Hektor H-D Part One

If’n yer one of them teary types, it’s gonna be better ya don’t read on. This don’t end happily. Leastways, it ain’t a happy ending yet. There may be time enough, though; who knows?

Best start near the beginnin’, as near as I can remember anyhoo. I was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in 1981. Oh, I remember bein’ born alright. Man did it hurt! Believe me when I tell ya, ya don’t forget an introduction like that – talk about grind-your-gears, sheesh, and I hadn’t even got out of neutral. I felt like I was gonna burst – like you would feel if’n your veins were fillin’ up plenty and about to split. Your lungs raw and hot, gittn’ hotter with every breath until suddenly – everythin’ seemed okay, as if it was meant to be that way. Anyways, things settled down pretty quick, I suppose, and then I was allowed a rest – time to chill, ya know – get to feel myself and my surroundings. I was just kickin’ back, taking it all in – feelin’ cool, when suddenly everythin’ went black. There was bangin’ – well – thuds maybe – then some jigglin’ and weird weight transfer I had no control over. Ya got no balance in the dark. Anyways, I couldn’t shift my weight; it was like bein’ in a coffin. I was in the dark for plenty of time – plenty, believe me. Some of the time I was sure I was movin’ – weird floatin’ up and down stuff and then at the same time side to side, maybe. None of my doin’, I was just mindin’ my own in the dark.

We’ll skip some more weird stuff to get to the really weird stuff: I’d got used to livin’ like this, nailed up in a box but, with no warnin’ the roof came off my world in a violent splinterin’ crack. Then the sides disappeared, and I could see I was in for a whole new experience. There were these guys with wrenches in their hands, talkin’ at each other in some weird English I could barely unnerstand. They started messin’ with me like they knew what they was doin’ – gotta admit, they made me feel a whole lot better soon enough. Then it happened again – the birth thing, but this time – better. Easier. Hmm, it was good to be alive and there was better to come but, in actuality, better came a whole bunch later.

Turns out I was in Landan – that’s in Great England. I was holed up in some sort of messed up motorcycle dealership. There were other motorcycles in the room I was in. Weird guys who couldn’t speak English, not even the weird Landan English. Turns out they were Eyetalyan. Some of them were ‘Vs’ too, but not like me – they had weird angles, stuck out in all directions. They looked like crazy city types too – smooth, with plastic sheets nailed onto their frames somehow, not a look I liked. They weren’t innerested in me, so language didn’t matter none. There were a few of my kinfolk who came and went, through. Good guys too. Skinny little Sportys, big guys with bags an’ screens or proper fairings and some guys I was in total awe of. Man, they had flames on their gas tanks – can you believe that?! They had wide forks and a skinny tire up front. Yup, the green-eyed monster was alive and well and livin’ in me. I’m nuthin’ special by comparison.

Maybe that was my deal. I was nuthin’ special. They even gave me a rude name – Fat Bob. If they’d bothered to ask, I would have given them all suitable names they wouldn’t like. The good guys turned up again sometimes, maybe for a lube check, maybe to get straight again… They told me what I was missin’, told me about rolling down the road and how swell speed felt – wind in yer wheels, lube pumpin’ hard! There wasn’t even a breeze fer me, I was crammed into a corner behind the swanky Eyetalyans and overlooked – overlooked until one of the guys needed a part quick. Yeah, then I was a hero, heroic enough to be cannibalised – no other word for it. Man, I felt bad. I thought I would be stripped down to my loom before long. This was a dark time, but I was happy to help my buddies some.

I don’t know how it happened, but I overheard some of the Landan guys sayin’ I was sold. Some northern dude was savin’ up and put down a holdin’ deposit without even seein’ me. I was kinda pleased about this, but he sure woulda begged for his bread back if he coulda seed me. Man, I was a mess. Slowly, the Landan wrenches found parts to get me going again, but they never did actually get me goin’. They didn’t press that darned button yet. I’ll explain ‘startin’ later. Nevertheless, I was beginning to feel soon there was gonna be wind in my wheels after all.

Well, months went by. Fer G’s sake, what was this northern guy spendin’ his dough on? I was gettin’ desperate; maybe he’d heard I was a pile of junk and took an a la mode Eyetalyan tart’s firkin handbag instead. Sorry, gitt’n’ ornery there – shouldn’t get ornery when there’s still hope.

It was gitt’n’ towards high summer. High for Great England, anyhoo. Rain seems to break the monotonous grey here – actual sunshine makes folks go all giddy. There was talk of my buyer comin’ to get me. The talk was somethin’ to do with legal stuff – new veehicle registration date comin’ up fast. Apparently, this was a big deal. My northern guy, who we had better now call Hector, was comin’ to get me the day before it would be legal to put me on the road. Don’t ask. What the F?

I got a few more parts fixed but still no start button action. Geez, you gotta understand the frustration – ya do, don’t ya? Then, on 30 July 1982, just as despair got to the nut-scrunchin’-upper-top-torque-massive level, there was a new buzz in the place. It was gonna happen – my dude was due tomorrow! I gotta tell ya, I was crankin’ over in my sleep!

The next mornin’, there was something new and I could tell – bad. The truck the Landan wrenches used to haul our asses didn’t turn up. We found out later that he got sold to pay a commitment we never knew about – still don’t. This gave Hector a problem, although neither of us knew about it at this point. Turns out, this guy Hector had an affliction called ‘mechanical empathy’. Ferk-mee. He intended takin’ me back north on a train to protect my internals; sheesh, I was so insulted! The Landan guys were supposed to take the both of us in the truck to the main train station – Saint Pankrus, I think – without me ever turnin’ a damn wheel. Then he was gonna load me up an’ get his head down while I rumbled along in some freight wagon – maybe even with some reeking, gaseous livestock! Man, I was pissed.

As you will have surmised, this didn’t happen – there was no truck. At least the truck bit didn’t happen. Hector turned up as expected. He was brought over to me and we were formally introduced. He put his hand on my right-side gas tank, lightly, sensuously and then took it away with a smile. I gotta tell ya, that was better than flames.

Then they broke the news: Hector was gonna have ter ride me to the Saint Pankrus railway station… Hell, this was only ten miles! Geez, what was the problem?!

Okay, there was a problem – I had a bright yellow age-related registration plate nailed to my ass – givin’ the game away that I shouldn’t be on the road until the next day. Turns out that Hector was a straight guy (well, straight-ish as it turned out…). He didn’t want to risk a ten-mile trip into the centre of Landan with a big ‘arrest me’ arrow pointing at his head an’ me gitt’n’ impounded an’ all. The Landan wrenches got in a huddle and came up with a plan; they would tape a legal fake registration plate over the illegal real one. Genius! But still illegal…

Well, it was a solution, an’ in the face of missin’ the train and all else that was planned out, it was accepted. See, Hector’s ‘mechanical empathy’ wouldn’t let him risk hurtin’ my developin’ internals on the jaunt up the Freeway (I think it’s known as a motorway in Great England). I didn’t now, but I would come to understand this sympathetic reasonin’.

So, it was time for me to step up. I had the fake plate silver duct-taped to my butt – an’ not unobtrusively, I might add – but I was ready to go. One of the Landan guys talked over my controls – like I was a firkin’ computer or somethin’. Then he eased my petcock round to ‘on’, grabbed my choke knob and pulled it right out. Then, with what I thought was preposterous ceremony, he thumbed my starter button. I heaved. I thrust. I tried, honest, I did, but there weren’t nothin’.

Now, I don’t normally bring this up – I almost never talk about it, but I was born without a kicker. I know, I know. I know most motorcycles don’t have one these days and that’s okay – each to their own, but I feel emasculated without one and wanted to protest – but, this was not the time. One of the Landan guys sat on my saddle and prodded his foot around the air space where my kicker would be if I had one – a natural thing to do – then looked down to understand the awful truth. See, it‘s not a vanity thing – it’s necessary and a birth right!

There was some head scratchin’ before I was eventually diagnosed as having points and condenser missin’ – I coulda tol‘ ‘em that, I jus’ lacked the words.

It got worse; they didn’t have points or another bike to cannibalise – I was the last of the line, see. The Eyetalyans were takin’ over one hunnered per cent once I was gone. One of the Landan guys was sent over to someone called Warrs to get the parts, so we all sat around and avoided lookin’ at each other, hard for me as I could see everyone – it’s a motorcycle thing, it’s not always helpful…

By and by, the Landan dude returned with the parts from Warrs and I was gunned up; this was the first time since I arrived and was released from the coffin. It hurt some, but I felt rough in a new way – just not together, ya know? I sat there grumblin’ and Hector looked forlorn. Someone did a bit of messin’ with bits of my carb and my tick-over improved, then someone else kicked in my choke knob and, apart from the boot being unnecessary, I felt a whole lot better for it. Hector finally handed over a huge wad of cash and signed a scrap of paper. We were done and on our own against the world. I was real determined to not let Hector down.

Hector eased me into the traffic and had no idea where he was headin’ – he was pointed in the right general direction and jus’ kept goin’ I guess, jus’ as I did. Man, I felt tight. This was the first time I had rolled further than the circumference of my tires unner my own power. It felt weird – as though I was draggin’ the road along with me. Don’t ask how, but we got to the Saint Pankrus in reasonable time; well, in time to get the train and with plenty of time to spare. Man, I was hot, an’ not in a good way. We pulled into a quiet road just by a long ramp that led to the station concourse. Hector shut me down and seemed relieved to kick out my jiffy stand and drop me onto it. He did a couple of turns around me – that made me feel good – and while I was ticking fit to bust, he ripped off the fake registration and tossed it into a nearby dumpster.

‘Nice bike,’ said a friendly voice.

Hector turned pale as he looked up to see where the voice came from.

‘Come far?’ the voice said.

‘No.’ That was all Hector could manage. He was considerin’ the stone-cold fact that this policeman had seen him peel off the duct tape, remove the fake ‘plate and toss it in the dumpster. I tried to ping quiet, but that weren’t happnin’.

Ping. Taangg. Trang. Fer Chrissakes I was tryin’ my best!

‘You can’t leave it there though,’ the cop suggested. ‘What’s your plan?’

Hector took a swallow before saying ‘Train. Train to Sheffield. Nine o’clock.’

Grang. Trong. Tring. So embarrassed.

‘Well,’ the officer said, ‘you’ve time for a cup of tea then. C’mon. I’ll help you push her up the ramp then I’ll keep an eye on her while you get a brew.’

Her! Her!

Well, that’s what happened. The officer proudly stood guard over me for a full fifteen minutes. Occasionally castin’ an appreciative eye and failin’ to comprehend the heat from my motor and weighing up how I could have arrived so hot with a registration that would not be legal for road use for several hours yet… the cops in Great England sure aren’t like the cops back home…

Hector returned humbly. Ready to accept what fate had decided. Darn it, officer Fate gave me another cheery push to the platform, and we were waved adieu! We were partners in crime now and bonded forever. This is when he officially named me Hektor – not even Fat Hektor!

Hector seemed to know what would happen next. He had to find the train’s guard’s van. Hopefully with no stinkin’ livestock. Now, I ain’t too picky, but do I have standards.

The guard got a ramp and helped wheel me into the carriage. Hector asked for some rope to tie me down, but the guard said there weren’t any. Hector seemed troubled by this; the guard said everything would be okay. They jammed me against the side of the guard’s van with my jiffy stand leaning me against the wall and snicked me into gear.

‘Why are you not riding her?’ asked the guard. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Her’ again!

‘No,’ Hector replied. ‘Harleys are a bit agricultural. They don’t like long journeys on motorways for their first run. And I can’t legally ride it on the road until just after midnight tonight.’

It!

Agricultural!

‘If the bit of riding we’ve done so far is an indication, it would have taken two days to get home; we had trouble doing thirty miles per hour…’

Fer Chrissakes! I’m new!

‘Ah, good plan then. Right, I’ll leave you to it. Your seat is in the next carriage – just the other side of the door.’

Hector gave his thanks and found his seat opposite the open door and opposite me. We sat there in noisy silence, admirin’ one another until the train pulled out of the station. We rounded the first curve and the old up-and-down, side-to-side feelin’ returned. Again, I had gone from light to dark, but this time it was the guard’s van’s door that extinguished the light. The next curve reversed the process – I slid a little on the smooth floor and the guard’s van’s door was now thunderin’ across its tracks and opened to reveal Hector’s anxious expression. He jumped to his feet and ran towards me, just managin’ to leap through the door as the next bend slammed the door closed again. I was skating in all directions. Man, it was hell on earth – I couldn’t keep my wheels. They didn’t stop me movin’ even though I was in gear. I was goin’ down.

Hector threw a leg over me and sat tight. Both feet nailed to the floor, white knuckles glowin’ in the dark.

Each new curve, taken at speed, made either one or both of his hams shriek with pain as he fought to keep me upright. I felt bad I couldn’t help – I ain’t no lightweight.

This was all unexpected. Hector figured he was takin’ me back to Sheffield on a train in order to save my life, passin’ up the achin’ desire to ride, and now, in a bitter twist of irony, he was actually achin’ – riding me while tryin’ to save my life because we were in a train!

Our ignominy didn’t end there: the door slid open about once a firkin’ second and we could see a carriage full of people starin’ at Hector’s stabilisin’ antics, at first with incredulity and later with derision but always with ‘dickhead’ in their eyes. I’m in no position to judge, but you’da thought someone woulda offered help, or just a friendly chat to pass the time.

Well, we finally got to Sheffield with Hector totally pooped after holdin’ me up for the best part of three hours. I was wheeled off the train and into a cargo lift and then out of the station. We had to wait a while for midnight to come. I think this was now a symbolic ‘must do’ rather than fear of any consequences – we’d been through enough to make consequences irrelevant. The station clock ticked over to midnight. Hector checked his watch. It was now 1 August. I was well over one-year-old and just about to start my life.

I arrived at my new home just before one a.m. It was a purpose-made concrete shed just for little ole me. There was a workbench, a window and a door. I felt right at home. Hector did the pattin’ thing again and went on his way. I wondered whether he would have been better loadin’ me in butt-first. He’s gonna struggle to get me outta here, I thought…

Next mornin’ Hector introduced me to Jo. They both just stood gawpin’, each with a coffee in one hand, the other hand occupied by the other’s hand. Sweet, but man, did they have to gawp? Made me feel uncomfortable. Hector put his coffee down on the workbench and dragged a gallon of oil into view. He put an old metal cooking pot unner me an’ dropped my oil. Jeez, it made me shudder when the sunlight lit up the oil and I saw it sparkle with metal flakes from my guts. I’d only covered thirty miles and I was pukin’ filings. I see why he didn’t want to take the freeway. Maybe the mechanical empathy disease ain’t so bad. The next few days were spent doin’ the rounds, goin’ further each day until I started to feel looser. Hector said his teeth felt looser too so we were both doin’ real swell.

I never saw none of my kinfolk out on the road – seems no one rode motorcycles like me in these parts and we caused a bit of a stir wherever we went. I got treated to a couple of extra parts – chrome sissy bar and gas tank dash and trim from a real custom catalogue with as many as twenty pages. I think I looked tasteful, not too gaudy.

Summer turned to fall, and the rides got fewer, Jo didn’t like her knees gitt’n’ cold. Then in the winter I was stashed away in my shed with a heater to keep the damp and agein’ process from nibblin’ my parts. I don’t think it woulda been a problem – I was made from good metals but, I appreciated the kindness.

It was still real cold when the door opened late one evenin’. There were two new people who spoke English like the Landan guys. They gawped. Hector looked sad. The new guy lifted his shirt to reveal bank notes taped all over his chest.

What’s goin’ on…

The door closed and I was alone again.

Next day, I was wheeled out into the snow. Backwards. He never did work out that the best idea was to, well, never mind, no matter now…

Hector pushed my starter, but I was wisin’ up so I did nuthin’. He tried a few times to get me goin’, but I have a stubborn streak – ornery again, I’m sorry to say. Seems he has a stubborn streak too – he pushed me out into the road, snicked me into gear and ran alongside me then jumped aboard, dropped my clutch and bounced me into runnin’. I slithered in the snow, as unhelpful as I could be, well – he’s not playin’ fair either so why should I? He rode me round a piece then went back to the house and let me tick over. The guy and his chick from the night before were hangin’ around with helmets and leathers on. Hector patted me on the tank. Once the new people got on board and rode me away. Hector didn’t look back. I could see this wasn’t what he wanted.

The next couple of years were okay, I suppose. I got new oil now andthen and we did plenty of ridin’, but it wasn’t the same. I didn’t feel a connection; didn’t feel loved. One day, the new guy took me out alone. He was freakin’ out, yellin’ an’ cussin’ an’ riding like a crazy man. He snaked all over the road clippin’ cars, trees and finally an unforgivin’ bridge. We sailed into the air and fell into the water below. I was unlucky and sank into the mud near the water’s edge and disappeared. He floated out to sea; I never seed him again. And no one has ever seed me. No one knows where I am, but I’m in anaerobic ooze jus’ below the surface an’ still lookin’ fine if’n you got the inclination…

To be continued.