Illustration by Chris Kallas, signed prints are available in the Bikernet Gulch. title: A DREAM FULFILLED-PART 2

BY OZZY

"Son, this is a Panhead," Henry said. "It came out of a 1952 Harley Davidson, that my father bought brand new." I was two years old at the time. My dad loved that bike, he rode it everywhere. He started riding me up on the gas tank when I was three. What a thrill! My mom yelled at him that I was too young and would get hurt, but he wouldn't listen to her. Just told her to go back in the house and mind her business. Off we'd go, for hours, cruising the country roads near our home. My dad always had a smile on his face when he was on that bike. It seemed that nothing could come between his love for his Pan and hitting the road for days.

As I got older, the afternoon rides with him became infrequent. He'd still spend time with me and the bike. But instead of riding, we'd clean her up, changing the oil and spark plugs, checking tire pressures and adjusting brakes. And all the while he'd tell me stories of the road. He'd roll out every Saturday morning, bright and early, with a bedroll and an extra set of clothes. The road beckoned, in many directions. Sometimes it lured him to places he'd never been and sometimes to roads that he knew like the back of his hand. He always shut the bike down and coasted quietly into the driveway on Sunday night, usually after mom and I went to bed. But the rumble of the Pan in the distance would always wake me up. And I couldn't wait until the next day to hear about a new adventure.

He taught me everything thing I needed to know about metal working, using tools and machines and welding. My interests in all things mechanical grew. I tore apart and tinkered with anything that I could put a wrench to. By the time I was fourteen, I could disassemble and assemble that Panhead without any help from the old man. He also taught me how to ride, just an old beater, that he brought home one day and told me to get running. That was my pride and joy. But he still wouldn't let me ride her.

But then, on my 16th birthday, everything changed. My dad came home with another motorcycle in the back of his truck, the looks of which I had never seen before, only heard about in my dad's stories. It was a chopper. With high handlebars and a tall sissybar, it was the coolest thing I had ever seen. But man did it need work. The engine was missing, and the chassis was covered in rust and road grime, plus two flat tires and a dent in the gas tank. He gave a yell for me to come and give him a hand lifting it out of the bed. Then he gave it to me for my birthday and with a big smile promised to help me get her running, so that we could ride together.

I was thrilled. This was my dream. To have my own Harley- Davidson, and cruise the highways with my dad. We spent every evening working on the bike. After tearing it apart and cleaning everything that was salvageable, it took some time for me to raise enough money to buy the parts needed, to get her back on the road. And I still didn't have an engine!

Then the worst thing that could happen, did. My dad was gone. He'd had a heart attack, in his sleep one night, and died. I was devastated. I didn't touch my chopper project for a long time after that. My life seemed to lose direction. One day my mom said, "You know Henry, dad's motorcycle is still in the garage, and I think it's time that it was passed down to you. You should have her, because you loved her as much as he did." She was right, and I ran to the garage. I never rode my dad's Panhead, and sitting there in the garage, she sure did look lonely. I sat down next to her on the garage floor, and eventually fell asleep.

When I woke the next day, I rolled the Pan outside, gave her a quick wipe down, and two kicks later she was running. I climbed aboard and got a sudden chill. Man, it didn't feel right. I couldn't put a finger on the feeling. Then I looked up and saw my chopper and knew exactly what to do. I shut the Pan down, rolled her into the garage and proceeded to pull the motor out and transplant it into my chopper. My ride, with the same heart and soul that took care of dad all those years on the road. It could not have been more perfect.

As soon as the transplant was completed, I kicked her over, exactly as before, two kicks, and she ran like a champ. I ran inside and grabbed dad's bedroll, and I was out the door and on my way to my own adventures. What an awesome ride! She rumbled down the road without missing a beat, and I had the biggest shit eating grin on my face ever. Life was good. I missed the hell out of my dad and wished that he were riding next to me. But suddenly I understood completely his love affair with his Panhead and the road.

I returned home a couple of days later. I thanked mom for giving me the inspiration to forge ahead with a dream. I pulled the '52 into the back of the garage and covered her up. Time for the old girl to take a rest. I continued to work, and every weekend I would pack a set of clothes, a bedroll and hit the road in a different direction. Seeing new sights and meeting new people.

Four years of working hard, riding hard, and having the greatest life experiences one can imagine, led me down a road that I didn't expect to travel. While sitting in small road-side pub, having a beer and a smoke after a glorious day on the road, trouble walked in. The most beautiful woman strolled into the bar. She sauntered right up to me and asked me to buy her a drink. Ted, the bartender, gave me a reassuring smile, I chuckled and nodded to the bartender. She sat close to me, while she drank, so close I could feel her body heat. She started talking about the previous night. Seems she met a guy in another bar, and after drinking together for awhile, he started to get nasty. So she split as soon as he went to the head. After a couple more beers, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Her face turned white. He had tracked her to this bar. Her fear consumed lovely features.

We took it outside and I sent fast jabs to his nose and a sharp uppercut to his jaw. The chick started to scream ,and I wasn't sure why. I was trying to protect her from this asshole. The fight didn't last long, and I left him lying in a heap on the ground. She didn't follow me back inside. Although I kept my eye on them, I wasn't concerned. I finished my beer and got up to leave. On my way out, I noticed that she was consoling this asshole with the busted nose. I didn't really care at that point, so I headed for my bike. The road beckoned. Then I felt the crack, and I fell to the dusty deck of the gravel lot. I looked back over at them. He was holding a chrome plated .22, and he was smiling. He' d shot me in the back, and the sexy broad at his side giggled.

To be continued

Dan “Ozzy” Franco

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