I was impressed by the engine’s massive torque at low revs and I immediately decided I had to hit the town centre to pose for the young femmes. Harleys certainly turn heads like no other bike. I was expecting it to be hideously slow due to media reports so was surprised to find it no slower than my Triumph and needing a deal less revs. Ground clearance and braking were both only good for a laugh. In the wet you might as well squeeze a sponge onto the disc with a pair of tweezers as try to use the brakes. However, these shortcomings were overcome by the sheer shit-eating grin factor involved in riding them. I had to have one!
It wasn’t until four years later when the chance arose at a time when most people seem to pack biking in - house buying. I'd just signed my soul over to Beelzebub for a terraced hut - at least the bike would go straight through the front door into the living room. I had a spare £1000 which was going to go on a Commando when I saw an ad for a 1200 Superglide at £2800 - which was cheap then. The bike consisted of a rolling chassis left over from a Custom job and a complete engine except for the outer primary chain case. The paint made it look like one of those child’s rides outside department stores - bright orange metal-flake with purple highlights. He eventually agreed to take £2500.
Even tied down on a trailer, with parts missing, it attracted attention when we went for a beer. My brother said I'd have to get used to that. I just grinned. The rebuild became far from amusing when I realised that a retarded gorilla had ripped off the inner primary chaincase whilst two bolts were still holding it onto the engine, the section of aluminium thus ripped out had been welded back in such a way that the case was only suitable for use as a garden ornament. To cut a long story short, after a lot of hassle I eventually got the thing back together - just as well I'd served my apprenticeship on a Triumph.
I'd missed a deal of summer messing about with the bike, so I loaded the girlfriend and gear onto the bike and took off for Cornwall. The combination of four inch overs and a home-made rack perched atop the cut-down rear guard meant the handling took a little adaption, but I soon became used to it falling into corners. The brakes were still shit, even with two discs out front. Unless you get off by sitting in turds then the best way to travel wet motorways, especially carrying weight, is with very slight pressure on the front lever to keep the discs dry. Stainless looks great but so do those American front ends with no brake at all. Clenched knuckle and brown trouser time.
True to form the entire week was spent sat in the tent peering outside at pouring rain on miserable campsites. So bad was it that we got a bus into town to buy wellies. The one sunny afternoon I had food poisoning. The rest of the time I had rheumatism thanks to the pissing damp weather and cold August fog - I could barely move my arms. It was whilst studying the Harley from the comfort of the tent that I noted the inner surfaces of the silencers were covered in oil. Probably just a valve guide, I hoped. Going home I noticed I was filling one lane of the M1 with blue smoke every time I shut down the throttle. I had plenty of time to ponder on what any added cost would do to my finances - I was paying a mortgage, a £1500 loan and £140 for four months insurance thanks to a drink drive ban.
I wanted to spend any money I had getting rid of the candy-ass, pimp-ish, fairground colour scheme - people actually thought I'd done it myself! I decided to ignore the smoke, after all the engine wasn't that rattly, and go on a MAG run the next weekend. It was only afterwards that I ripped off the rear head afraid of what I'd find. There was a deep groove, an inch wide, going from top to bottom of the barrel, a clonking conrod and a snapped fork at the bottom end of the con-rod where it forked around the other con-rod. I had to dash to the corner shop for some fags.
The deeper I went into the engine the worse it got - shagged cams, mains, con-rod and big-end assembly, back barrel, piston, valves, guides, one rocker arm, all four rocker shafts... all as a result of the oil being turned to paste from the gudgeon pin having a love affair with the cylinder. Someone had used an old type of circlip without the special tool! A combination of new and used made £600 disappear , cheaper than a Jap but more expensive than British stuff. Almost all the pattern parts I've tried have been substandard, so it pays to buy the genuine items. I also decided to try to fix the gearbox as even after three stripdowns I was still having selection problems - I'd fix some small thing thinking I'd solved the problem only to find that it was still there. Eventually, a toolmaker friend took a smidgen off the on and everything was fine.
I carefully ran the motor in and since then (1987) it hasn’t let me down. I've had minor breakdowns but they have always been due to my own negligence (like the time the battery fractured - I knew it was due to go but was too lazy to fix it) or due to cheapo pattern parts such as the starter relay that cost a tenner and lasted a month; jam a screwdriver into the relay and watch it spark. A car relay for £2.50 is still going strong. I even eventually had the money to do a decent paint job.
The bike starts well and although lumpy around town is a totally different animal during long runs when it smooths out. It'll cruise at 80 to 85mph, returns 60 to 70mpg and sounds beautiful. Vibes aren’t a problem (these ex-Triumph owners - Ed), it just shudders as it gets up to cruising speed. It’s a most comfortable, relaxing bike to ride, cupped in the bucket seat and leant against the camping gear listening to that lovely exhaust rumble.
Handling is not as good as a Triumph but perfectly adequate, but that’s besides the point as I can barely keep off the bike. I'll admit to being totally obsessed by the marque and it’s rubbed off onto friends. Last years we took six Harleys and a Commando to Austria - what a fantastic noise; the Germans must've thought the dambusters were returning as we trundled down the Rhine. Tunnels were sheer heaven, all seven riders the grinning like maniacs, gunning the motors at full throttle into the darkness - it’s a wonder we didn’t cause avalanches. By the time we exited a tunnel we were all laughing hysterically at the reverberations.
You don’t need to be rich to own a Harley, just obsessed. Just look at that massive V-twin, the line of the tank... who needs women, careers, TVs, fridges, gibber, gibber, drool, drool...
Rob Glenton