Shortly thereafter, one of my readers sent an email with photos of an immaculate, 34,000 original mile, 1991 Electra Glide he was asking $4,500 for. I’d told the guy no. My intention was to ride Betsy forever. Then I woke up one morning and thought, I’ll just spend this three grand anyway. What the hell, I can sell that other bike and probably turn a profit or, if not, all its parts will fit Betsy. It’ll be like money in the bank. So I’d called a wealthy friend in Kansas to ask if he’d care to put up the other $1,500 then hold the bike and title till I got around to paying him. Derek had been suggesting I get another bike for years and whenever I’d pull up to his house he’d look at poor beat up Betsy and say, “Anyone get hurt in that wreck?” Besides, he owns the remainder of Big Dog Motorcycle company and makes his living buying and selling motorcycle parts. If I died he’d simply sell the bike and keep the profit. Derek had then bought the new bike and had it shipped to his home in Kansas. Once arrived, he’d sent a message that read, Got your bike. It’s way to nice for you. I now almost owned a motorcycle I’d never seen nor wanted.
As the miles passed this memory had faded, for now there were more pressing fish to fry…
For some months I’d been receiving calls from an audio documentary company called Everything Is Stories. Over the phone Mike and I had been working to nail down a time and place to fly his crew for the purpose of an interview. It was a daunting task considering my flaky existence of mostly mindless wandering and no schedules, alarm clocks, or calendars. Eventually however, we’d settled on New Orleans in the fall. But Betsy had then developed a serious vibration problem and I’d ended up at Dale’s Bike Shop (a good friend) near Beaumont Texas with her engine pulled apart. After some testing I’d ultimately decided that, with 330,000 miles on that mill (her second) I’d not spend the time or money to repair it. The search for another engine began.
As I’d talked of this breakdown on social media some of the readers began asking where they could send donations. I’d then asked why they’d want to do such a thing and soon received a call from a woman who wanted to know if I make any real money from my writing.
“Not really Ann. Mostly I write for the readers.”
“Exactly. Now they want to help you. Let them!”
I conceded. Next, Dale put up an engine replacement gofundme and the money began to trickle in. In amazement I made promise that all who contributed would have their names painted on my tour pack as sponsors.
With the Everything Is Stories interview less than two weeks away, I was stuck in Texas without a motor, and Mike could no longer get a refund for the New Orleans plane tickets he’d already purchased. I liked Mike, had made him a rather expensive promise, and didn’t wanna let the guy down. The search for an engine began.
Remembering a friend in Louisiana of whom I’d seen an EVO engine sitting in his garage, I had placed a call. Three days later Evan had driven five hours to deliver that engine in the trunk of a small car and for only $1,200. It was in and running the next day.
Then, while in New Orleans, the gofundme money had finished trickling in at a total of $2,400 and I’d simply taken that money and paid off the Kansas motorcycle, then pointed Betsy’s front wheel into deep Mexico for the hardest months of winter.
After that had come another breakdown at another friend’s shop in North Carolina and I’d begun to wonder if Betsy hated me. It seemed all I did was ride from shop to shop working on the damn thing these days, and serious travel had become a real problem. Over and over I reminded Betsy that, with the money and trouble of these recent repairs, I was offering her a chance. For I now owned another bike and, if she didn’t straighten up her act forthwith, she might end up in a bone-yard somewhere. Although mostly an idle threat, I was beginning to mean it.
By morning I rode slowly to the next little Kansas town, asked around, and was directed to a large barn where a single farm-boy stood working on a tractor. I showed him the frame with a statement that it just needed a band-aid strong enough to make another 190 miles where the bike would then be retired. He said, “I can fix that”.
“Want me to clean off the dirt before you start wielding?”
“What about the rust?”
It was Betsy’s final ride as we passed the gate and onto the 100 acres of Kansas prairie that held Derek’s big house with pond surrounding three of its four sides, and two big metal buildings set nearby. My new bike was just as he’d said: beautiful condition with only 34,000 original miles. But the new Electra Glide—minus tour pack, lower leg guards, etc.—was incomplete for long term gypsy road use. It was time to make a decision:
For the following week I visited with Derek and his wife Donna, helped with their bike parts business, swam in the pond, spent time with their friends, went fishing, and simultaneously swapped parts from my old bike to the new. What I then found in Betsy seemed most astonishing: Almost every part was broken, rusted, cracked, or otherwise somehow screwed up. Betsy did not hate me, the poor thing was dying of cancer. Some will understand, while others do not, but to watch the death of such an intimate and long time companion was an emotional experience for me.
But the Sturgis rally lay ahead. Next would come Montana. After that who knew?
My experience with the evolution engine Harleys has been the ability to ride the hell out of them with an absolute minimum of breakdowns. In fact my first EVO—a 1987 Softail—had offered its very first problem at 85,000 miles.
