A Slice of American Pie: Part 9
Harley Hiccups

“Is that like having your legs shot off but your heart’s still beating?” I was trying to translate what Paul was saying as he patiently explained over the phone that the belt drive had just fallen onto his foot in a friend’s driveway. I guess it’s like the chain on a bicycle. I didn’t know we had one. I actually never spent much time wondering what was making this beast beneath me tick and transport us each day. So whatever it is, we just lost it and he did think my analogy was appropriate.

The spotlight is on the Harley today for those wondering “what about the bike?” and aren’t interested in relatives, long-lost friends and red hats. We must give credit where credit is due. It has been reliable and faithful, never running off in the night while parked in front of motels (Paul installed an alarm system) and always starting in the morning. So why has Paul dismembered it so often in parking lots, garages and on lawns?

This pattern first emerged in Utah, though admittedly he took it to the official dealer that time. The symptom was a leaking oil filter and it was due for an oil change. That was also the last time he willingly approached a dealer for repairs. Other times he would go crawling, conceding defeat or lack of his fully equipped workshop and lift in New Zealand.

Parts were strewn across the parking lot in the desert one morning when I got back from a walk and he was armed with a nail file. Like a quivering bomb expert, he was waiting on my opinion to discern between a tiny white and tiny grey line before he snipped the “right” wire. The item being installed was a device to manually over-ride the fuel injection computer, allowing further neurotic infinite control over the horsepower and fuel efficiency – like this is important………..

Within an hour of arriving at his friend’s double garage in Texas, I was steadying the bike as he placed a jack beneath Uncle Harley’s frame to lift it off the ground and take the front wheel off. This he assured from the depths of the frame was maintenance - time to change the brake pads and rotors. I think there were extra parts this time when he finished.

“ Recall Notice for 2002 Electra Glide Ultra Classic” was discovered on the HOG Harley Owners Group) website one morning. That never inspires confidence so Paul tried to track down a dealer with the part in stock (an extra heavy duty circuit breaker). That was when he ran smack into the service manager named Alice. He nearly met his match, especially when we were not listed as the owners in her computer. The ownership papers did little to soften or impress her. Using his subtle-as-a brick technique they both came to an agreement and the part was courteously installed free of charge.

In an unsolicited testimony, even I realize the excellent service we were afforded (now that’s a bad pun in view of some of the repair bills), jumping us to the front of the line over and over as they would take us in and get us back on the road as soon as possible. I was beginning to be seduced by the Brotherhood of Harleys. There is a loyalty rarely seen in relationships these days. Stock equipment in each dealership included a snack bar of some description. Coffee was on the house with a place to sit down and relax. Riders routinely stop for a break, refreshments and window shopping at the sign of a dealership.

My personal diagnosis is that there is a missing computer chip someplace in the innards. The bike doesn’t seem capable of stopping at any tourist attractions or scenic outlooks. However, it goes into automatic U-turns when we pass a Harley Dealer showroom. I began to take a survey and rate them, for lack of anything more exciting to do. The Ladies Toilet was often integral in the final rating. The top one went to the one stocked with a wide range of hand lotions and was complemented by Country Décor. Another one had a table full of combs, tissues (understandably), plasters, and soaps – all of which looked like they had come out of motels. But it was a nice gesture. A third facility had one can of hairspray. Was this a hint? It had little effect on my $11.95 Wal-Mart haircut. Lowest marks went to the one with a humongous set of scales. I cannot fathom one reason why you would put scales in the Ladies Toilet.

Mention must be made of the variety of merchandise found amidst the Harley inventory. This includes Harley coffee, picture frames, owners’ rings, baby layette sets, clocks that chime the hour in 12 different motorcycle sounds (you can hear ours in Paul’s workshop), greeting cards, and full wedding attire. This is far from comprehensive. And, of course, we haven’t seen them all yet. Each one offers up a new delight.

Being a cross between burden, ballast and poet bard, I have ample opportunity to do the thinking. He’s the brawn. Actually, I must concede to his brain power. Anybody who can figure out how to ship a bike across the ocean and then proceed to ride for 20,000 k’s AND talk his wife into going with him must have some brains to pick. That leaves me with the brawn to help right the bike when it falls over, (did I say that?), the reverse gear substitute as bikes don’t come with one (I don’t know if they forgot it or it didn’t fit so they left it off) and no brains because I did get talked into all this.

But I digress. The first signs of internal bleeding became apparent in Virginia as black blood began oozing from an elusive source. The dismemberments began in earnest now. I always thought oil leaks were just annoying to mothers and called for a piece of cardboard underneath the offending vehicle to save the driveway. Apparently they are a symptom of any number of ailments and need to be definitively isolated.

The receipts for seals and lotions (or was it gaskets and synthetic oil?) piled up as we continued north. After the aforementioned drive belt transplant (an eight hour job), the oil leak worsened. More than just a pretty face, Paul decided he wasn’t going through all that again so booked into the Augusta, Maine dealer who again graciously took us in the next morning and worked all day. A seal with a small tear that had been reversed (with some logical explanation as to why Paul would have done this) put confidence back in Paul’s walk and we loaded up to begin the long trip to the West coast.

“Is this like having your arm shot off but your heart’s still beating?” I queried when the engine began skipping a mere 30 k’s down the road. I learned there were 2 cylinders, only one of which was cutting out. If we had been in an airplane I’d be more worried. I convinced him to head to another dealer where we stayed for five hours. 100 k’s later both cylinders cut momentarily (but it was a long moment in terms of heart-stoppage on a highway) and we performed yet another u-turn and went back. This time Paul was in the workshop with the technician and the manual open, going over every electrical system that had been invented. Somehow changing two sparkplugs seemed to clear up the problem but with no logical explanation.

At 9.30 that night, illuminated by a street light, Paul was pulling wires in an ungentlemanly manner. He disconnected the fuel injection toy from the desert parking lot in a desperate attempt to keep the engine running. It worked.

There were good times in their relationship (Paul and the bike), the highlight being a trip to Uncle Harley’s birthplace in York, Pennsylvania. They made the sojourn to the factory together, as a solid unit. Paul came back clutching his new shop manual and spouting statistics with the fervor of a Southern Baptist Preacher. But the motorcycle went back to the shop upon their return, with the oil leak resurfacing. A few hours later after a diagnostic phone call from the dealer he was thumbing madly through his new bible and mumbling “manufacturer’s defect” and “I want my money back. I’ve spent hundreds of dollars …..”

He was assured by a pleasant customer service lady at Harley Headquarters in Milwaukee that, with the shop’s cooperation, they would see if they could help with the-long-out-of-warrantee bike. A gearbox shaft was found to have nasty grooves in it and was tearing the new seals that were installed. The only replacement to be found was a four hours’ drive away. Paul lowered himself to my mother’s Buick and we personally picked it up. Ten hours later after replacing the top half of the gearbox a smiling service manager gave the ok, followed by “no charge” completely defusing Paul’s mounting persuasive arguments.

That’s my Performance Review of the Ultra Classic 1450 emerald green bike to date. The final report will be issued in Vancouver. There can’t be anything else that could be shot off and survive, could there?