Electraglides,
Low Riders, etc
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Sportsters |
Ironheads,
250
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It was the boredom more than anything else that did it. That, and too many months working like a slave to acquire a pocketful of dosh. Be kind to the Americans, they sure know how to pay. The GTS1000, I'd soon convinced myself, was such a solid machine that it possessed a mind of its own. I'd be motoring along in laid back, relaxed mode when suddenly all hell would break loose. Throttle back to the stop, Malone frame in racing crouch and within a moment's breath, three figure speeds on the clock.
My only excuse, was the penal speed limits. They're so pathetically low, and the Yanks so crazy about enforcing them, that it makes sense to play make belief; imagine I'm on a German autobahn. 'Course, the American drivers haven't a clue about reacting to a two-wheeler hurtling between them at twice the legal limit. Goes well beyond their experience. I thought it was an amusing way of commuting to work every day; blow the tedium right away and bring some much needed joy into my life. If the sun was shining, I'd sling my helmet over my shoulder and ride bare-headed.
After a couple of months of this madness, I had a folder full of citations (not the sort you could boast about anywhere other than in the UMG) and become so bored with work that I was playing Russian Roulette with a nifty revolver I'd bought (this is America, boy, stop whimpering). For some reason the registration mark had been filed off, so god knows what was its history.
It seemed an opportune moment to leave the States. Apart from anything else, the large lout of a boss was making noises about not being able to track down my references. I was tempted to tell him that my CV was almost entirely false, just to f..k up his day. As soon as I was able to get hold of my month's money I was ready for the road.
I decided the GTS had to go. It favoured madness, was so easy to ride at crazy velocities that it was a quick way to kill someone who knew what their right wrist was made for. A last ride was called for. A 3.00am express train along the elevated highways, the sonorous exhaust ricocheting off the darkened buildings, the cops too busy being jerked off by transvestite hookers to take much note of my helmetless 130mph burn ups.
The GTS went in favour of a newish 883 Harley Davidson and a large bundle of notes to my good. These smallest of Sportsters are seen either as a pile of crap or a righteous piece of motorcycle. This one had proper twin discs out front, a great big headlamp that wouldn't have looked out of place on a vintage Cadillac and a custom seat that looked like it'd escaped from some Jap crap custom but was as comfortable as some big fat Negro mamma.
As someone used to the vibes from a tuned Norton Commando, I couldn't really complain about the buzz put out by the agricultural vee. That was part of the point of the bolide, it was so nasty, vibratory and generally ill-making after 85mph that it severely limited my speeding antics. Harleys only work as laid back, 60 to 70mph cruisers, when for strange, strange reasons, that can only be explained by riding the vintage machines, they work very well indeed. The whole American motorcycle industry is founded on that exotic fact.
I left New York in the dark. All things considered it seemed like a good idea. Luckily, the front light was so powerful I had no trouble seeing where I was going (not something that could be said about standard Harley lights). It wasn't so late that I could safely dump the helmet and I'd resisted strong urges that'd been plaguing my mind. Namely, the need to dress the Harley (and myself) out in cop clothing; proceed to have a real ball terrorising the general automobile populace. That this is a federal offence with a long, hardcore prison sentence if not a bullet in the head as a reward, might have had something to do with my stalwart resistance.....and still being free of drugs and drink.
I was heading north, if it went against my nature, was at least good for a change. First stop Montreal, over 300 miles away. The highway was straight with enough lanes to get lost in. Easy peasy. 300 miles divided by 70mph equalled just over four hours, call it five with the frequent stops for fuel caused by the cute but entirely impractical peanut petrol tank. This proved a bit optimistic.
First, there were the mad artic drivers, who'd sneak up behind me, give me a hoot on their ship sized horns and then try to run me off the road. Some beer swilling ruffian would lean out of the window and try to knock my head off with a full can of Budweiser. What a waste of beer. I soon became convinced that they'd used their CB's to gang up on me, at one stage I was completely surrounded by four of the buggers. They must've been bored out of their heads.
Who needs hallucinogenics when you can find yourself suddenly being a very tasty morsel in a meat sandwich? I had to perfectly match the speeds of the lorries behind and in front of me. This went on for about half an hour until they grew bored of the game and sped off into the night. F..king cowboys! I pulled into the first services before I had complete heart seizure. Took half a dozen cups of coffee to stop the shaking. Frequent caffeine overdoses being my one remaining vice in these days of sobriety and sanity.
I'd just about recovered when this real road rat, in premium gorilla size, came over to my table. He pulled me up by the collar of my jacket to enquire just what motorcycle I rode. This form of greeting, alas, is all too common amongst our colonial cousins. When I breathed the magic words Harley he threw me back into my seat, like a discarded bit of junk food. Which was just as well, for him, because I still had a hand free and would've happily blown away his kneecaps. The only way to meet the dissolute American Dream is with an of excess violence. Do unto others before they do to you.
That was 130 miles into the trip and my second petrol stop. It was eerie riding on, deeper into the night, watching the clearness of the sky increase as the pollution of the Big Apple was left behind. The Harley decided to be playful, 160 miles down the road, turning into an asthmatic big single, sending shudders through the chassis that tapped right into my spinal cord. I played along for a while, until I became pissed with a 50mph maximum speed. Harleys are pretty simple beasts and I'd soon sussed it was a duff spark plug. Must be a common malaise as there was a spare one in the toolroll or someone up there must like me (unlikely).
The rest of the journey lacked any wild events, except for my eyesight almost failing and the whole trip taking a good eight hours. Where all the time went I couldn't tell you. There was some kinda wine festival in Montreal but I managed to ignore it; drank orange juice or coffee in the more dubious bars for a week of self-indulgence. The plan after that was for a month running around the Great Lakes. Clean air, relaxed living and laid back motorcycling.
Some hope, what looked and felt like a massive typhoon swept across Lake Superior on the third day. Ice cold polar breezes dried my breath before it had a chance to get out of my mouth and I lost all feeling beneath my waist. By the time I arrived at the ever so aptly named Thunder Bay, I was the only idiot left out on the road; an object of wonder as I staggered into the first hotel I came to.
After about a week of being hunkered down there I was far gone on drink and drugs again. It was the only way to survive sharing the bar with huge Canadian men who growled rather than spoke and tended to amuse themselves by insisting I arm wrestle with them. They were so obnoxious it was a major feat of restraint that I didn't run amok with the gun.
After the sun came out I managed to get some riding in, but by then my mind had lost its grip on reality. I was so far gone I ended up with some fifty year old floosie on the pillion, who used to take her false teeth out before she got down to business. Try as I might, I could never get things together so far as to run out on her and after a week of abusing my body she started talking about marriage. I felt like blowing my brains away.
The Harley produced some moments of amusement that kept me from going completely insane. In an amazingly short time it'd become an old friend, that relentlessly growled through the landscape. You gotta keep ahold of some joy in life.
Johnny Malone
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When I was just a spotty oik with a fine residue of oil starting to stain my hands, an old rocker told me that the ownership of bikes would leave me poor but happy. Had he guessed that I would become the owner of one of Milwaukee's finest, he may have just said poor. After a succession of ratty Brits and big Jap vees, I finally attained nirvana.
My first real run was the Rider's Rights Demo of '88 and it was quite an eye opener. A tight engine, stock carb and very small tank did not make for a laid back demo. I spluttered and spat in the heat, kept having to refill every 60 miles and generally got up everyone's nose with my constant, insane grin. Which must've terrified the old couple I almost killed as I desperately hauled on the brakes to stop in time. It was actually the seat that made me walk like John Wayne not the closeness of the accident!
We all know the shortcomings of the standard stock hog. Like everyone else I began to throw money at it. Dual seat, higher bars, pillion pegs and longer front brake hose (all genuine HD) combined with my first service bill got rid of a large amount of dosh. Freer flowing silencers, as in noisier, gave more power and a large tank improved the range.
Then came the problems. The speedo and rear indicators filled up with water, sealed beam units blew every three months, frame paint and engine lacquer peeled off and the forks pitted. The rear fender cracked around the indicator mounts and the carb went out of tune.
All of these faults have been well documented but my genuine Harley dealer still had the audacity to claim that I had ridden through an acid spill. If so, then so had most of the other riders I have spoken to. Admittedly, all of these problems were tackled under warranty but for a company that trades on its quality I was less than impressed.
A Halogen conversion cured the bulb problem and Yamaha rear indicators improved the water tightness at the back. Then the tank split, just out of warranty. Various fasteners broke due to vibration and the battery box attempted to saw through the oil pipe (cured with an old footpeg rubber). Frame and switch paint again started to rot and then at 19000 miles, the big-end bearing went. I couldn't believe it.
My local and well respected dealer, used to BMW's and therefore well acquainted with pushrods, rebuilt it. Not much later the black box blew its guts and was replaced with points. The totally useless carb was put in a box under the stairs, replaced with an S & S Super B. A vast improvement. A trip around Wales with a fat Aussie mate finished off the stock Harley shocks and I fitted Progressive, which are okay but, as usual, overhyped.
To save my piles, I fitted a variety of seats but have not really found a very comfy one, although my solo Corbin is okay (once I repaired the snapped bracket). XLS bars are slightly higher and wider than standard, allow the controls to fall easily to hand. I've always wanted to write that, another ambition fulfilled. The rear light was held on by Quick Fix nuts which kept coming undone just as quickly, so I drilled through them and used ordinary bolts. Front suspension was spongy but thicker oil and a washer helped; Progressive springs are supposed to help even more.
I discovered that the S & S carb is also an excellent engine bar, as it sticks out so far.....if I ever catch up with the Range Rover driver he's in big trouble. Consumables are good. It used no oil, is on the original sprockets though a cheapo chain lasts only 6000 miles. It's a bit hard to find batteries and plugs but other spares are plentiful and cheap if you ignore the genuine Harley stuff. Harley battery £62, local bike shop Yausa £23.....As engine braking is good, my speed low and anticipation legendary, I have no problems with the stock brakes. Ferodo pads are supposed to help and there are loads of aftermarket brake kits for those who want to ride hard and fast
Yes, it vibrates. Unfortunately, there is a bad patch between 50 and 60mph, which is its best cruising speed but I intend to alter the gearing if the sprockets ever wear out. I get 55/65mpg regardless of speed and I've done a trip to Scotland in one go (460 miles) at 80mph plus speeds. This alone must mean I'm certifiable.
It rattles and shakes, corners like it's got loose swinging arm bearings and is noisy and uncomfortable. Either you love or hate it. I tinker and fiddle with mine and when I can afford it go for a ride, too. I don't have the Harley braces or beer-mugs but I have got an Albatross around my neck and I know that I would be really upset if I had to sell it.
A.N.Hatton
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Having tried most vee-twins over the last few years I was looking for a replacement for the ageing CX500. I convinced myself that a Harley Davidson Sportster would be the next set of wheels. I saved for most of '91, putting a little aside each week. I spoke to a couple of Sporty owners in our town and then set my goal. It had to be a five speed 883, which meant a '91 model, and therefore would not be cheap.
Summer had passed and we had saved £3800 and I foolishly thought that this would be enough. Late October time and an advert appeared in MCN for a very low mileage 883 for £4700. He'd bought it eight months previously, with his girlfriend's money, and then the pair of them enrolled on an intensive bike training course and failed. I said I only had £4200 and considering it was an H reg and not J reg, as I had been led to believe, that is what I had to offer. He rang back a couple of days later and said I could come to collect it for £4200.
The bike was a bright orange 883 Hugger, standard except for a pillion seat, pegs and a small sissy bar. These three items together had cost the lad about £150 extra. It was in mint condition (apart from a little rust on the wire wheels and corroded alloy on one cylinder head cover). Just 108 miles on the clock!
That Sunday evening it was snowing quite heavily so I didn't get to take it out until Monday night. First impressions were that it was crap! It didn't accelerate, didn't brake, suspension was junk and it sounded like a moped. The magazines I had read had said as much, so I was half expecting the worst. Still came as a bit of a shock, though.
I then proceeded to use it virtually every day to work and back, fastidiously washing off all the road grime at night (in the dark). I don't know why I used it in the winter really. I suppose I wanted to prove that this Harley wasn't just a fair weather bike. Stupid really because the wheels started to rust quite badly and the piss poor lacquer on the engine cracked in large areas, causing the casings underneath to turn to white powder.
Luckily, my wife spotted an advert in a custom mag classified section which put us in touch with a Sporty owner who wanted to swap his mag wheels for a pair of chrome wire wheels. That week we had both wheels off and stripped, not an easy task on a bike without a centrestand, and shot down to Ipswich in a car to do the swap. The lad with the mag wheels had no tackle to remove the discs from his wheels so he let me have them as they were, complete with part worn tyres.
As the engine loosened up it started to perform better. I drilled a series of holes around the inside of the exhaust, destroying the baffles, but making the mill more responsive and less prone to popping. Winter use needed lots of choke and warming up, which brought fuel consumption down to 45mpg around town.
If lengthy warming up was ignored, selecting first gear went with a sound akin to hitting an upturned steel bucket with a large hammer! Otherwise gear selection has been very positive. Changing down is best done with a blip of the throttle to avoid the steel bucket and hammer scenario.
Fuel consumption was anywhere between 45 and 65mpg, depending on cruising speed, although at the Euro demo in '92 a quick guess had the mpg somewhere in the low eighties! The Sporty does not like unleaded. It will run on the stuff but prefers four star or super-unleaded.
Mods I made in the first few weeks of ownership included a proper backrest with a small rack on it, to strap on the tent and sleeping bags. I mustn't forget to mention the vastly superior pillion seat that I made. My wife can't by any stretch of the imagination be called big assed but after a short ride over to Halifax she said a very definite, 'No way,' to the genuine Harley pillion seat and jumped on to the pillion of my mate's K100LT Flying Brick! The comfort and luxury of the Bavarian bus had her smiling so much it took a crowbar to remove her helmet. Anyway, a wider and softer seat, using the original seat base, was made for a fiver.
During '92 we travelled to Le Mans in the spring and the Euro demo in September. Packing a tent and gear for two people became a simple but labour intensive task, making use of every little bit of space. Long runs were always a worry, especially in foreign lands, because of the piss poor small petrol tank. Steady sub 70mph cruising had consumption in the high sixties to the gallon. Travelling much above this speed had consumption down to the fifties, although once past 80mph riding became strenuous as my body acted like a human sail.
About a week after the Euro demo I was riding home from work on a sunny Friday afternoon when I had my little bump. A car pulled out from a stationary line of traffic as I crept slowly down the outside, as you do. A bright orange bike, headlight on, no baffles in the exhaust and he still didn't notice me. I braked but the left-hand bias of the piss poor single disc wouldn't pull me away from him quickly enough. We collided and I ended up being carted to hospital. X-rays showed two fractures to my pelvis. Probably caused when I slid up the petrol tank!
At first damage to the bike seemed minimal. Creased fork tubes, scratched fork leg, dented tank, buckled wheel and crumpled front mudguard......Or, fender, as I'm supposed to say in a deep southern drawl! Damage to myself took about three months for the worst of it to heal, although I kept getting the odd few aches and pains even after a year's worth of rest and recovery.
The damaged tank was written off by the accident assessor, replaced with a CCI King Sportster of 2.8 gallons capacity. This has proved to be the most useful single item bought for the bike to date. It has transformed the Sporty in both looks and touring capability.
Since not being able to stop quickly enough was probably partly to blame for the accident, my next purchase was a right-hand fork leg from an FXRS, cast with a pair of brake caliper mounts. When I get some more money saved all I need is a right-hand caliper ......I've heard it might be spongy if I run two calipers off the standard 5/8 inch bore master cylinder. A bit of Goodridge hose should see to that. I also bought a six month old pair of fork tubes from our local Harley spares shop while I had my wallet out. I was quite surprised at the reasonable prices, about £108 for a set of tubes, a lot cheaper than Jap bike spares. What gets my gut, though, is why the hell two discs aren't fitted as standard!
I bought a different set of bars, something like a pair of mini-apes. The original pull-backs felt like you were steering a wheelbarrow, wallowing through bends and twitching over uneven road surfaces. (Uneven road surfaces in West Yorkshire? Surely that can't be true!). The eight inch high bars position my arms in a more comfortable, straighter pose, better able to absorb the mild road surface imperfections. The next extra goodie is a pair of hard panniers, as I've had my throw-overs rifled through once too often.
The big question is will I keep the Sporty for a long time. Standard they are crap and have a lot of small but niggling faults. Nothing that money can't put right but it all seems a bit excessive given their five grand purchase cost when new. If you buy secondhand, make sure that all the essential mods have already been made - then it's a pretty good bike.
Mark Shaw
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I had foolishly agreed to take a work colleague to a Harley rally. He had bored me to death with tales of life aboard a CB350K4, a ridiculously popular motorcycle in the seventies in the States, and I had finally given in. Brief excursions between low dives and my apartment with women of dubious profession on the back had revealed the Pink Elephant as being unperturbed by the various contortions of its passengers, so I was not too worried about its ability to do the 200 mile run.
Things started to go wrong when I turned up in suburbia. I had spent the morning rolling about in mud and tearing holes in my leather jacket and denim jeans to get them in a state that would be acceptable to the lads from hell. My companion (I use that word in the loosest sense) turned out of his palatial residence in dark pink two-piece leathers that were obviously brand new. Only the presence of his wife and three kids gave me reassurance as I tried to escape the attentions of a Dobberman in heat. I mean...
The Harley grumbled into life and I left the neighbourhood in a hurry. I had gotten used to the way the machine needed to be muscled into action and after spending too many hours watching cop shows had almost perfected the art of using the back brake to turn the bike through 180 degrees. I was less sure about bouncing the back end of the Harley into offending cars but anything was worth a try.
Traffic, for New York, was light, so I soon had the bastard up to an indicated 90mph, rolling along the gap between two rows of cars, occasionally using the pair of air horns I'd fitted to clear autos out of my path. I figured the only way to get my passenger some credibility was to make him shit himself; at least then the smell would be in order. Thus did the first 30 miles pass pleasantly enough.
I pulled over to fill up the tank and to assess the mental condition of my companion. He seemed happy enough, unfortunately, and muttered something about forgetting how much fun motorcycling could be. There wasn't even a light layer of dust over his shining leathers. The exit to the petrol station was blocked by lumbering station wagons so I took the Harley through some dirt and a huge puddle, ducking down so he'd get a face full of muck. The HD slid all over the surface and I wasn't impressed by it trail riding capabilities. I gave it enough stick in second to get the rear wheel round and then backed off. I did this trick a couple more times before we hit tarmac and I really opened her up.
Harley power delivery tends to be torque rather than rpm dictated and it sort of hits you gently in the stomach rather than trying to tear arms out of sockets. It's not as nice as a well set up Commando which does both at the same time, at least until the engine blow up on you, but it kind of grows on you and it's possible to understand why people like such antiquated motorcycles.
At the petrol station I'd bought a pint of whisky and had taken a few slugs to get myself in the mood. My passenger was a Mormon and had looked on disapprovingly but had held his tongue, much to my disappointment.
Away from New York the scenery had become disturbing, the heat hot and my passenger a little edgy. Perhaps it was just the way I kept digging out the bottle of whisky to take another slug every few miles. I occasionally took both hands off the bars and patted his knees reassuringly.
The Harley vibrated away, the mileometer clicked off the distance and I did battle with all manner of automobiles, taking great delight in cutting up huge artics that would swallow up and spit out the mere forty footers that wreck so much havoc on UK roads.
At the next petrol stop I had a problem with one of these truckers. This guy must have weighed at least 250lbs and he had loads of trouble getting himself out from behind the wheel of his hundred footer and waddling down the steps. He was out of breath by the time he grabbed hold of my jacket and pulled me clear of the bike, throwing me into one of the huge wheels of his vehicle.
Charmed by this quaint colonial method of greeting, I quickly reassured him that the blast on the air horns had merely been accidental and he could take as long as he liked to remove his vehicle from my path.
By the time he had got back into his cab I had removed a screwdriver and hammer from my toolroll and whacked the screwdriver into one of his tyres. I laughed hysterically as we roared away on the Harley, having dumped the toolroll into the lap of my passenger, whose expression had gone from that of astonishment to deep concern. Things were looking up.
Out on the freeway I let rip. See what the old girl could do. Not much, with 115mph on the clock she was all over the place, the tank was doing a good impression of coming unwelded and all my muscles were fit to collapse under the strain. Be a real man, I told myself, so held her open for the next sixty miles, when the bike went on to reserve again and I had to pull off to refuel. Fuel consumption was working out at about 35mpg!
The Mormon cleaved himself off the sparse seat and tried to stand upright. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands shaking and his voice was garbled. I handed him the bottle of whisky and he took a quick swallow. Things were improving, the pink leathers were even a little dimmed by some dust they'd picked up. As well as petrol I bought another pint bottle of whisky so that he could finish off the quarter full old one.
The next fifty miles were a real buzz. The road was deserted enough to really enjoy and I was just the right side of intoxication, where I was still, more or less, in control but did not have a worry in the world. Even a light rain storm did not perturb me, the more dirt and grime that descended upon us the better.
If riding around the Big Apple on an outrageously hued motorcycle had been a ball, doing the same amidst righteous brothers might not be such a piece of cake, the more obscured was the bike then the less likely was I to have my body stomped upon.
A terrible grating noise appeared from nowhere. At first I thought it was my passenger having some kind of fit but no such luck. I pulled over and it went away. Further examination revealed that the drive chain was shot, as in having lost half its rollers and being loose enough to pull free of the wheel sprocket. No one told me that you were supposed to carry a spare chain when you went out on a Harley outing. There was also a light spattering of oil over the engine and my boots.
I kicked the back tyre just to let it know who was in charge and left my companion with the whisky bottles and the machine whilst I hiked off to the nearest town, a mile or so distant, wrecked chain swinging before me in case someone tried to mug me and as a means of making sure I got the right length and size.
The whole place appeared to be populated by mentally deficient gorillas in human disguise, but I was eventually led to the back room of an auto repair shop where a length of chain was procured. The owner fingered the chain as if he couldn't decide whether or not to whip me with it, but in the end ownership of a Harley rather than some Jap crap saved the day; I forgot to mention its colour.
Back at the Harley, after much aggro threading the chain back on, it dawned on me that my companion had disappeared and that there were new tyre tracks left that looked like they belonged to some hundred ton monster truck like the one I'd rammed a screwdriver in. Full of visions of death and destruction I edged back on to the highway, scanning the ditches for a bloodied body. No such luck. Ten miles later the chain started graunching again, I had evidently been sold some lightweight rubbish that would barely manage to get me to my destination.
A field full of Harleys, stock, customized, wildly raked, lowered and sprayed, mostly running on open pipes and ridden by The Great Unwashed whose idea of fun appeared to be gang banging anything that showed signs of life until it didn't anymore.....more ganja than in a Laotian border field and these huge Mad Max types sniffing, snorting and smoking away like the end of the world was nigh and the police weren't wandering around with loaded shotguns.
Looked pretty good fun to me, anyway. Until my ersthwhile companion turned up. He was drunk out of his mind, supported by two dumpy blonds whose dress sense could've been called revealing if they hadn't been forty pounds overweight in all the wrong places. At least he'd had the decency to fall down in the local cesspit, if the smell was anything to go by.
I later learnt that he'd hitched a lift with a trucker rather than been beaten up. The last I saw of him that weekend he was being ushered into the bushes by the two blondes. By the end of the following week he had acquired his own Harley and some proper cut-offs and his wife refused to speak to me ever again.
Johnny Malone
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For longer than I'd care to admit my mate and I have been trying to upstage each other with more and more extravagant race replicas. Having topped his FZR1000 with a race tuned GSXR1100, I was waiting with baited breath for his next move. From the way the house reverberated I thought the mad bugger had bought a bloody great tank. But no, not quite, it was a malevolent looking Harley with what sounded like open pipes.
Whenever one of us brought a new bike we always went for a race.....the GSXR had no trouble blowing the antique vee-twin into the weeds but my so-called mate turned up at the pub we were racing to with a bloody large grin on his face, making some comments about my back making me look like an hunchback from the GSXR's racing crouch. Worse still, when we got back to the bikes a bunch of frails were gasping with admiration at the beauty of the Harley whilst my flash paint job was completely ignored. The devious bugger had put me firmly in my place.
Six months later the fool got married to the kind of woman with thunder thighs but a mind like a piranha. The upshot was that he had to get shot of the FXLR pronto. As I'd just smashed my beloved Suzuki into the side of a bus it seemed quite natural to hit the bank manager for a seven thousand pound loan (I told him it was to buy a Metro).
Strangely, I immediately felt at home on the Low Rider. Lolling back like I was on a thundering armchair with the huge vee-twin engine throbbing away like every power pulse that was wrenched from its ancient design was only done so at great cost from overcoming huge physical forces. The mill is actually rubber mounted but their effect only comes in once more than 2000 revs are dialled in. Even then, the motor is never going to be electric smooth and fade into the background.
Of course, torque is what this engine is all about. Huge great gobs of it that hit you in the pit of the stomach as you roll on the throttle in third or fourth. The relatively basic nature of the gearbox is to a great extent alleviated by the rubber belt final drive that gives an uncanny smoothness to the transmission....until you've tried a bike without a chain it's hard to realise how harsh and primitive is the normal means of final drive. I could quite happily roll on the throttle with just 20mph on the speedo in top gear, the grunt giving more than adequate acceleration. It took a while to adapt to not needing to pump the gearbox like a lunatic....clutchless changes made the gearbox sound like it was about to explode.
Harley's are endowed with quite primitive suspension, but I found the Low Rider stable on good A-roads and motorways. It would trundle along at 80mph without a care in the world, although more than an hour would have my shoulders aching from the wind blast. Fast cornering was always accompanied by a mild weave that threatened to go terminal when the road turned rough.
Rather more worrying was trying to hustle through tighter bends when invariably the undercarriage would put on a spark show and even try to lift the back wheel off the ground if I got really serious. Despite its chopper looks, though, it could be stormed through most sections at a decent clip. The low centre of gravity helped to give a very secure feel to the bike.
Braking was barely adequate, not so much that the front single disc didn't work well but rather that I was used to twin discs of ferocious power on the race replicas. It took a while to adjust to the slow retardation, I was often sent into full panic mode as the bike headed into the side of some cage.....I soon learnt to use the engine braking and plan ahead a little.
By way of contrast, the rear disc was rather vicious, able to lock up the back wheel with hardly any effort. The first time it rained I almost browned myself when the wheel went into a vicious skid, not helped in the least by the poor grip of the Goodyear tyres some wretch had deemed suitable for a heavy bike like the Low Rider. As the skid happened as I was threading through some stalled cars, the cagers were treated to a dose of metal carnage as the back end waggled from side to side. Being a good citizen I did not hang around to find out their opinion of American iron.
Damage to the Harley was minimal but enough to throw me into a frenzy of polishing and cleaning. Finish is not brilliant, it needs a twice monthly dose of tender loving care to keep the copious quantities of chrome and alloy shiny. Less than three years old, chrome has fallen off the shocks, the exhaust downpipes and the sissy-bar.
Vibes have got through to one of the back indicators, causing it to do a runner and the footrest bolts have a nasty habit of coming undone despite using Loctite on them. Having done 12000 miles so far, (5500 on the clock when I bought it) the engine has needed nothing more than a couple of oil changes (consumption between changes miraculously minimal given the amount of thumping and grumbling the mill puts out). With hydraulically self-adjusting valves, a single carb and electronic ignition the only thing that's left to muck around with are the primary and final drives, neither of which has needed much adjustment.
The Evolution series of Harley engines gets better with each passing year, minor refinements ironing out potential problems. Most of my complaints about the Harley come from the nature of the bike not its inherent design, although with Harleys these are almost inexorably bound together.
For long distance work, the fuel tank is too small, giving a range of only 120 miles even when the FXLR is ridden mildly, which given its nature is most of the time. 35-40mpg is not that good for a bike that doesn't like to do more than 90mph (weird handling and vibes) - probably down to the brick shithouse aerodynamics and near 600lbs of mass.
Large passengers put the shocks down on their stops, inducing wild wobbling....taking male friends on the back is a rather too intimate experience for my liking, nubile frails are another matter, though. For some reason, even with the Harley at my behest I have failed to coerce droves of frails on to the pillion....they take one look at me and burst into hysterical laughter!
The pillion perch is usefully shaped for strapping on my camping gear. In the summer I'm usually out on the road every weekend, either going to bike meets or off on my own wanderings. I once had the Harley attacked my an enraged bull who seemed to mistake the bike for a rival bovine. I'd camped in the wrong field. After three attempts, the bull managed to knock the HD over, but was in a bad way by the time it had finished, shaking its head from side to side as if it didn't quite know where it was. Pulling the Harley out of the mud, no mean feat, I was almost in tears as I clocked the dented exhaust, airfilter cover and tank. I had to clear out fast as the bull was eyeing the resurrected Harley like he wanted another fight. I made a mental note to never buy a red bike again.
After about eight months with the Harley the insurance paid up for the damage to the Suzuki GSXR, so I had two completely different bikes in my garage. However, I had become so enraptured by the easy going nature of the HD that I found the Suzuki almost impossible to ride. Its racing crouch was now agony, its smooth engine horrifying in its remoteness and blitzing acceleration somehow lacked the fundamental edge of the Low Rider. Much to my horror I had become a total Harley devotee.
As the bank payments were threatening to cut off my petrol money the GSXR had to go.....the Harley's original owner had found out the true nature of his wife by then and needed some highway excess to bring him back to life. Poor chump kept the Suzi at my house for the first couple of weeks until he could summon the nerve to inform his wife about the terrible deed. We'd come full circle and were once again eyeing each other to see who would try to outdo the other with a more outrageous machine - always fancied one of those Heritage......
Dick Williams
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Most attention, these days, is given to the Evolution Harleys. But one of the older vees, when well sorted, has a lot going for it. Their prices are a lot more palatable. I like the chop look, so sort of fell in love with a custom 1200 vee. It started life in 1971 as a Duo Glide, had long since dumped most of its cycle parts. Forks were lengthened, raked. The bike had a feel of being both well loved and used. Being the depths of winter it was reasonably priced - £1500.
The engine was noisy, but I'd heard worse Harleys. The bellow out of the slash pipes was music to my ears. There's nothing quite like the throbbing of a nicely tuned Harley vee twin. I was told that the motor was basically stock but with a belt primary drive conversion. God knows how many miles it had done and how many times it had been rebuilt.
It started second kick, vibes running through the machine as it warmed up. 45 degree vee twins don't have perfect primary balance but it never reaches the destructive heights of a British twin. The old Duo-Glide engine puts out about 50 horses. Not much for 1200cc, but peak power is made at 4500rpm! I've known some Japanese bikes that have all but refused to run at those kinds of revs.
Huge gobs of torque hit the back wheel the moment the clutch is dropped. With the long front forks it's quite difficult to control, just a little bit of input has the bike veering off. The four speed gearbox clunks and seems reluctant to engage gear. All it needs is a forceful thump from my foot. The best thing to do is to get it into top gear as soon as possible. The slight amount of flexibility in the belt primary drive allows top gear to growl down to as little as 25mph.
Massive engine braking means the marginal brakes were not too much of a problem. Some joker had fitted a tiny SLS drum out front which would have looked questionable on a Puke Maxi. It worked okay in town and was just adequate for obtaining an MOT certificate from a sympathetic tester. With a rolling mass of around 550lbs, double discs off some Japanese bolide would've been just about adequate.
A curious throwback to vintage days was the retard ignition lever on the bars. I don't know if it was standard or some owner's reversion to flat-cap mentality. It was quite a lot of fun to pull it all the way back in top gear, the engine banging away every other lamp-post. The silencers had a deep, mellow note that made the hair crawl up my back.
It was quite useful when motoring up really steep hills with a passenger and camping gear. It was easier to retard the ignition than change down a gear. The stock Duo-Glides would grumble up to 90mph, maybe 100mph if you wanted to get down to it - a pretty strange thing to do. With the chop chassis I didn't feel safe doing more than 70mph. The whole feel of the bike is so laid back that I don't really mind.
An experienced Harley riding friend has developed a muscular attitude to chopper riding. When he flings a leg over my bike, he doesn't hang about and reckons he's put the ton on the clock! A lot of Harley riders take great pride in overcoming their physical inhibitions, especially when there are some Jap poseurs trying to get past. I have yet to convince myself that the bike is not going to fall apart under me if I push it so hard. Yes, I'm a coward but I'm still here.
It was perhaps my friend's riding that quickly turned up some engine problems. After only 2200 miles the main bearings started rumbling. By the time I decided to take the engine apart there was a fierce grinding feel running through the chassis. I was more than a bit pissed as the sun had just started to shine again.
They were, I found out, a hefty set of taper and roller bearings. Quite impressive after the Triumph engines I'd experienced. My mate did the rebuild for me, he had done it so many times that he knew all the tricks. I've never found anyone willing to admit how long these old engines last between crank rebuilds. I've done 9000 miles since with no problems. The forked con-rods were a neat touch, removing the usual torque reaction found in vee-twins and boxers from having the cylinders slightly out of line.
I also had the cylinders rebored and new pistons fitted as there was a lot of clearance at the bottom of the bores. Pistons are carefully machined to give low running clearances (and hence engine noise) on these models. The valves, even then, were hydraulically adjusted and were still in good condition, but I threw in a new set of pushrods as they occasionally break up with terrible consequences.
I also took the opportunity to do something about the pathetic 6V dynamo. The lights were useless and the twin horns completely drowned out by the engine and exhaust racket. There was nothing I could do about the heavy clutch; my mate reckoned it was bullet-proof and I'd just have to adapt to the pressure.
Back on the road, the vibes and engine noise were significantly lessened and that great swathe of torque even more intense. Fuel improved from 55 to 65mpg, which was useful with not much more than a gallon in the peanut style petrol tank. I still carried a gallon of oil in a can on the back of the bike.
It's a fantastic feeling to be in a pack of ten or twenty Harleys, thundering across the countryside. Just the noise they make brings a huge smile to our faces. It's a pity so many civilians go ape with worry and paranoia when they see us coming. All we are doing is enjoying ourselves. Not really harming anyone else.
Hassle from the police is another problem. This kind of bike forces everyone to make sure they have an MOT, tax and insurance (the latter sometimes another big nuisance, what with 1200cc bikes rated like GSXR1100s and some companies not even wanting to insure modified machines). The plod aren't too bad locally, they have got used to me now but going on a run I'm usually stopped at least once.
The bike isn't much of a pull with the birds......they usually laugh and ask why they should be interested in an ugly little runt. But at least it gets me in with the Harley crowd, its relative antique status has lots of street cred. I've not been asked to join any gangs. After hearing one story about the initiation rites I'm not sure I'd want to join up. Some poor fool ended up a nervous wreck after a tryst with a sheep and a subsequent gang banging affair of which he was the central attraction. Stuff that!
Straying, if not strange, thoughts are par for the course for Harley owners. They are such relaxed bikes to ride out of town that my mind has plenty of time to mull over life's little quirks. To spin a web of myths and dreams as the road unfolds out in front of me, to the pulse of those glorious slash pipes. I could go on, but the race replica crowd are already pissing themselves with laughter and consigning myself to old codger status. Anyone who's already into the Harley scene seriously, compulsively, already knows exactly what I'm getting at. So why bother?
I defy anyone not to be impressed by the sheer grunt of this ancient 1200cc vee twin engine. The rest is just a question of taste, you can either take the custom style or it makes you run a mile......the thing to remember is that it's an idiom that perfectly matches the beat of the vee twin motor.
Stodger
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This April I had the opportunity to visit friends in San Francisco, California. Once there, I had certain things that I must do. As well as the obvious West Coast tourist traps, such as Disneyland, Universal Studios and the usual white knuckle rides, there was something else I had always wanted to do in America, which I imagined was not going to be quite so accessible.
Having been a motorcycle nut for 16 years (half my life) I had dreams of cruising mile after mile of Route 66 in bright sunshine on a worthy machine. Well, what is the motorcycle to ride when in the USA? I would suggest perhaps something made in Milwaukee. I told my friend, Dave Wild, of my wish to rent a Harley Davidson, perhaps for a day whilst visiting the States, and although not a motorcyclist himself he was fascinated by the idea. We both set about finding out whether it was possible. 'You're bound to be able to rent one,' said Dave optimistically, 'America is the ultimate country for the consumer!'
It turned out that motorcycling was not going to be as easy as all that and after several blind alleys and much research we found the only place that could fulfill my dream was in downtown San Francisco, an establishment called Dubbleju Tours & Services. It doesn't sound very American, does it, that's because it's run by a man called Wolfgang, a German who started the business when he came to America because he found there wasn't anywhere to rent a Harley when he'd wanted to.
My friend contacted Wolfgang while at work and found that as well as providing BMW motorcycles, he hired out Harley Sportsters and perhaps the ultimate (well, romantic?) touring motorcycle, the Electraglide. On discussing the options both Dave and myself decided to go the whole hog (sic) and book the Eletraglide Sport for two days and would take in Highway 1, the coast road stretching north and south beside the Pacific.
For those of you less informed, or who just like facts and figures, like I do, the HD Electraglide Sport is a vee twin, air cooled motorcycle of 1340cc. It weighs 700lbs and knocks out in the region of 69hp. Some would say an obsolete and heavy dog of a bike but I was prepared to keep an open mind on the subject.
So Friday night came, Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda (aka Michael and David) packed their overnight bags - undies, toothbrush, camera, tee-shirt - all the stuff Jack Kerouac packed for his 1950's American travels, no doubt.
We arrived Saturday morning about 11.00am, at Wolfgang's emporium and waited whilst he dealt with some German tourists who were renting bikes to tour the area. Wolfgang has a tour service which advertises his motorcycle rentals in Germany and his usual clients are Germans wishing to hire motorcycles for two week tours. From the photos on the wall of satisfied customers, I have the feeling that their first choice of machines are Harleys and not BMWs!
I dealt with the paperwork and checked my knowledge of operating the huge beast I was being trusted with for the next 48 hours. The bike was spotless and had a little over 13000 miles on the odometer. It was black with red pinstriping and had hard panniers and a huge flyscreen fitted as standard.
We borrowed open-face helmets at no extra cost and packed our few belongings, which fitted easily into the panniers. I reminded Dave of the finer points a pillion has to play in the safe forward passage of a motorcycle (being in the region of 14 stone I thought it best he didn't lean at the wrong moment), while I picked my way through the San Francisco traffic. Frightening to say the least.
My first impressions? Well, first of all what a nice surprise to find a saddle that was more Dolly Parton than say Twiggy. My last three Japanese bikes, both large sports and trail bikes, could've done with lessons in comfort from this dream in ergonomics. The gearchange was a heel and toe affair and my feet when not operating the controls sat on a massive pair of footboards, part of an armchair-like riding position. The pillion sat nicely above the rider so a clear forward view is enjoyed by the passenger who has a low backrest in just the right place for lumbar support.
Anyway, we pottered along the streets, passing the Hard Rock Cafe on our way to the Golden Gate Bride. Despite the mass, the Electraglide grumbled along without too much trauma. The view from the bridge was stunning, you can see back to the city itself, Alcatraz, and ahead lies Marin Country and California's trees and coastline, not forgetting the curving roads and coastal views on Highway One.
We continued along the coast for about two hours, marvelling at the views and the size of the waves along the shore. Our hunger got the better of us and we found a small restaurant full of characters in an old town called Tomales. I ate the best char-broiled burger I had had so far in America. A friendly old Californian, of Irish descent, kept us in conversation and showed us a photo of his Irish extended family which had been taken on a visit to the Emerald Isle some years earlier. His opinion was that you could keep southern California, his California started north of San Francisco.
After a couple of photos outside the restaurant in front of a large Star & Stripes blowing in the breeze, we set off north and I started to see the old-timer's point of view. It became more rugged, wild and spectacular as we went higher.
We decided to stay the night in Mendocino, some 250 miles of riding north of San Francisco. Mendocino was an old lumberjack town on the coast which ceased to be when they cut down the last of the Redwoods (well, very nearly, anyway). Now, it's a town favoured by artists and writers. The houses are beautiful, wooden detached giants of blue and cream with ornate water towers of various descriptions next to them. It struck me as a place where a close encounter of the third kind could take place.
This was borne out by our hostess for the night at a B & B. By the way, a B & B is seen as an up-market, more personal place to stay than in a hotel in America, rather than the grotty image it conjures up in the UK. Anyway, our hostess believed we should all be ready for visitors from another planet who are more advanced than us and she intimated to Dave that he struck her as being ready for this visit; I don't know why I wasn't!
We dined that evening in a fabulous old Western movie style hotel and slept like logs (Redwoods?) that night. The next morning I manoeuvred the Harley out from the back garden where I had parked it for safety. £10,000 is a lot of motorcycle to lose. We went a couple of miles further north and turned inland on Highway 20 towards Willets. Words can't describe the bends, the Redwoods, the light and shade along that road, the spiritual beat of the Harley making it all the more tender.
At Willets we had brunch and then took the 101 down to Greyserville - the 101 goes from one end of California to the other and in most parts is a motorway. We then turned on to 128 towards Calistoga which is in the wine country area of the Nappa Valley, very similar to some of France's wine regions only with even more sun. After a quick stop in Calistoga, an old western town with spa baths, we headed back to San Francisco via Highways 49, 116 and 101. I stopped for petrol at one point and covered my nose with a handkerchief like a bandit as I was fast losing my skin to the sun.
Tailbacks on a Sunday or Bank Holiday can be dreadful at Dartford but the tailback to recross the Golden Gate Bridge is usually bigger and much worse. I almost burnt my legs, there was so much heat coming off the idling engine under me and it's $3 to cross the bridge - no concessions for motorcycles unlike lovely old Dartford. A quick dash along Highway 280, having passed the Presidio military area of San Francisco and back home to Redwood City.
It's sad to take a bike like the Harley back to the shop. I gave Wolfgang his Electraglide back and shook his hand - what a nice man, allowing me my dream! Do it, if you can!
Michael Chadwell
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If buying a new Sportster seemed an act of financial lunacy, back in '89, buying a new Electra-Glide two years later could only be attributed to the brain rotting effects of the male menopause. However, it was my birthday, my 40th birthday, and I could, if I gave up eating as well as the fags and booze, just afford the repayments. What tipped the balance was that this time I found a Harley dealer who not only acknowledged my existence as I walked into the shop, and gave me a cup of coffee, but actually allowed me a test ride on the model of my choice.
Although I had really enjoyed my two years on a Sportster, it did have its limitations, particularly two-up, as an 800 mile trip to friends in Scotland proved. The agonised screams of the pillion probably still echo around the glens to this day. So after 12000 miles on an 883 it was time to move up to a BIG TWIN.
The difficult bit was choosing which one, as the prices of 1340's, with the exception of the full dress tourers, were all pretty close. I had a ride on a Soft-Tail, although they are arguably the best looking of all the models, the solid mounted engines do vibrate, which did not bode well for long distance comfort. This left the FX series or FL's. I didn't really consider the new Dyna-Glides as they had only just come on to the market and I preferred someone else to iron the bugs out of the new models.
The FX models are in some ways similar to Sportsters and offer a similar amount of wallet shrinking customizing opportunities. By a careful process of elimination all that was left were the Electra-Glides, if only for the amazing name. As I didn't fancy paying out £2000 extra for a radio-cassette and cruise control, I settled on a FLHS, an Electra-Glide Sport, which in Harley terms is something of a bargain.
You get all sorts of goodies with an FLHS. Air forks and shocks, spotlights and running lights, twin front discs, GRP panniers and, last but certainly not least, a really comfortable dual seat. The big, police type, screen is also well worth having. With all these features, plus a virtually maintenance free belt drive, the bike's a real mile eater.
At over 600lbs it's no lightweight, but even round town the impression of bulk disappears once on the move, helped by the low seat height and the unique back to front forks. This strange set-up has the headstock in front of the fork legs, which gives lighter steering and added stability at higher speeds. The only thing that limits the fun is the rather small tank, at four gallons, with around 40mpg. It shows how comfortable a machine this is, on most bikes a stop at 150 miles would be a blessed relief.
The first days of ownership were almost trouble free. The only faults found on the initial ride were the strange behaviour of the self-cancelling indicators and the fact that the bike had a headlight that dipped the wrong way. The problem with the indicators was because 10W bulbs had been fitted at the factory for some unknown reason. Once replaced with the correct bulbs the problem disappeared, the self-cancelling feature working a treat. The headlamp was changed to a UK spec Cibie unit, the original Bosch light kept for trips abroad.
The brakes are up to (or rather down to) the usual Harley standards. Having two discs out front makes them slightly less wooden than those on the Sportster but they used to pack up at the first sign of rain, needing a lot of pressure in the dry. The real problem's is the disc pad material being rock hard, never seems to wear out. In fact, the discs would probably need replacing before the pads. EBC pads were a big improvement.
Having completed over 12000 miles on the machine, I've been very pleasantly surprised at the low running costs. The rear tyre lasted nearly 10,000 miles and the front is still only half worn. The Avon Elan rear replacement works even better than the original Dunlop, without the strange noises. The belt drive still looks like new. Apart from oil and filters, the only replacement parts were a pair of spark plug, a set of HT leads, an exhaust shield and a spot-light rim. The last two replaced under warranty. As depreciation isn't a problem with Harleys, it would be difficult to find any large tourer that would be cheaper to run. Even the high initial cost looks better, these days, compared to large Jap tourers.
Of course, you don't buy and run a Harley on the grounds of economy, but it does go some way in preventing the family getting you committed to the local home for the financially insane. So, what's it like to ride? Well, it's arguably one of the most comfortable bikes on the road, both for rider and passenger. Not only has it got a really good seat, the rubber mounted engine and belt drive stop those bum numbing vibes getting through, as do the large floor-boards.
As you would expect, the ride's pretty soft, although the air suspension can be pumped up to maximum to tighten up the handling, you end up with a very jarring ride. The bike's surprisingly agile except that it has a large turning circle which can be awkward in tight hairpin bends. Even on loose gravel it can be a bit, er, tricky.
It's also somewhat over-geared, the European models having a smaller rear pulley than the US spec bikes. I suspect this has more to do with noise regs than our higher cruising speeds, as it leaves first gear a bit tall for pulling away fully loaded, and it makes fifth gear an overdrive. The bike will just pull 100mph with the very quiet and restrictive OE exhaust. In fact, the bike's still standard except for the screen which was swapped for a handlebar fairing off an old FL.
It'll happily cruise at 85 to 80mph all day long, with the engine chugging away at around 3000 revs. It's all so relaxed you sometimes need to make an effort to keep awake, particularly when the passenger's snoring away. The bike's been totally reliable, the only real fault was petrol overflowing from the carb on starting up. A problem that also occurred on my Sportster. A modified float needle cured this but caused a misfire at high revs as the fuel level became too low. This has now been fixed and the bike pulls like a train right up to the red line.
Like all standard Harleys it could do with a bit more power at the top end, as although I start every journey intending to cruise along at 60mph, I find that the further I go the more the speed creeps up, as everything else on the road, these days, seems to drive at 90mph. The bike out-accelerates most things on four wheels up to 80mph but most cars have a higher top speed.
So should you rush out and buy one? Well, although, as I mentioned before, once moving it's quite easy to manage, you need to be strong enough to hold up the best part of half a ton of bike and passenger at a standstill. And, of course, you need the very large financial commitment. It took me three years of working 24 hours a day, seven days a week, to pay for it, but as I said before I should be able to sell it for the same as the original cost. Not that this goes any way to placating other members of the family, who seem to have this strange idea that annual holidays in the sun are a better way of spending the money.
You also have to get used to the attention the bike attracts, not unfortunately from the sort of young women who pose for Easy Riders magazine, but from pensioners who rode them during the war. Even though it's ridden all year round the finish has survived northern winters well, the only rust to be found on the exhaust. It's a very easy bike to service at home and spares availability is good, the price of parts cheaper than most Jap machines.
Harley use high quality parts where it counts and the bikes are certainly built to last. Even ignoring all the hype that surround them, Harleys do have a unique character and can, given reasonable care, last a lifetime. They can be customized and tuned, so that there is really no excuse for ever getting bored with the bike, either. I'm happy with mine....I just get the new catalogues for harmless amusement. Mind you, that Road King looks nice...
Barry Meason
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The greatest high in my life, in recent times, was falling off a newish ElectraGlide in the States. An old friend who'd settled in LA was putting me up for a couple of months. The rich bastard owned half a dozen expensive motorcycles, the 1340cc Harley one of them. $14000's worth! As cities go, LA's pretty nasty for motorcyclists even though the roads are wide and the sun shines. Too many jerks wearing expensive clothes in big cars who are living in a fantasy world, who pull out huge guns in reaction to a dose of reality.
I found the Harley a weird bike to ride. The engine was as noisy as a blast furnace but not that many vibes got through to the rider. It revved incredibly slowly, but gut churning torque was belted out that tried to pop my spine out of my body. The bars were so wide they made me feel laid out in the wind but their width gave the great bulk quite reasonable control. I could potter through town at 20 to 30mph, feeling as if I was in complete control. The Harley has one of the most lowly mounted engines in the motorcycle world with obvious benefits from the low centre of gravity. Or so I thought.
On the Freeway the old barge comfortably chugged up to 60 or 70mph. Faster it'd go but the pigs would come up out of the ground and snap up any speeders.
I did find some deserted roads out in the country, where I put 90mph on the clock. There was a horrible weave, the bars threatening to flutter from lock to lock. A patch of pot-holes threw me out of the seat and had the Harley all over the road. 80mph brought back calmness, though the bike seemed happiest in the 55 to 70mph range. Perfect, in fact, for Yank roads.
Harleys are famed for their exhaust note and, indeed, I was mellowed out by its rhythm after a couple of days of trying to ride it like a Japanese bike. Fuel was around 50mpg and they have a reputation for being easy on the other consumables.
I liked the handlebar fairing, which gave protection from the elements without removing the sensation of being aboard a big motorcycle. Americans drive at incredibly slow rates, which is stupid in such a huge country, but it's a restraint within which the Harley fits perfectly. Whereas in the UK it'd be an accident looking for somewhere to happen.
By the way, British bikes are now expensive in the States but old Japanese stuff's still cheap. I was trying to track down a good GS750 with the intention of sending it to the UK. My mate thought I was mad to waste my effort on such dross, especially when $2000 would buy a perfectly adequate Sportster. The only Harley I'd consider in the UK is a Goodman framed one.
In search of a GS I'd ridden about 80 miles north out of LA, to a godforsaken little town in the middle of nowhere. The GS turned out to be no use because the bottom end sounded moments off breaking. I was in a pretty bad mood as I tried to manhandle the Harley out of his drive, gave her a little throttle to bring her around. Instead, the back wheel went away and the bike slid down the drive.
Luckily, the ElectraGlide's fitted with huge crash-bars, which lost their chrome. After that incident I was relegated to a 1200 Gold Wing. Still, the Harley was kind of nice in the States.
Mike Bowler
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It was May 1988 when I suddenly realised I could afford to buy a Harley Davidson. I had wanted one for years, in fact ever since I saw one in one of those funny American magazines. I really wanted an Evolution Sportster but couldn't afford it.....even buying an old Ironhead Sportster meant selling my YPVS, spending all my meagre savings and borrowing a little money from the bank.
I had been ringing up after adverts in MCN for a few weeks, trying to knock them down to £2500 (all I had) without much success. After many attempts I found a machine for £2600. It was 250 miles away in North Wales, a gorgeous, black 1981 1000cc Sportster, standard except that virtually everything that could be was chromed. I told myself to stop licking the tank and get serious! After a test ride I was smitten. I mentioned the likelihood of getting pulled due to the straight through pipes and that it needed a bit of tidying - he accepted my offer of £2300! I was stunned, I owned a Harley.
I haven't grinned so much in ages. It sounded wonderful, pulled like a train and was so laid back that I found myself laughing out loud (not that anyone could hear me over the exhaust). All was well with the world. A few miles down the road the engine stopped working. Suddenly, clouds covered the sun, I felt all my good spirits drain away. The coil was suspected of causing its demise. The RAC were called and I waited and waited until they turned up, decided they couldn't fix the bike and I had to wait all over again until a proper recovery vehicle arrived.
The coil was ordered, arrived and fitted. My feelings of well being returned. For the next few months all was well, except starting. No kickstart and an old battery meant it either went first jab at the button or a hunt for the battery charger followed. New battery fitted but still more starting problems. Finally tracked down to a dodgy connector on the starter relay, but even after this was replaced, starting entailed putting a knitting needle across the terminals on the starter motor. Eventually, the starter relay was junked and the wiring altered.
Riding the Harley was extremely pleasant, the handling was okay as long as it wasn't asked to go round corners too quickly. The suspension was on the soft side and the conventional tubular frame was not up to much, but the bike had a low centre of gravity thanks to the vee twin layout of the engine so once into the flow of the ride it could be hustled along quite adequately. It is a heavy beast, but those in the know can manhandle it with brute force to a degree that would annoy the odd plastic reptile owner. The braking was not up to much, despite a set of discs out front and back, use of engine braking and down changing through the gearbox were necessary accessories to emergency stops.
Acceleration and roll-ons through the gears was wonderful, the torque was amazing. It even wheelied once - just the once, as the sensation I had as the front end hit terra firma convinced me not to do it again. The gearbox was slightly on the agricultural side but the excess of torque meant little use of it was required. It could be dumped in top gear for most of the day, speed merely dialled in by use of throttle.
The various chassis and braking deficiencies combined with the sit up and beg riding position meant that cruising speed was limited to around 80mph, when, anyway, vibration tended to rattle the chassis. Top speed was around 110mph, but doing it once was enough to put you off repeating the exercise for the rest of your life. Harleys reward laid back riding rather than trying to burn off everything in sight.
Petrol consumption was always around 50mpg, giving a tank range of just over 80 miles, at which point either my neck or backside started yelling whoa, thanks to high bars and hard seat. I never got to assess chain or tyre wear for a very good reason - a valve collet fell out while I was on my way to Dorset (my first long run with the bike). The noise of a valve dropping into the cylinder can only be described in one word - expensive. I stood next to the Harley thinking why me? The RAC did it again, after explaining the demise of the Harley they sent a transit van to have a look at the bike and then made me wait for a recovery vehicle to turn up.
The engine removal, strip down and rebuild took just under a year and about £450 which included getting a proper mechanic to put it back together. It needed a rebore, piston rings, valves, guides and work on the heads. Luckily, the valve stems had jammed between the crank and cases, so it didn't go on to wreck the bottom end, mainly due to the fact that I pulled the clutch in so quickly (I knew a brief spell of racing a two stroke would do me some good). I did learn a couple of things from all this - one, how reasonable compared to Jap prices the spares were and, two, how easy it was to get hold of them.
All the work was finished very late on the eve of the 1989 Kent Custom Show and at 9.30am the following morning I was outside the pub where we were to meet. I had obtained tax and MOT en route. The Sporty ran faultlessly that weekend and attracted a fair share of attention. All in all, a good weekend was had by one and all. I started, half heartedly, to sell it that weekend, as not knowing why it had dropped the valve always had me listening for the slightest hint of trouble and my left hand ready for action at the clutch lever. Adverts were put in fairly obscure places, like noticeboards in bike shops, because although common sense was positively screaming at me to get rid of it, I still couldn't help liking it.
In 1990 I decided I couldn't face a summer of praying before pressing the starter and that something drastic would have to be done. I set off to see if I could afford a used Evolution Sportster. I was not too hopeful as I set off towards Riders in Bridgewater, as despite the fact that I was continually told that I owned the Sportster to have, and that pre-evolution Harleys were sought after, I still hadn't got a reply to any of my adverts.
At the shop I saw a Hugger, under a year old, 8000 miles on the clock and in really good condition. They offered £2600 in part ex on my Sportster. How could I refuse? We agreed to exchange bikes and cash the following Friday, as I would be on my way to the Finlake rally that night. I had been in the Harley Davidson Riders of Great Britain (HDRGB - not to be confused with Hopelessly Drunken Rabble Going Bopping) Club for over a year, but the furthest I had dared venture had been local meetings. I was never really convinced that my old Harley would get me anywhere exotic, like Devon or Yorkshire.
Friday arrived and I loaded the tent and panniers on to the bike, pressed the starter button and a wild clicking noise came from down below. Eventually, it started with the aid of a battery charger and knitting needle. All was fine until I switched off the engine when I went into a garage to fuel up. Would it start? Do policemen like the sound of straight through pipes? After pushing 515lbs of bike plus luggage up a small mountain in wonderfully hot weather, I was a tad annoyed when I arrived at my mechanics garage.
The starter motor was on the way out, but I only had to get it to Bridgewater so a complete courier firm were enlisted to push bike and myself up the road. It bump started first time. I arrived at Riders only to find the salesman had not mentioned to the workshop I was due to collect the Hugger. I spent a worrying two hours practising excuses in case they tried to start my bike and was relieved when I was allowed to load my luggage on the newer machine.
Peter Beer
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As far as I can see the major advantage of owning any Harley, perhaps the only advantage, is that you can drop a line on a woman about owning one and get her on the back before she knows what's hit her. By the time she's clocked that it's one of those stupid badged Harleys made in Italy it'll be too late to back out.
This was the theory that caused me to hand over 200 notes for a non-running 250 single cylinder stroker. To be fair, it looked quite rakish in its way and the chassis was in good nick. I spent many an idle moment sitting on the wee beastie, playing demonically with the throttle even though the engine was as dead as a corpse.
At first I thought the refusal to start was a decade's worth of crud in the carb. I spent a day cleaning the gunge out, grinding the float valve in and blowing compressed air through the jets, causing the local garage owner to rush out to see what I was doing with his air-hose.
That was a waste of time as the engine still refused to start or even make encouraging noises. A new spark plug didn't help, but I noticed that the spark was more yellow than blue. That led to the points which were a battered mess that couldn't be cleaned up. Halfords was raided for a similar set and after some serious bodging they were fitted. The spark was still poor but there was a bit of growling in the combustion chamber.
Only after fitting a newish coil and HT lead off an MZ did the engine come to life. Unlike many a Wop machine the kickstart was on the right side and didn't need much effort. I'd eliminated all the connectors and switches in the ignition circuit, the only way to stop the engine was to pull the HT lead off or stall the bike.
The test ride revealed that the bike would clang into first gear then refused to come out unless the engine was stalled when it'd go back into neutral. In a frenzy of revs it'd put 25mph on the clock and leave the whole area in smog until the engine had a chance to clean itself out.
The poor gearbox was caused by an almost complete absence of lubricant. I poured in some car gearbox oil and was rewarded with a change that if not slick could crunch through the gears. It felt quite similar to an MZ ETZ250 I'd once owned but was better in so far that it rarely fell out of gears once they were engaged. At times, though, the whine of the gears meshing drowned out both the engine and exhaust noises!
Once I was convinced there was some life left in the motor, I bought a new battery, rewired the lights and horn, cleaned up the seized front disc and generally gave the machine a good going over. Being a two stroke single meant that regular maintenance was merely checking the ignition timing and adding oil. An MOT was passed first try, with some nice comments about the bike from the tester.
If he'd actually ridden the HD rather than given it a cursory going over he'd have been a damn sight less enthusiastic. The front brake barely worked, the tyres felt very brittle and grinding vibes came in every time I used the throttle in anger. Being lazy I put the bike up for sale for £600 but the only guy to turn up just laughed at me, saying he thought I had one of the single cylinder four strokes for sale, which for a while Harley also badged. He reckoned the best thing I could do with the stroker was pop it into the nearby canal.
There followed an amusing two months when I used the Harley for the daily commute. In the dry it was passable as long as I didn't expect to do more than 70mph. Thereafter the single cylinder vibes tried to destroy the chassis. Wet weather was also nasty as the rain got into the switches, making the lights and horn go berserk. It's not too much fun to sit at traffic lights with the horn blaring away and sparks coming out of the switch cluster!
The Pirelli tyres were also crap in the rain, probably because they were ancient and had gone brittle. I wasn't of a mind to spend money replacing them and the Harley only weighed about 300lbs, therefore easy to grapple with when sliding along the road. The front brake just didn't want to work in the wet, there was sod all engine braking and the rear drum was either on or off (as was the rider if things went seriously wrong).
The few times the Harley hit the deck I got away with bruises to myself, and dented tank and silencer, plus the usual bent levers, to the bike. Whenever it slid down the road it protested by refusing to start for the next half hour. There was thus no chance of doing a runner from some irate cager whose pride and joy had been hit by the Harley or quickly removing myself from the scene and packs of giggling school children who invariably popped up out of nowhere whenever I came off.
No sooner had I become used to the handling than the clutch went BANG! The drum had cracked up then exploded. Somehow, the gearbox avoided self-destruction although the kickstart's ratchet was devoid of teeth. Now, where the hell was I going to find a new or used clutch?
Er, nowhere as it happened. The one quote I had for machining one out of solid indicated they were going to make it out of gold! The chassis, tyres apart, was in reasonable nick, so it seemed a pity to throw the bike away or sell it as a non-runner. After a few bottles of Newcastle Brown I decided the solution was to fit a 125cc engine. This would make the hack attractive to learners as well as halving my insurance bill. In the end, a tuned Yamaha RXS100 engine was forced in. It was a very tight fit, needed some filing of the engine cases and levering to get it to settle down nicely. It didn't look half bad by the time I'd finished.
Despite the small capacity, this motor turned the bike into a real screamer that would put 80mph on the clock, cover the area in smog and a wonderful wail out of the spannie. It took six months and 10,000 miles of flat out riding to wear the engine out.
By that time I'd found some used bits that helped me do a thorough rebuild to the Harley engine. Brand new piston and barrel, good clutch, some kickstart bits and a better carb. The crankshaft showed no signs of wear and the gearbox only had a few small score marks on the teeth despite the whining noises.
I had the same starting problem as before. Just didn't want to get going again until I coerced some mates to push me up and down the street a few times. When the motor fired, the violence of the power pulse caught me out. For the first time there was enough power to do a wheelie. Wow!
After 200 miles of running in, the top speed turned out to be 97mph on the clock, which was wildly optimistic as my mate on a Beemer reckoned it was only 85mph. Vibes were much reduced, possible to cruise flat out if the wriggling tyres and non-existent brakes were put out of my mind. The brake was improved with a used Brembo caliper, new hose and fluid, but still left me gasping with fear on a few occasions.
By the time I'd finished with the Harley it looked very smart, ran well, stopped reasonably, was an excess of fun to ride and cost sod all to run (fuel was 60mpg). The only thing that persuaded me to sell was an offer of £850!
Jed Drewson
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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
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The only Airfix model I ever made a decent job of and managed not to break within a week was my Harley Davidson Electra Glide (painted in blue of course). I have liked Harleys since I was a kid. At the time they were unfashionable, regarded with distaste; too heavy and too slow in comparison to Jap machinery. Harley were nearly bankrupt. Since then Harley's popularity has grown to a legendary status. I still wanted one.
During the summer of '93, my local bike shop quite unexpectedly had a shiny red 1976 Harley Sportster in their window. 1000cc's of pure unadulterated American Iron. Suddenly, I wanted this bike more than anything else but no way I could afford the £2799 asking price. And then it was gone. Sold! In my mind I already owned this bike, so it was a great shock to see it no longer in the shop. My ten year old XJ550 would have to do; it was stripped, painted and ended up looking better than new.
In February 1994 I saw the Harley in a shopping centre. I felt good just looking at her, left a note for the owner, asking to get in contact if he wanted to sell. That night he hollered down the phone something about me knocking his bike down with a lorry! Once that was sorted out he revealed he'd take £2500 (despite the dented oil tank from the lorry incident), but no less. Dreams shattered again.
To cut a long story short, he agreed to let me use it to turn up at my wedding on. He had the XJ550 as security!. He liked my bike more than he liked the Harley and a few weeks later it was mine for £1500 after ten minutes of negotiation.
Back to the first ride. I started her up and cautiously pulled away with virtually no revs at all. The low down stomp of the engine was just out of this world. Words failed me, as did the bike two miles down the road. Apparently, Harley brakes overheat very easily, and when they overheat they grab the front disc harder than you'd think Harley brakes could. Especially when you forget about the back brake and only use the front. Bad move.
As I was riding along I could sense the engine straining harder and harder, and as soon as I stopped at a roundabout I was stopped for good. She wasn't going to budge an inch. Luckily, an off duty copper gave me a lift home. This at least giving me a little time to consider how to solve the problem before returning the bike to its owner. I thought and thought, decided to round up some friends. Unfortunately, I forgot that extra thinking power equals extra humiliation. Laugh? Yes they did - lots! Returning to the bike about an hour later, revealed that the disc, calipers and fluid had all cooled enough to release the wheel - she was a runner again!
The wedding morning came and it rained. Paranoia about dropping a Harley because of greasy roads halted any thoughts about biking. Soon after, I started to understand real Harley ownership. In the first month I found a number of problems. Firstly, these bikes run on a dry sump principle and most of the oil is pumped back to the oil tank. That is if there is any oil to pump. My first impression was that the oil maybe had drained down to the sump overnight.
I was partly right. What little oil in the bike was in the sump but once running this pumped back to the tank, leaving it with very little lubrication and heating up faster than a nuclear reactor on a thermal overload. Easily solved, time for new oil. The next item to junk was what looked like an original oil filter which appeared to be either coconut mating or horse hair. So with new oil and filter she began to behave and run a lot cooler.
The second assault. Due to my work commitments I was required to go to Basingstoke for a day. No problem, I thought, I'll take the bike. A nice long run there and back, about 120 miles round trip. Getting there, no problems whatsoever, in fact a really enjoyable ride. Coming back? Not quite the same story. The first roundabout that I came to, the sidestand fell off and promptly disappeared. I went around the roundabout about twenty times trying to find it.
I couldn't stop to find it on foot because Harleys only have a sidestand. I gave up, not too upset, after all how much can a stand cost? Halfway along the M27 the back tyre gets a bad case of wind, flattens rapidly. Now this was a bit of a predicament, parked up on the side of the M27 with no stand and a flat tyre. Luckily, I happened to have a mini adjustable spanner on my person and the only thing I could think of doing was to removed the sissy bar and precariously prop the bike up. Luckily, I had roadside recovery.
Could it get any worse? Yep. Stands are fifty quid a throw (they are chromed!). My only alternative was to go back to try to find it. Luckily, after considerable searching (it was a large roundabout), the stand and spring turned up in a side road 20 yards from the roundabout.
After getting over the shock of all this, and finding out that Harley batteries are not only expensive but also short-lived, I got into the routine of checking each and every major bolt on the bike for looseness due to the vibration. Other than that, things settled down and living with her became less of a nightmare and more enjoyable.
Ironhead Sporsters have only four gears, not an awful lot of power but gob loads of torque. They are approximately seven feet long and weigh about a million tons. A real handful in traffic and around town, especially at a walking pace. The ground clearance's next to nothing and the engine's low but it's so damn heavy that at any angle other than totally upright you need to have super-human strength to keep it from dropping to the floor. However, you do get used to it, eventually.
You can be in top gear at 30mph (which equates to 1500rpm) and when riding on the open road the old thing would cruise at 80mph (4000rpm) and could go to 100mph (5000 revs) without too many problems other than taking up three lanes with the weaves and wobbles - the engine taking a positive dislike to the frame and trying to leave by the nearest available exit. The other problems with high revs is the vibes going ape and turning your flesh to jelly. Petrol consumption seemed pretty good at 100 miles to the tank (around 50mpg) - don't drop Harleys at petrol pumps, hernias hurt.
After about ten months of ownership, one winter, and numerous unmentionable niggles, I decided an engine out clean up was due. This wasn't meant to be a complete rebuild but quickly turned into one - something to with the hammering noises the bike had been making! The pistons were like cheese-graters; rebore and new pistons time (the originals lasted for 20,000 miles). RMD in Reading were marvellous, coming up trumps with nearly all the parts. Only hassle was that the local shop cocked up the reboring! And tried to charge me twice. Great!
Six months later I was back on the road, also having lots of hassle with the new paint job. Alas, it's now winter again and riding my Harley in such conditions doesn't inspire. Am I happy? Not arf, but profoundly disturbed maybe!
Chris Gavin-Egan