They say, that a human brain will take a traumatic experience and bury it, not allowing the conscious mind to dwell on it. By 1994 owning a Harley became so distant a dream, that I never even thought about it anymore. I was happy just paying the bills, forgot buying a bike.
The traumatic experience happened in 1982. My dream ever since I was a pre-schooler, was to own and ride a Harley, not just any motorcycle but a Harley. I loved the sound and the style of the bike. I worked the second shift at Stanadyne Diesel Systems, calibrating micrometers and handing out measuring devices and tools. It was a promotion from my old job of testing and setting the finished diesel pumps.
I lived at home with my parents and boyfriend, all of whom always figured out ways to separate me from my hard earned paycheck. The boyfriend constantly found old cars and parts for me to buy, so he could build his dream of running an auto restoration business.
After a while, I was in so deep with all these stupid cars, hoping he would finish a some and sell them, so I could get some money back (which never happened). So over a couple of years I worked a second shift, taking every hour of overtime I could grab and quietly stashed whatever dollars I could. There were a number of riders who worked the second shift. About half rode jap bikes and Triumphs and the rest rode H-Ds.
I admired one bike since the first day I saw it. Danny's 1964 Panhead was a jewel. It was an old New Hampshire police bike that his aunt discovered many years ago. It had a 1940 springer front end, which was immaculately chromed, a sprung seat, bobbed rear fender and no front fender. His aunt turned 90 and gave the bike to her favorite nephew. She stood about 5' 3″ and weighed 90 lbs., so the bike fit perfectly. It was also set up for a 5'4″, 110 lb, 22 year old girl–me. I went to bed dreaming about that Panhead. In my mind, it was the most perfect bike in the world. I even loved its black paint. It was such a perfect combination of black and chrome; it would have been a sin to put any artwork on it, even for a custom painter.
Danny needed some money and agreed to sell me the bike for $3200. That was a lot of money for me at the time. But unknown to my dad or boyfriend, I had it! Finally the week came when I was going to pick up the bike. I can remember the moment with vivid clarity. I was standing in the yard next to the south side of my parent's home. I had finally worked up enough nerve to tell me dad of my upcoming purchase. He looked over his glasses at me with a worried look on his face.
“Where ya planning on keeping this bike?” he said.
“In the garage?” I answered.
“Not this garage,” he said. “I didn't want to tell you. I've been putting it off, but we're way behind in the taxes and the town is gonna take the house.”
I had to ask the obvious question. “How much?”
“$4300,” he said quietly.
Shit, I had $4500 in the bank. The dream was over. I knew I'd never be able to save up enough money to buy the bike anytime soon. I ended up buying a '66 Triumph Trophy a few months later for $600. Nothing against trumps, it was a good bike, but after being so close to my dream, it just couldn't compete. The Triumph was sold 8 years later, so I could pay rent.
A number of dark years passed. I painted bikes in my studio and listened to the sounds of Harleys roaring by, knowing I had very little chance of owning one.
Numerous boyfriends, four fiancés, and many years later, it was 1994.I had just returned from a wild week in Kentucky, where I'd been offered the keys to very sweet Ironhead Sporty.
The object of my erotic desires was tired and figured if I was out riding his bike, maybe he could get some rest. I turned the keys down and decided right then and there that I wanted my own bike. I didn't want to ride someone else's.
One night, after I got home, I was at the bar and told the guys I wanted to buy a bike. Gene, the bartender said the best choice for me was a late model 1200 Sporty. So the word went down the bar and a slip of paper with a name and phone number came back.
The next day I called that number and drove over to a rundown trailer park. The owner said a buddy wanted the bike, but he hadn't heard from him in some time, so he may as well sell it to me.
There were 8,400 miles on it. He wanted $3600. I tried to give the owner a deposit. “I trust you,” the owner said, and I made arrangements to take it home.
The next day, the phone rang. It was the guy. He told me he couldn't sell the bike. He called his buddy, and the pal wanted the bike, and seeing as how he had first dibs… No! Not again! It was 1982 all over again. I'd been denied my dream. Well not this time! Something in me snapped. Next thing I knew I was in tears, pleading with him.
“I need this bike! My life will be over without it! I'll camp out in your doorstep,” I screamed. “You'll need to get a restraining order against me. You must sell me this bike! You can't say no!”
He told me if I came over right that instant and gave him $3650, I could have the bike. I pulled the money out of the bank the previous day and made arrangements with a buddy to use his trailer. I broke the speed of sound hauling ass to the moldy shed. My face was still streaked with tears upon arrival, and the owner apologized for upsetting me.
“It sounds like you needed this bike more than him,” he said. “His wife doesn't want him to have it anyway. They just had a kid.” He opened his safe to get out the title and pulled out a pair of gloves. I had a Willie G jacket and had been looking for the matching gloves for a few years and been unable to find them. In front of my eyes sat a pair of nearly new Willie G gloves. I put them on and they fit perfectly, just like that bike fit me. It was meant to be.
It's been a very full 10 years and 2 months since that day. The bike underwent significant changes in the first 2 years. All the pitted aluminum parts were pulled off, chromed or replaced. The tank and fenders were reworked into one of kind items, after I happened to marry a bike builder. A 140 rear tire gives the bike a fat look, the raked front end gives the bike a sweet ride and the S&S carb helps it breathe. Fat leather saddlebags carry all my crap. And of course the sheetmetal had to be black.
The bike has been up and down the East Coast, from New Hampshire to Key West and tore-up the roads out in Sturgis. It carried me safely through many, many, many adventures and even got its own page in Ironworks. It rode around Charlotte Motor Speedway and ripped through the twisty roads of the Smokey Mountains. I loaded it like the truck from the Beverly Hillbillys.
When we pushed that bike out of the shed, I had no idea the road that lay ahead of me and would have scoffed at anyone who told me what might happen.
This year, I finally got my “dream bike.” A custom, built chopper/bobber built just for me (by husband, Jimmy). It too is black, a legacy from the old panhead. All my bikes will be black–It's my code. And I'll paint each one. The poor Sporty sat ignored for most of the summer, gathering cobwebs but not moss.
That is, until I started pulling it out each weekend for a ride. I recently rode it down to Rockingham, NC to watch the Harley Drags. The Sporty rode smooth and the engine felt strong, and I began to think.
There was a time when the bikes, I now own, were so far out of my reach, I dared not even dream of ownership. I'm lucky to have one dream come true. I never imagined I would own two very cool bikes.
–CrazyHorse
