I believe there comes a time in every serious motorcyclist's life, whatever the circumstances, when the bike of their dreams, or that of their most ardent desires, becomes a reality. That was the situation that befell me, at the tender age of 35. Finding myself in a more financially secure position, my thoughts wandered over the possibilities of chasing down my all time fantasy motorcycle.
No real competition here, it had to be an Iron-head Harley Sportster. No wimpy Evo's would do, it had to be a real Milwaukee iron. Don't get me wrong. I like the Evo-engined range but I've never lost the feeling that the company pandered to the executive set. This was also coupled to the fact that the first real Milwaukee God that I had knelt before was a Sportster. A blue '72 job that stood in all its glory in the pub car park of the hostelry that I frequented. That I was on a Norton Jubilee made the contrast all the greater.
Then I was 19. I made a poor copy out of a BSA A10 and rode a couple of examples. An XLCH was an evil handling pig...but I didn't care! Inexorably, I ended up in a Birmingham dealer's after their last XLH1000. A 1972 model! The dealer gave me a strange look when I revealed my need; I'd walked straight past it and immediately sprouted donkey ears.
The bike was painted red with a white-panelled tank, had a K and Q seat, with a square-section sissy bar. The standard, full width front drum brake was in chrome forks, topped with factory buck-horn bars. The whole bike was complemented by a set of drag pipes, and the remaining chrome was in reasonable condition, considering that it was the original application.
Asking if I could hear it run, after some pulling and pushing to get it out of the shop, we eventually had it standing in the covered area which linked the buildings. After some tinkering with a non-standard choke linkage - a piece of wire, in fact - it was switched on and the starter button stabbed. The old Prestolite lurched into life with a clatter of mechanical graunching and grating, the big cylinders sucking long and hard on the Bendix carb as the air was cracked by an angry bellow from the open pipes when it caught.
Such sweet music, or a God almighty racket, depending on your point of view. Switching the choke off, the motor settled down to a delightful off-beat tickover. Blipping the throttle brought back the bark instantly, with no mechanical protestations, but it did look like it was going to shake itself to bits at any moment. Harley vibration's something you just have to accept. I paid the guy the money and told him I would return the next day with a van as I didn't fancy riding an unknown quantity back to Newcastle, no matter how good it looked.
When asked if I wanted to ride it I refused, I wanted that to be my own precious and intimate moment, which I had waited years to experience. The day I rode my very own Harley. Returning the next day with the van and a mate, we loaded the bike and made our way back to Newcastle. Stopping to pick up a piece of rope off the side of the road. We had forgotten to pick up a vital piece of equipment in our hurry to get there.
On arriving home we unloaded the bike and promptly fired it up, the angry bellow greeting the night air and the neighbours who were all twitching curtains wondering if WW3 had just started. I didn't care, the buzz was euphoric. I was just somewhere else on the planet HD! Helmet and leather on, I swung a leg over and settled down on to the saddle, finding first gear which was about on a par with the A10. I moved off for my first ride.
The motor revved freely even though it'd apparently just been rebored. I engaged second gear when the revs reached three grand. The bike lurched violently, it appeared to jump out of gear and back in again, continuing along the road as if nothing had happened. It performed this strange quirk of mechanical twitchiness on a regular basis, but only in second gear. The remedy was to either shift to third at three thousand or gun the motor hard, which appeared to make it stay in gear, as it never tried to jump out thereafter.
The suspension squeaked and groaned at the rear, and turned the front into a pogo-stick whilst also twisting the forks. This in turn presented a very interesting ride when the gobs of torque from the motor, battered their way down the drive train to the worn Yank Dunlop. The squirming rear end was easy to control, if not a bit of fun...real bikers ride by the seat of their pants, don't they?
Sadly, the front end was a different kettle of fish. The dust covers were missing from the fork sliders, the seals leaked oil so badly that I had to carry a rag in my pocket. In order to add further trauma to the poorly damped front end, the tyre provided next to no grip. The feedback was disconcerting, to say the least, it tried to break away at every opportunity - it would've been safer to have ridden on the bare rim.
Couple to this horror show, the vague retarder that passed itself off as the front brake, quite literally didn't. It wouldn't have been much use on a moped let alone a 400 pound plus bike. The rear drum however worked quite well indeed, despite its lack of size, coupled with the massive engine braking it was somewhat easier, if not something of an art, to stop the damn thing.
But nothing could spoil that first ride, I couldn't stop smiling. Man and machine in unison, at peace with the world. I enjoyed the bike over the weeks that followed, even though it was winter and bitterly cold. These outings allowed me to evaluate the Harley much more closely.
Under hard acceleration, the bike shook its head but this was controllable and never posed any real problem. The clutch proved to be heavy in its operation but there was no drag or slip, and overall the operation was smooth. Shifting the gearbox was precise if a little slow, but this didn't distract from its relative ease of use. With the exception of that strange habit in second gear, which I mentioned earlier. After I made some enquiries I was told all AMF Sportsters do it. The company at that time concentrating on quantity rather than quality. The solution's to fit a complete Andrews after-market gearbox - very expensive, no thanks!
The bars were of a two piece set-up, with all of the wiring and throttle cable routed through them, the latter operating a worm slide in the twistgrip. Similar to that which was fitted by Honda on some of their smaller commuter machines. However, I hasten to add, the Harley's was considerably better engineered.
A rebuild kit for the Bendix carb was purchased and fitted, along with an adjustable main jet kit. The Bendix's a very underrated instrument. It may take a little fettling but once sorted they are quite good. On the other side of the coin, they are cheaper to fix than to replace with an aftermarket item.
After a month or so it started to sound like it was running on one cylinder at speeds over sixty. This was eventually traced to a bodged inlet manifold, a band type from a later model using the early O-rings. The resulting gap had been sealed with carpet tape. That has now been cured using fibreglass rings to take up the clearance, courtesy of a custom supplier in the States. The engine has presented no problems, with the exception of a partial seizure, which was caused by a split inlet band. This caused it to run very hot because of the resulting weak mixture.
The only frightening bit about it was that it chose to seize in the outside lane of the A1 motorway at about eighty. A quick clutch hand avoided any real nastiness, and when loosened at about 10mph the engine started and ticked over evenly. After it was stripped, the only need was to replace the pistons, the bores were unmarked. I hope I never have to sell the Harley, it took so long to find...
Ian Taylor