Years ago...
Early summer was
upon us and perfect weather oversaw this journey as the two heavily
loaded motorcycles picked their way slowly through the strikingly
green forests of one small Virginia highway. Behind my aging Electra
Glide Michelle followed on her old Honda Shadow.
Five years
earlier, having never ridden a motorcycle before, Michelle had paid
$700 for that bike, practiced on it for a week, loaded her worldly
possessions aboard, then hit the road. She's been a technically
homeless motorcycle vagabond ever since and is the only full time
female drifter I know. Most often Michelle travels alone, but on
occasion, as was this day, we enjoy the opportunity of riding
together for a while.
Today's was a
mountainous terrain and as we topped a long upgrade I went to shift
form third to fourth gear but was instead met by a strange sensation.
There was a little hesitation, a kind of light snap, then no gear at
all. The others seemed fine, but fourth was gone. This was a new one
on me. We'd just entered a tiny town (as are most Virginia towns)
where I found a strip of mowed grass to pull the bike onto and shut
her down. Tools were retrieved from the saddlebag and I pulled the
transmission's top cover (four little bolts). A look inside revealed
the obvious problem: one of the shifting forks had broken which
allowed two gears to engage simultaneously. This action had busted
the dogs off the side of first gear—which is what engages fourth
gear—and bingo, fourth no more. Next, I pulled the shifting drum
(four more little bolts) then pushed a magnet-on-a-stick through the
oil and to the bottom of the transmission's insides. All broken gear
pieces came out in big chunks. What a trip. Having only limited
experience with the inner workings of Harley Davidson transmissions,
it looked as though I was about to get a crash course on this
subject.
The question was
what to do next.
The bike was
still rideable and, in truth, had I known then what I know now I’d
probably have just kept riding until better opportunity for repair
presented itself. But I didn't know, so
the search for a solution began. Asking around town, I'd learned that
a mile back down the road from which we'd just come was a guy who
worked on Harleys. Least that's what I was told. His number was not
listed and, in the thick greenery of this sparsely populated
hillbilly land, I had doubts that the guy even existed. Still, it was
the only option so back down the road we went. It took two passes to
finally see the sign at roadside. It had been hand painted onto a
sheet of plywood and simply read, HARLEY SHOP.
We
turned in.
The
dirt driveway passed alongside a small creek as it led ¼ mile
through a little valley completely surrounded by hills and forest. At
the stream's far side I could see two buildings while farther up the
hill a small house sat alone. One of the closer structures was little
more than a freestanding garage and I noted the motorcycles parked on
its concrete driveway. A little wooden bridge soon crossed the creek
and we pulled in. Inside the garage a bearded man sat on the floor
behind a late model bagger as he worked on somebody's old Sportster.
I introduced myself. His name was Shovelhead Steve. But the guy
seemed preoccupied, distant, maybe a little lost in his own world.
Being in a bind, I began to explain the situation. Steve said he had
none of the specialty tools required for serious transmission work.
Although no expert, I knew that most of a five speed trany can be
disassembled without special tools. Steve obviously had his hands
full with customer bikes and didn't want to deal with this job, but
couldn't help seeing we were on the road and in some real trouble.
With a slight warmth I watched crease his eyes, that old biker
mentality kick in as he said, “I don't really have time to deal
with your trany, but you can pull the thing apart here in the
driveway if you like. You're welcome to any tools I have.”
After
moving my FL to a spot just outside the shop door, I pulled the
tool-bag and started the job.
It
had been well into the afternoon when we'd arrived and before long
Steve's work day was done. Cruising outside, he paused to note my
work—which hadn't gotten to far because I’m an insufferably slow
mechanic. Now we got to bullshitting in earnest. Steve brightened
when he learned we were on the road full time. He also found it
interesting that I’m a writer, because so is he—though neither of
us makes a living with this art. I asked if we could make camp by the
creek. Steve said, “Sure”. But when I asked about a shower to
knock the grease from my body, Steve told me the water in his house
was gravity fed from the stream and barley dribbled anyway. Whatever
the reason, I didn't think this guy was big on having visitors in his
house. In fact, neither Michelle nor I would ever see the inside of
that place. No problem, I was just happy to have use of a shop.
Since
it looked like we'd be here a while, Michelle and I picked the best
spot by the stream and set in a semi-permanent camp. Next, I plopped
into the creek and used about half a bar of soap against the grease
on my body. The night was quiet after that.
The
following day Steve and I took considerably more time getting to know
each other. Being the only shop for many miles, this place had a
surplus of motorcycles in for repair and Steve had himself under a
lot of pressure to get these
jobs done. It seemed to me that he was so overwhelmed with work,
bills, and the making of personal security (money and such) that this
guy spent his time doing little, or maybe nothing, else. He was
stressed out, man. I also learned that Steve suffered from muscular
dystrophy. As muscle-mass slowly deteriorated, this disease was
sapping his strength and, although none of us really gets much time
on this planet, I wondered how many usable days were left for him.
My
bike had well over 400,000 miles on it now. At 337,000 the old Harley
had suffered its first real transmission problem when one of the
inner bearings had gone south. Although I’d pulled the clutch,
exhaust pipes, etc., thus making it very easy to access the
transmission's innards, a shop had done the actual internal repairs.
Their mechanic had shown me that when one bearing goes out it spits
bits of metal into the trany which in turn takes out the other
bearings as well. I was afraid that had happened again and therefore
wanted to completely disassemble and replace, or at least inspect,
all inner transmission bearings and their mating surfaces.
Steve didn't have the proper tools to pull the main drive gear, and
the bearings inside that sucker could therefore not be inspected or
replaced at his shop.
I
needed another plan.
Years
ago the bike had suffered some other mechanical issue in Asheville
North Carolina (100 miles south of Shovelhead Steve's place) and I’d
repaired it in the parking lot of a one man shop called Mountain
Cycle Works. The owner and I had been friends ever since and,
whenever visiting that area, I now always make camp in the yard of
his home. Jody's Asheville shop was easily equipped to handle heavy
trany work so I called him. Jody said to bring it down. That done,
the next order of business would be any needed new parts. I put in
another call to an entrepreneurial friend who makes most of his
living selling Harley parts. Rather than send only what I needed, he
insisted on shipping a complete Andrews gear set brand new and still
in the box. I gave him the address for Mountain Cycle Works.
The
next question was how to get that
transmission to Asheville? I decided to pull the trany, strap it to
the back of Michelle's bike, ride double-up to Asheville, rebuild the
trany, bring it back to Steve’s, install it, and ride away. Simple
right?
By
now Steve and I had put in plenty of hours on the bullshit wagon.
More-so than I’d realized, his mind had begun to wonder beyond the
bounds of this property line. So when I talked of riding to
Asheville, Steve spoke enthusiastically of coming along. There were
old friends in Asheville he'd not seen for a long while because he'd
not left the stress of this property for just as long.
We
would leave in the morning.
I’d
grown accustomed to birdsong emanating from the impossibly green
forest surrounding Steve's property and today was no different as we
readied the two motorcycles. I attached Betsy's transmission to the
rack of Michelle's Honda while, oddly enough, Mr. Shovelhead Steve
packed his twin cam bagger. I don't actually know if he even had a
Shovelhead. Anyway, the sky offered perfect weather as, with both
bikes packed and ready, we set off into the mountains.
Famous
among motorcyclists for its twisting curves and forested beauty, The
Dragon's Tail also exists in these mountains. I’ve been there many
times. Mostly, that place is renowned for it's name and the little
store that offers t-shirts and other overpriced bullshit to the
crowds of motorcyclists that congregate in its parking lot. But in
truth, the Dragon's Tail's not much better, if at all, than most any
road in the Smoky/Appellation Mountain range. In other words, for its
entire duration this was a fantastically rich and beautiful ride. As
the cobwebs blew from Steve's brain, I watched the dull glaze leave
his eyes. It seemed his sleeping spirit was again waking up. . .
