how i fell in love.....with a motorcycle parts 3 & 4 continued from May 2016 pts 1 & 2

winter 2015, on the table at the shovelhead wizard's shop

part 3   WAIT ~ the other four letter word

  On a Shovelhead, one can be bold, brash, fearless for sure; but one had better be patient. In the time line of breakdowns ('09 failed generator, '10 loose jugs, '12 low side, '13 the stator, '13 blown head gasket, '15 battery cover, '16 final recovery from the low side), the bike had to be set aside or strapped on the tabletop at the shop. Diagnosis was only the beginning of solving the presenting problem. Once that was identified the parts had to be located and acquired; skilled craftsmen had to be discovered and schedules had to be aligned. That could take months; the work, weeks, days, hours; but in all cases it meant we had to wait. Precious riding weather in Vermont's short biking season passed by. Leaving me to suffer a bench warmer's sorrow as I watched lucky riders who would roll by my farm on those long days.  I've decided there is no zen in waiting.

   I would justify this time taking pictures of various stages of tear down, I would learn more and appreciate still more the fabrication and mechanics of the machine. I would research topics, shops and specialties for the project at hand. We met some outstanding people in unlikely places and were often rescued by the all knowing Google.

original decals sourced by a caring friend's vigilant attention to parts no. 

   Parts and accessories came from around the nation and our state to remake the glory of this vintage ride. I will include a few here... but the effort exceeded our contemporary culture's instant/disposable norms. The shops were often small and cluttered with salvaged parts from decades of living the motorcycling scene. A question "there" would lead to a name "here" or a shop "yonderway". It became a journey all its own, with places, people and adventures unique to themselves.


 

the last year to offer a kick start

the wrenching-wizard pondering the next move; or puzzling for a misplaced tool 

part 4      old skool

  The un-puzzled pieces in various conditions of disfunction lead to my feelings of overwhelming ignorance. I thusly arranged to interview the Shovelhead's wrenching-wizard. We met up and lounged on a comfortable patio with a down slope view of his modest shop. We didn't cover many details about Shovelheads. He did validate my one-word observation of the strong allegiance of this HD engine's followers: Nostalgia. The model era of the trademark bikes was '66 to '84; the time of civil discord that tore America apart. They were the motorcycles that Vietnam vets came home to; the bikes that would get them away from public disdain and their own embattled reckoning. The rides that were, and still remain, easy to chop and customize to personal taste. It was the last model that allowed owners to get into the gritty works of daily care and keeping and get lost in an intimate relationship with the order of operations. A simple yet powerful V-twin engine with the classic sound of Harley fame. It had become an American symbol; and perhaps the sport's turning point from motorcycle enthusiasts to bad-boy bikers.

http://www.vintagesteele.com/

  Dealers were loosing capacity to service them through parts or repair departments. The older bikers in sales and service were aging out and the younger staff lacked that vocational knowledge of the way a Shovelhead worked. I witnessed this experience first hand. The local franchises couldn't even source a replacement clutch handle for the '84 lo. Thankfully, the internet saved us in our searching, even the original decals were located in Oregon in a google search. Thankfully, a network of vintage shops, web sites, artisans, enthusiasts and mechanics were found. Piece by piece, the job of rehabing his beloved bike was accomplished. New paint and upholstery was delegated to a shop  155 miles away, at Vintage Steele. Exact detailing on the refurbished tanks and new fenders (made of lighter metal, they had to be built up to fit the '84 frame before painting) was recreated with perfection. The leather work was stitched with scrupulous attention to the original stamped on pattern only on a stronger cut of cowhide.

 

our Shovelhead wizard wrench on his '74 Glide

   By amazing luck our wizard wrench was only 3 miles away making it easy to lurk in his shop, snapping pictures and pretending to understand what he was saying about the bike. I sat perched on a corner stool and listened intently as I fathomed the precision of the work at hand. I would ponder the dream that in another life I could have enjoyed a vocation with motorcycles; but it is a man's world in most ways with not a lot of room for women 35 years ago.

   In our pseudo interview, he did allude to a trend in HD corporate practices. The Shovelhead's open works made it accessible to maintain but prone to aberrations in function. It's an engine series that has been retired; the motorcycle engineers evolving newer engines and rider ergonomics to keep the less mechanically inclined of the market buying into the motorcycle mystique. But with those creature comforts, Harley Davidson has proprioritized  parts, maintenance and service. A local, private practice wrench or shop can no longer order case loads of HD oils, lubes or common parts. Only dealerships can order in bulk and benefit from that wholesale price break. Now a self-employed biker-fixer has to pay retail and pass that expense onto the customer. For many on tight budgets, that will send them to the franchises and at the mercy of said service crew. He fears this will change the MC community, pricing out the average person and put too many wanna-be's and posers on the roads. The Shovelhead is the last of the good ol' days; affectionately known as "Old Skool" with an aristocracy of its own breed.

better than new, good as old 

   The wrench tweaked a few more small gizmos and gadgets. The fuel off/on pet cock, some tattered cables and levers from the 2012 low side and put it all together with no box of left over mystery parts, either. When all was done and reassembled, the look was tremendous. It was then I realized how much the few patches of scuffed chrome and paint vexed my outlaw bikerman. It was ready for its road test and the wizard wrench was gonna have that honor. When he started her up, the sound of our people filled the air. With a simple nod, he trolled his ragged driveway to the main road below. The video I collected was sent in the click of a button to the anxious bikerman 79 miles away, and my fingers were crossed in hopes of a longrun for my final ride.
https://youtu.be/xegxbz4EOVg

peace ~ Resa

coming soon

part 5 my final ride & epilogue

Pillion Up Front ~ 2016, 7.5

at the access of Glenn Lake

   "I have a canoe..." was all he had to say. After two days on his motorcycle rolling over silky roads in VT and NH, spending a day on cool waters was an alluring invitation indeed. When he sweetened the offer with his claim of "...knowing a secret lake with only paddle craft and wilderness along the shoreline..." made me pull my head away from VT road maps. "...and its a short car ride from here." Now he had my full attention, "I can't paddle much, the sunshine will wilt me...in fact, I don't think I can be of much help, in the boat, at all." He declared, "you won't need to, you'd be my pillion up front..." "Well then, let's make it so" punctuated with my smile.

   In short order, he produced his canoe and lay it by his car. A 14' Lincoln of Kevlar with hard wood  seat frames laced with caned seat decks. Neat, clean and in mint condition like his bike. Then came the belongings for our voyage to be stowed in the back of his car. In one well-practiced move he hoisted the red shell onto his roof lamenting the need for roof racks.

secured for the drive

I joked that "... a canoe trailer to tow behind the bike might better serve his two passions." When all was secure atop the car and most all was packed inside, he asked if I "remembered my pfd?" "...so this is why I needed one, ah ha." and into the car it went. I recalled the discussion, about needing one and my sheepish response about swimming should we come across a good spot on a ride..."no, I don't mind cooling off, I just....can't swim....any more...In my youth I could swim a mile, red-cross certified and all. But now, my legs are so weak, I can't tread water, or kick in any way. I would drown without a life jacket" "Try to get one, or I can find one somewhere..." On his craft, I would need one if.... just if.

  After everything was accounted for, we loaded ourselves and drove over state roads and back lanes to a not so secret, but little used lake a crow's glide from Bomoseen. Glenn Lake, a quiet, serene body of water surrounded by ledges, trees and shoreline interrupted by only one building in one corner of the lake, very near the access on our left. In barely a few minutes, he had his  boat down and loaded with our gear filling the middle span perfectly.  He placed the fully stuffed dry bag behind my wicker seat at near level with with my waistband. A paddle for me and his own slid tight to the gunwales for an easy grab once we were in. He inched it into the shallow water, crystal clear over a sandy bottom that didn't shift under my water shoes. I carried my cane to hold me up, but didn't have his shoulder to lean on as I shifted my weight from my feet to my knees beside the top line. A moment of sifting through memories as to how I should get into the slender vessel; I didn't want to tip it over or fall out before I got in. Then recollection guided me to put my butt on the forward seat, feet dangling over the side then haul my legs into the narrow space behind the tapered bow in one swinging motion. I fit as I should and cracked a smile; my road worthy camera  in hand to snap some pics.

Glenn Lake under a blue bird sky

pillion up front

   It had been about 20 years since my last canoe outing in a dirty, hot aluminum craft memorably longer than this one. This was an overdo reunion with a nature-scape on water. Though I was intending to help paddle, the brilliant sun shine was already wearing me down. Even the graceful paddle stroking was too strenuous for me, inducing numb hands and wobbling balance in my perch. Per his instruction, I stopped trying and became his pillion; up front.
I opted  instead, to be the photo journalist of the day, enjoying the awe of vivid greenery and smooth, clear waters blurring at the reflective edges. As on a motorcycle, there is no frame to constrict the scenery, no filters to dull sound or scents. We were in the moment, I was a  witness to the composition around us. Our cathedral was a limitless blue bird sky reaching into infinity, punctuated with over-fluffed clouds drifting casually across our upward gaze.

feet up, dry bag makes a nice recliner

a shoreline respite

green lilies to float through

ledges

  No loud pipes to lull me on these waters, only the faint sound of his paddle skillfully dipping into the lake as he pulled our craft gently forward. We'd skinny up to the edges and spy birds in the water and resting on branches; we'd cut through clusters of pond lilies and startle fish bellow the waterline. When I finally succumbed to the warm air and blazing sun,

my kryptonyte, the sun

I fell back on the dry bag and gave into my illness. For that place and time, it felt sort of good to just lay as a weakened heap on my back, stretching my legs out with feet on the bow in a simple luxury. It's not often that I can indulge in this rest, feet up higher than my heart, contemplating clouds for art forms as someone else was in charge. Restive and pensive, time idled by as we toured the lake; his reminiscings of other times on or around this oasis.

blue heron wading 

baltimore oriole

still waters

  We are fortunate in Vermont, to have such places reserved for paddle craft only. To preserve silence and the wildlife that prefers it. I was reminded that its good to be a pillion, when its a comfortable ride with good company. If I could have gotten back into the boat, I would have rolled out of the disabling  heat and cooled down in the clear waters. But, experience advised otherwise and we meandered back to our starting point. As we climbed out from the simple canoe, several people remarked about the style and ease of its handling by one person. Like motorcycling, water worshipers have their own community and will admire and compliment a good design when they see it.
With my feet firmly on solid ground, I took great satisfaction that I didn't fall out, didn't pass out and we didn't capsize. A grand day out as a pillion up front, only thing missing was a reach around for my bikerman. After all, riding pillion has its privileges.

peace ~ resa