At some time in their lives everyone gets the Harley bug. God knows why but the charisma of the American twin seeps deep into the consciousness, a mix of raw machinery, beautiful babes on the pillion and all those road movies. Most hard-core readers of the UMG dismiss such devices as entirely impractical for UK roads; this ain't Route 66, boy, etc. But to hear, see and feel (surely, the very ground trembles!) a Harley in the flesh for the first time is such a visceral experience that there's no stopping the insane enthusiasm.
Enough said, I had to have one. I didn't really have that clear a picture of the range. For sure, I could differentiate between an 883/1200 Sporster and the 1340, which was usually dressed up in an excess of cruising clothes. I could even recognise the pre-Evolution warhorses, though I wasn't mad enough to want to indulge in that particular bad trip.
So when I saw the advert for a 1200 Sportster I had a vague idea of what I was getting into. The vendor, an outlaw with so much facial hair I could barely make out his piggy eyes, revealed that it was actually an 883 that had been converted to 1200 spec, with lots of chassis mods to suit his lifestyle. Long forks, minimal seat, straight-thru exhaust, high bars and huge, open-mouthed carb that threatened to suck in passing ped's.
I wasn't overjoyed at these mods, something shown in my crestfallen face, but was relieved when he said he had all the stock stuff in his house (the front room was reserved for the bike!) and he'd turn it back to standard if I was willing to come up with the asking price (£3750). The reason for the sale was a massive Harley chopper than was longer than most cars and so lowly slung it would be in a fight with any errant manhole covers. He nearly hit me when I suggested it was unrideable!
Anyway, the motor sounded good and righteous, so the deal was done and the next day I turned up with the cash for the machine, now resplendent in stock clothes. That's more like it, I exclaimed, whilst he counted the used twenties (he'd warned me not to bring any fifties). A couple of his outlaw mates were there, filing away at their teeth, with vicious looking knives. I was a bit disturbed by his parting comment, that the bike was sold as seen and I'd better not bother coming back to complain if anything went wrong.
This was the first Harley I'd ever ridden, so I didn't quite know what to make of the finger numbing, foot shaking vibes that poured out of the machine as I tried to wind the venerable vee up. The clutch lever had tried to break my left hand and my poor old foot had got into a right old fighting match with the gear lever. I was relieved to get her into fourth and let the torque take over, only there wasn't the kind of eyeball popping urge I'd been led to expect by all the glossy road tests.
A little way down the road I found out that the pneumatic drill had no brakes. Luckily, she made such a racket that the cagers were well aware of the impending doom and let us float through the junction like an irate rhino. The front disc would work, I found out, if I tried for a grip that would bend a steel bar. Even then the retardation was frighteningly slow.
Back home I almost burst into tears. The shiny, relatively quiet motor I'd bought an hour earlier was now seeping oil from every joint and knocked away like all the bearings were shot. A fug of smoke hung over the machine from the slash pipes, one of which had loosened, gone all askew.
Then the motor started clanking away to itself, actually trying to leap out of the frame, so viciously that I thought I was surely hallucinating. It locked up solid, flipped off the sidestand and bounced on the driveway. If I hadn't leapt out of the way it would've broken me in half. Vicious bastard.
I was all for putting a match in the petrol tank. The only thing that stopped me was the thought that I'd just spent every penny I had in the world on the beast. Sad, or what? I was so pissed I left it where it had fallen for an hour, pissing oil, petrol and battery acid. Nearly broke my back lugging the overweight heap back to the vertical. The motor was seized solid and the petrol tank dented. At about that moment of despair a couple of replica mounted mates turned up and had a good laugh at my expense.
There was nothing for it but to whip the motor out and have a look at how far gone the thing was. The mileage was indeterminate as the clocks weren't standard. Could've gone round the clock a few times in its five years of existence. What I think had happened, judging by the extent of the damage, was that the outlaw had stripped the motor down and used every mashed engine component in his possession, rebuilt the mill in a hurry and used sludge-like oil to keep the noises in check. Anyway, except for the external cases it was a goner.
No, I wasn't brave enough to go back and give the bro's a piece of my mind but I did get my mate in the police on their case. Couldn't do anything about the bike but they got them on illegal firearms and drugs, so the bastard's serving a nice long prison sentence and had all his possessions impounded by the cops. He who laughs last, etc.
Back to the Harley. Harley parts are not cheap in the UK. I managed to scrounge worn bits out of the hands of mad headcases, get the crankshaft rebuilt, bodged the gearbox, used barrels and pistons just about on their last legs, and rebuilt the cylinder heads all by myself. Harleys are not easy to work out, a bit of a pig-ear's of an engine with about two million shims to get right! I'm not the world's best amateur mechanic but eventually it was sussed and running again.
In the meantime I'd had a couple of rides on Sportsters, found that the vibration was normal and therefore wasn't that surprised when my rebuilt machine did a passing imitation of a pile-driver. Thumping torque was an all too literal description of the Harley's performance. Braking, handling and general competence weren't in abundance. It needed muscle and bravery to ride at speeds that would see off a restricted 125!
And of its famed laid back, coolness? Well, the bike just didn't fit me, I could never find a comfortable perch. Indeed, had some back trouble from straining against the bars. It did attract women, of a sort - old slags who'd drop their knickers for just about anyone and were mired in all kinds of strains of incurable diseases. I had to fight them off, flee the scene, as I was only twenty and not into women as old as me mum!
I didn't give up easily, though, as I spent so much money, time and effort to get into the Harley game. There had to be more to it than the vicious vibes, dangerous handling and sheer lack of zip. At times the engine shrugged and strained so heavily that I thought I was in the midst of a minor earthquake or volcanic eruption! There was never any fluidity to the thing, however hard I looked or compromised the way I wanted to ride (which meant keeping to wide A-roads, as it was too wicked in the tight stuff and too slow on the motorway).
When I started pushing the Harley a little harder I kept being spat off, thanks to the total lack of ground clearance. Top speed was about the ton but in reality vibes kept me down to around 70mph, although the motor never really settled down to a vibration free speed. When it wasn't vibrating harshly it seemed to be grumbling away to itself, sending tremors through the frame, hopping across the tarmac if left ticking over on the stand.
I tried for all of six months and 3000 miles to get to grips with the beast but it was all too obscure for me. And too bloody dangerous. New ones are rumoured to have brakes that work and lights that illuminate, and suspension that soaks up the bumps without throwing the bike all over the shop, but the old stuff, unless it's expensively modded (and I'd run right out of money, I'd never been so poor as when running the Harley) doesn't offer much of a motorcycling experience.
At least the myth meant that financially it wasn't a total disaster, as I sold the bike for £3950, despite the motor sounding and running like there was serious expense on the horizon. I was unlucky in my initial experience but generally it's possible to buy a Harley, have a taste of the mythology and then sell it on if you don't like it without losing too much money. You may get lucky and find a sweet one, the fanatics keep insisting I'd bought a rotten apple. But I wouldn't chance it again, once was enough.
I was still enamoured by the cruising experience, all that Easy Rider stuff, so when an 800 Intruder turned up at the local dealer with the offer of a test ride, I thought why not, nothing to lose. At this point all the Harley fanatics are going to tear the UMG into shreds - the Suzuki was f..king brilliant after the Sportster!
The motor was much smoother, it went where I pointed it without a fist fight, the brakes were powerful and predictable, and it throbbed up to 90mph without a murmur of discontent. And it felt just as relaxed as a rolling armchair. After swapping insults with the dealer it was mine for £3500 - a bargain as it was eighteen months old with a mere 6000 miles on the clock, in absolutely perfect nick - I forgot to mention the way the Harley's chrome fell off when it rained!
Harley riders will be muttering about true character and having a love affair with their machine, but sod all that, it's just an excuse for piss poor engineering as far as I can see. The Intruder's easily the best looking Jap cruiser and if it doesn't quite match the sheer rawness of the Harley then, so what - you're supposed to ride the damn thing not sit looking at it all day long!
And ride the Suzuki is exactly what I did. 19000 miles in ten months. Don't get me wrong, perfect it was not. Like the Harley, it had some severe ground clearance problems and could go all wobbly in rough corners but unlike the American Iron, I felt in control for most of the time. Just having a front brake that would burn off the rubber when the going got desperate gave me a vastly improved feeling of confidence.
But it was the engine, more than anything else, that really inspired. Intruder motors have a reputation for toughness and longevity that's way beyond anything that Harley owners' can dream of, and that toughness's reflected in the way it runs. Relentless and bulletproof come to mind as barely adequate descriptions.
Power and torque are also neatly combined with a miraculously slick gearbox and light clutch. It grumbles a bit right at the lower end of the rev range but once past 2000rpm gives a nice kick in all of the gears and throbs up to about 7000 revs when the power is all but played out. I say throb not in any way to demean the motor by accusing it of vibrating, more as a description of the way the combustion process is communicated to the rider. Obviously, pushed to the limit in first it does indeed vibrate but what big twin wouldn't?
Top speed was about 110mph - but rather silly given the riding position - and fuel went from 50 to 60mpg, depending on cruising speed. The engine needed oil changes every 2500 miles to stop the gearbox going off but other than that didn't get any attention from me and ran just as fine as ever. I know one guy who's run an 800 Intruder up to 60,000 miles under the same regime of neglect and have no doubt mine would've done the same...
Had not some low life, bastard, son of a bitch nicked the still pristine machine from outside my mate's house when I was on a visit. I thought I must've been looking in the wrong place when I came out and found only the usual pack of cages littering the street. Looked up and down the road until it suddenly dawned on me that the Intruder wasn't there any more. An anguished howl let loose from my throat, startling my friend who later tried to comfort me by saying it was only a motorcycle. Only A Motorcycle, I screamed at him, barely restraining myself from throttling him.
The bike was never seen again and I had to move on to something else. Another Intruder would have been fine but they were suddenly scarce and I ended up with a grey import from the States, an immaculate Honda 600 Shadow, which looked more like a Harley than most Harleys. Basically, it's the same engine as the Revere and VT500, but detuned for more grunt, although I soon found that 4th was a touch too tall for accelerating hard when motorway cruising, having to knock down to 3rd and scream the engine a bit.
In this it was definitely inferior to the Intruder, whose larger capacity allowed it to get away with much more relaxed riding. However, the Honda could be blasted through town with unerring ease, its chain drive giving it an easier time at ultra low revs. However, the riding position was one of the most uncomfortable I'd ever come across. Not that the saddle was lacking in padding, as such, but that the whole of my mass was concentrated on my bum. Half an hour in town had me squirming but an hour on the open road left me feeling like I'd been butt-f..ked by half the cabinet.
Though steering was a touch heavy, the suspension did a pretty good job of absorbing the bumps and keeping the near 500lbs of mass on line. With its 63 inch wheelbase and a lot of the mass kept low, not to mention its kicked out forks, it was very stable in a straight line, not even taking out a small dog with the front wheel caused it to go wild. This was probably the bike's most impressive aspect but it wasn't so good that I could ignore its failings in other areas, most notably its lack of comfort.
Fuel never really bettered 50mpg but it usually didn't go much below that either. The usual two carb's needed setting up every 5000 miles, which was when I did the oil as it never seemed to go off. Three valves per cylinder but they were always within limits. Because I had to thrash the engine much more than on the Intruder, I never felt happy about entirely neglecting maintenance, though god knows the bike has an excellent pedigree in the VT500 and Revere, both of which withstood the massive thrashing of crazed DR's.
One thing that spoilt the otherwise sophisticated Honda was starting on cold winter mornings. The bike was evidently set up for Texan weather rather than merry old England. Basically, if it was below freezing the bike didn't want to know, grumbled away to itself for a good fifteen minutes, refusing to run in the taller gears and cutting out just as the cages were going to cut me up. Riding a cruiser in winter? Silly boy, I know, but the Shadow was my only means of transport.
Also, even when fully warmed up and running properly, the throttle was a bit on the sharp side, sending a grunt of torque into the back wheel, which on icy roads would tend to try to spin off into oblivion. Not nice, that, especially in the morning when I'd barely woken up.
As soon as the spring came in I sold the Honda. Not a bad machine - I did 8000 miles in seven months - but more of a pose tool than a practical set of wheels. For those who really yearn after Harleys but can't take them the Shadow's a viable alternative and has proven itself the most popular custom except for Harleys (of course!) in the States.
Me? Well. I went out and bought a one year old 1400 Intruder at a bargain price. One big mutha, without the nice balance of the 800, but with much of the grunt of the bigger Harleys and none of their nastiness. I know, people in the UK laugh at Japanese customs, but I really like my latest bike and that's what it's all about. Right?
David Kelbright