What evil befell that city, and the bike's previous owners, before it's departure to Blighty, I dread to think. I'm not making any of this up: this is some serious shit going on. All will become clear enough, all too soon. Read on at your peril.

This bike is Satan on wheels, and surrounded by doom and gloom. I only decided to do this feature because nothing bad can happen to me anymore. I've had my quota of badness over the past few years, or so. So I'm in the clear, I hope.

Come to think of it, I first met Phil some three years ago. He came visiting a mutual mate of ours, and when he stooped down through the doorway, I remember thinking he was a big mutha. We shook hands, and I wish we hadn't. His huge hands are like shovels - to coin a phrase - so it's quite apt that he owns a Shovelhead. We started chatting away, as you do, and this was the beginning of strange happenings. It turned out that he lives in the house that was my childhood home, which I had vacated back in '69.

After an invite to go and have a look around, I paid him a visit a couple of days later. I was experiencing some strange vibes lurking around every corner, but I just put it down to about of nostalgia, although I now know different. Spooky!

Upon entering the garage I heard strange noises, but all was okay: my micro-recorder was in playback mode. I then came across this bike, which was in pieces due to the motor 'giving up the ghost', so to speak.

The weird and not so wonderful had been occurring for years, explained Phil. "I'm not surprised. It's not the first time the engine hasn't ceased to amaze me, and gone tits up". Just a couple of days after he purchased it, he was travelling along, with a friend following behind, and wwhhizzzzz: the primary belt snapped, and being an open primary, the belt flew through the air latching itself onto his mate's face. Slap!

No amount of Savlon and antibiotics was gonna save him from Mr Ugly's wrath, and Phil was now one friend less, Ah! Ug' did get his revenge though, albeit in a round-about way. Soon after a new belt was fitted, the motor blew up, big style. Rebuild number one.

During the build up, of which was done by a Harley shop up North - who shall remain nameless to reduce the chance of libel when I explain they were tossers. One of the problems Phil had with them, resulted in him fetching the half built lump back, but not before they had fitted S&S rods, and various other goodies.

He then took the lump round to another mate's pad, who awaited delivery of an oil pump rebuild kit. Mister Postie pushed the package through the letterbox, and whilst his mate wasn't there to receive it, his escapee pet rat was. All that was left of the kit was the remnants of a seal and a bit of gasket paper.. The verminous bastard had had the lot, and even had the balls to leave his calling card, in the shape of a pellet or two. I now know why I spotted a tump of strychnine, the size of a wheat mound, awaiting distribution to the Third World, in the corner of Phil's garage. He's obviously not taking any chances. Once bitten - twice shy, and all that.

Once another oil pump kit had arrived, and been fitted, the rebuild began again in earnestand, upon completion, was fired up and all was hunky dory again. Or at least for a short while, anyway.

While out and about one fine day, tootling along, taking in some rays, and bugs amongst his pearlies . The bars suddenly felt a tad loose. Phil looked down, to see a crack appear in the top yoke, luckily in time to prevent a second visit from Mr Ugly, and joining his old buddy in the "after" picture.

He just couldn't understand why all the repeated bad luck, came his way, with this bloody bike. But it wasn't just down to the bike alone, there were other reasons.

It was obvious really. Upon awaking one morning, Phil turned to his long-suffering wife, Julie, and declared that he wanted to become a Pointy Head. To which she replied, " There's something seriously amiss in your head Philip. Go back to sleep dear, you'll feel better soon". All this was when they resided in and around the Birmingham area. and who would want to be a Bobby in Brum?. In fact, who would want to become a cunstable, period? But no, he was adamant, the force just had to be with him. So, 'The Curse of The Pointy Head' then transformed itself into evil within the bike. That coupled to the satanic stuff already contained inside 'Damien the Shovel' was something awesome. The Handsworth truncheon-wielding PC Wills didn't last long in the establishment of so-called law and order. He got out when he realised he'd got enough problems at home with Damien, and he didn't want even more from his workplace.

Even Julie had her fair share of demonic forces in and around the garage. Firing up the Shovel was a no-no, if she was in the vicinity. And if it was already running, and Julie popped her head around the garage door to call Phil in for a spot of luncheon, it would result in internal combustion shut down. He was thinking of chaining her to her PC's workstation, but her fetish already does that. Well, as she explains, "If those evil vibes come in on-line, at least I'm there to fuck them right off ". Can't argue with that.

Now forward in time, and to when we met at the second engine rebuild. I suggested to Phil that Matt's Engineering down in Abercynon, South Wales, was the place to go for a makeover of the power plant kind so a trip down there, and a chat, resulted in the motor being stroked by a rather large stick, to the tune of 86 cubes of S&S parentage. To keep things sweet, it was then crammed full to bursting point with bits and pieces from the who's-who list of H-D internals purveyors. Such as more S&S, Jims, Manley, Sifton, Rowe, Andrews, Crane and Tamer: to view the inventory in detail, tune into the Spec' list.

Oh, and by the way, Matt informed Phil of the lack of those S&S rods that had been fitted previously. And they were in there, once upon a time, he saw them with his own eyes, strange that!

He now decided that it was aesthetics alteration time as well, so using the stock frame, he widened and stretched the swingarm, and then braced the underside of it. Then fitted shorter than stock Progressive shocks, which brought the whole package closer to terra-firma - especially with the use of a 15-inch wheel on the stern, and a 16-incher at the bow end. Both of which were built with stainless steel rims and spokes by the late Bill North: no, it's not that he's not very punctual - he's deceased. Whatever next?

The front hoop resides in FL forks, with billet wide-glide yokes, donated by Johnny Rebb at RCM, and topped off with 4-inch risers, CCI Flyer bars and the ubiquitous Bates headlamp.

Hauling Damien to a halt is handled by Excel billet ally master cylinders, PFM discs, 4 pot Nissins up front and a Lockheed Racing caliper on the rear.

To save Phil dragging his size 13's along the tarmac, they rest upon Excel billet forward controls. (His feet had to be size 13, didn't they?).

The fenders are a reworked trailer affair at the pointy end, and an FL front fender that got widened, and cut and shut before getting fitted on the back end, nice one! The rear struts were made up by Phil in wood, but a posse of woodworms attacked it, so it was remade in billet ally, along with a shitload of other items. His lathe and miller were tested to the full, and there really are some classy touches knocked up by Phil, all over the bike - some of which can't even be spotted without climbing inside Damien. I'll give that a miss, I'll believe the spec list.

The one-off billet items that are within glancing range, are the mounts for the shocks, Reg/Rec unit, and number plate, amongst many others. There's also the fork tube caps, axle adjusters and plates, hangers and brackets.

The fuel gets carted about in a pair of Fatbobs, complete with Catseye Dash and a celtic art hand tooled leather dash strap. Another item tooled in hide is the Le Pera seat.

Glowing red in colour on the blunt end is a Catseye light, which is turned on it's side. This is rather unusual on a two wheeler, don't you think?

The big day had arrived, to take delivery of the newly built stroker from Matt's. For this event, Phil had made a cunning plan. It should bring about the demise of all those malign disasters that bestow the bike, and anyone that comes within striking distance of it.

So, loading the S&S endowed engine into the van, Phil waited until Matt had gone back inside his workshop. He then produced a crucifix, and laid it upon one of the rocker boxes. Then set about an exorcism ritual. Once completed, he headed off back over the border into England, engine intact, half expecting to see on News at Ten that evening, that Armageddon had happened in the land of the leek.

Slotting the motor into the frame, and fitting it up with the loud Porker pipes, an S&S Super 'E' carb, Accel Super Coils and points conversion kit, he then put his bestest electrical head on, and proceeded to wire the whole lot together.

A guard for the underside of the 3" primary belt was made out of chequer plate, and fitted onto the lower frame rail. This gives the belt some protection against the nasties that are thrown up off the asphalt.

On the subject of damage saving, an ally tent peg was beaten into submission, to save the final drive chain from taking chunks out of the swing-arm. I thought the use of a tent peg to be tempting fate, somewhat. If the history of the Shovel was anything to go by, this could be the nearest Phil gets to camping.

The paint is a very subtle TVR Crimson metallic, and complimented with Phil's polishing. How the 'eck he gets those dick sized fingers in all the nooks and crannies is beyond me.

Finally, three years on, and completion had arrived. Phil reports everything to be just fine so far, the motor is fine and dandy. Trouble free motoring is now the norm.
When I asked him how long he'd owned the bike, he had a think about it before replying, somewhat ashen faced, thirteen years. I then told him that Damien the Shovel is the thirteenth feature I had done in the past six weeks. "Oh Fuck! Where's that bloody crucifix gone?", he shouted.

You lot out there very nearly didn't get to read this drivel. I did initially submit it to 'Catholics Weekly' for their perusal, thinking that it was more akin to their conceptions, the wierdness and such like, but they sent it back forthwith, after only reading half of it. They didn't want any more to do with it, reckoning there were to many demons at play. The editor of that weekly tome didn't want to put his readership at risk from such transcendental material that emanates in and around Damien.

If I was Phil, I'd get his Heritage out of the garage a bit pronto. That bastard Shovel will have it's wicked way with it, and then more nightmarish goings on will ensue. Anyway, it's bloody greedy to have two H-D's, isn't it?

Almost as though Phil was listening to that last comment, he's just told us that he's got the bike up for sale ... but it's not because he's realised two bikes are too many - that would be stupid - but that he's got another project in the pipeline. If you can't live a moment longer without parking this very tidy piece of hardware under your backside, it can be yours for £9,500 or he'll swap it for a softail twin-cam.

Tel: 01432 851412 or email: juliewills3@hotmail.com

Specifications