“Are you sure about that?”
The clink of my glass landing on the coffee table was like a little bell that brought Lance and I back to reality. We stared at each other for a moment.
“Why not at least try?” I said.
The wildest projects and ambitious plans seem to be a side effect of the obsession with vintage cars and motorcycles. If you hang around old cars long enough, you’ll fall into one of three camps: those who never go on adventures, those who go on adventures, and those who help others go on adventures. None are more important or special than the others, but I personally really enjoy spending time in the third group. I like to push people out of their comfort zones. Neither Lance nor I had any idea what the road trip project we were planning would soon become.
My friend Lance was sitting in my living room in Traverse City, Michigan, because he had added a few days to the end of a business trip to the state. His visit coincided perfectly with a few days I was home between business trips. After dinner one night, while he, my wife, and I were in the living room, I went into the kitchen to refill our drinks. When I returned, he pointed his phone screen at me. It was showing a listing on Facebook Marketplace for a hardtail 1963 Ironhead chopper located a few hours south. “I always thought buying a chopper like this and driving across the country would be cool,” he said.
My wife left the room, knowing what was coming. The bed of my 20-foot pickup was empty, I told Lance, and the gas tank was full. If he wanted to come pick up this stupid thing, I would do everything in my power for the next four days to make this idiotic adventure work for him. Before I could finish my sentence, he had already texted the seller. Lance is no stranger to ridiculous adventures, and I figured if I helped him out, there was a chance this one would work.
Chaos ensued. We spent the next four nights up late—working during the day—trying to get the long-storage chopper up and running, then getting it up and running well enough to cross the country, and finally coming up with a rough plan for its journey. It was a time I’ll never forget. After working our regular day jobs, a group of friends would gather every night, each playing a supporting role in a merry band of characters that any sitcom could only dream of: Brett took pictures, Greg kept everyone fed and watered, Bowen provided endless energy and optimism, and I provided the space, tools, and whatever mechanical knowledge I could muster. Together, we gave Lance superpowers in his headlong dive into a bad idea. One person couldn’t have gotten that awful chopper up and running for a successful trip to Los Angeles. But five of us?
As it turned out, we didn’t succeed either. We went through the bike from top to bottom in three nights, scavenging parts from my parts stash and upgrading or replacing them as we could. A few parts shipped in two days, but others were lucky finds. I had new wheel bearings that fit the Harley’s rear wheel, and a “good enough” chain that came from another project but was in better shape than the one that came with the chopper. We put on new tires and got the brakes working.
On the last day, at 3 a.m. (my neighbors may be the most patient humans on the planet), we reached the point of no return for this Frankenstein monster we had created. In a few hours, Lance would either fire up the beast and ride south or catch the flight he had always booked as a backup. The straight-tube V-twin galloped through the neighborhood as we took turns testing our handiwork and getting a taste of what awaited Lance: a bike that rode what most would call “good” and rode a little worse than that. The garage echoed with high fives and the clatter of beer cans.
After a few hours of sleep, I woke up and climbed into a modern Ford F350, towing a trailer to the Barber Vintage Fest, 900 miles south in Alabama. Lance wisely slept a little later, then propped his leg up on a makeshift Harley and rode 90 miles to the ferry that would carry him and the bike across Lake Michigan—allowing him to move forward while he slept—before heading west at whatever pace the bike pleased him.
Before he could even start the bike to get it off the boat, the kickstarter broke. From that point on, we were treated to a barrage of phone calls, as we both scoured our contacts, racking our brains for a friend who might be in Wisconsin with Harley Davidson parts. We both ended up at the phone number of Pat, a mutual friend from McPherson College, our alma mater, who had experience with the Ironheads.
After a nudge from a kind stranger, Lance drove another hour and a half to Pat’s house in Neenah, Wisconsin, where the duo picked up where we left off in my garage. This time, there were a lot more experts in the room. As I recall, these are the exact words Pat said to me over the phone via the truck’s Bluetooth connection as I rounded the south end of Indianapolis: “I can’t believe you let him back out of the driveway on that thing.”
I know. I am an enabler: someone who allows someone to persist in self-destructive behavior. Lance’s idea for a trip was not a good one, but who am I to interfere with a man’s dreams? The entire time I worked alongside Lance and everyone else in my garage, we laughed and had a good time. We both understood perfectly well what a bad idea it was. It would have been prudent of me not to support such a ridiculous escapade, but given the time and funds I had, I would have gladly traded places with Lance. I wish I could drive west, and the least I could do was help someone crazy enough to try.
I keep finding excuses not to fulfill this wish.
Lance ended up at a Harley Davidson dealership in Wisconsin, 50 miles from the Lake Michigan coast, looking for parts. In the parking lot, he met a man who had heard his story at the parts counter. The guy had an early-2000s Sportster 883 that he had ridden all over the country, and he wanted to see someone else do the same. The bike was ready to ride. Lance should buy it to complete the trip, he said, then quoted his price—a phenomenal deal.
You have to be careful with these enablers. You can find them anywhere.
