts. The project had starting with an old, now rebuilt, transmission I’d left here years ago. The bike was still unfinished and I’d need to move it to clear room for my own bike.
By late afternoon I had Betsy’s primary apart to expose the engine’s main shaft, as well as the cam chest removed to expose the pinion shaft at its other side. Dale put a dial indicator (measuring tool) in place as I used a socket to spin the engine slowly . The pinion shaft was out by 9 thousandths. Not acceptable. Main shaft was the same. Although common to twin cam engines, this was the first I’d heard of such a thing happening to an evo; for these two bottom ends are built very differently. But this engine had seen over 330,000 miles, and at 205,000 it had presented the first bottom end problem I’d ever had. A friend then sold me this rebuilt crank at a good price. As to the man who’d rebuilt it, I’d never met him. So much for his work. Still, it had held true for 125,000 miles.
The cracking of Budweiser cans signified the day’s work was over. Only bullshit would prevail now. It was an old ritual, and on most days many stopped by for the late afternoon social gathering so common to this place.
I awoke in the guard shack and, after a short walk for coffee at the donut shop across the street, began the chore of pulling the motor from my bike. Once on the bench I’d tear it apart. Because I’m not a real mechanic, just a good shade-tree wrench, this job would take time.
By afternoon Dale pointed to one of his own bikes—a hot-rod FXR—and said, “That thing’s been sitting for a while. It needs a battery and the cobwebs blown out. Fix it and you can use it while you’re here.” I turned attention immediately to the FXR and had it running in an hour. For the rest of this week’s stay I’d bomb around town on my personal little 93 inch hot rod. What a gas.
Within a few days Betsy’s engine was in pieces and the crank sat on a truing stand. Further measurements revealed the flywheels to be out by 13 thousandths. Bad news. Although most of Dale’s new machine shop was in an adjacent bay, it was not yet fully functional and Dale did not true cranks here. In past he’d simply sent bottom ends out to Dark-Horse in Wisconsin. But that would take weeks. The local machinist was out with a medical problem, which eliminated my options for having this crank re-trued in town. A serious dilemma. Well, in the light of this engine being such high mileage anyway, I began to think of a replacement.
During this interval of contemplation Dale, always the profit minded businessman, put me to work with Bryan on customer bikes and I was glad for the opportunity to give something back.
By evenings I talked about this problem on facebook and, shockingly, some readers sent replies of “Where do you want us to send money?” To which I asked, “Why would you wanna do that?” I mean, I’d seen my share of such predicaments before and knew things would ultimately work themselves out. However, I soon received a call from a friend who asked, “How much do you get paid for your writing?” To which I answered, “Very little. I write mostly for the readers.” “Exactly,” she countered, “Now let them help you. They want too.” After that Dale set up a gofundme for any who wished to donate, and the money began to trickle in. I was amazed.
But time was running out…
It had been months ago I’d been contacted by “Everything Is Stories”. Mike Martinez, whose company produces audio documentaries, said he wished to do a piece on my drifting life. An exciting opportunity! A very cordial dude, he needed to set a date and place at which we could meet. We’d eventually settled on New Orleans and Mike had already bought plane tickets and booked rooms for his five associates. He could no longer cancel those flights—and I had an engine in pieces.
We were scheduled to hook up in two weeks.
As I weighed my options the thought of a gear-head buddy near New Orleans who had an evo engine sitting in his garage came to mind. I called him. Getting older and wanting for the comfort of a bagger to replace the home-built chopper with a 113” Ultima engine he’d been riding for years, Evan had purchased a wrecked 1995 FL then repaired it. After riding the bagger until its stock engine developed a bad oil leak at the base gaskets, he’d simply pulled the thing and shoved the Ultima engine in it’s place. I told Evan of my situation and asked if he wanted to sell the old evo. “Sure,” he said, “But all I can tell you is that it ran great when I pulled it, and leaked like a sieve. That’s all I know. How’s $1,200 sound?” I agreed. But he was still four hours away. I asked about shipping. “How about I bring it to you?” Evan said. Again I was shocked. From the first I’d begun hanging with bikers as a kid, the value they placed on friendship had always seemed far beyond the ordinary to me. I guess that’s not changed.
Two days later Evan showed up with my new engine stowed in the trunk of the little economy car he’d borrowed to augment the cost of fuel for his truck on this, for him, eight hour ride. I paid gladly from the slim funds in my pocket.
I began the process of pulling the new engine’s top end apart and installing new gaskets against the leaks that Evan had promised. Two days later the engine was installed and seemed to run exceptionally well.
For all the favors he’d done me over the years, I made a gift of Betsy’s old motor to Dale . Maybe he’d build another bike from it, as he seemed so fond of doing with the worn out parts I leave behind (remember the Shovelhead?).
By the following day I was again on the Louisiana back roads of a sunny day while en-route to the famous city of New Orleans. Little did I suspect the grand adventure that lay just ahead…
