| Resurrection Shovel
|
I can only presume that my main interest was in getting the information on the Triumph range because I always had a soft spot for British bikes, though for the life of me I can't remember. What I do remember is returning with the 1978 Harley-Davidson catalogue, and that's primarily because I've still got it. It's black with the H-D eagle logo on the cover and the key word used throughout was 'Thunder'. I kept it because I wanted to own a Low Rider one day: sure, the other bikes were nice enough too, but the proportions of the Low Rider were perfect. The only bike in the range that I really didn't want was the last one, 'cos it looked too big, too flashy, and too middle-aged. That bike was the Electra Glide, and not just any old Electra Glide but a black Electra Glide with aluminium spoked wheels, Comfi-flex dual seat, tourpac and Harley's trademark windscreen.
Over the years, the Electra Glide came to represent the worst of American excesses to
me, to the point when I would only have entertained the idea of owning the Low Rider because the lines were so perfect. It took me a fair while to accept that British bikes were not the only things worth riding, and I started playing with a few Japanese 
machines, which only served to substantiate the theory that
American machines were hopelessly dated, horrendously overpriced and horribly ostentatious.
Then, somewhere round about 1988, something changed. I threw my leg across a brand-new Evolution-powered, FXR-framed Low Rider and rode it the 200-odd miles to the Kent Custom Bike Show, and back, leaving my XS1100 Yamaha at home.
It was a revelation. It covered the ground quicker than the Eleven ... no, honestly. It did so because it wasn't hurrying, just making good progress. By the time I reached my destination, I would have stopped three or four times on the Yamaha: twice for fuel, and at least once to put my shoulders back in their sockets. On the Low Rider I stopped once. I didn't feel I was going anywhere until I got there ... and then I felt as though I shouldn't have arrived yet because mentally I was miles behind. Weird, but strangely satisfying.
I got to ride the Low Rider a few more times after that, as well as an 883 Sportster, before deciding that I really wanted one for myself: but not an Evo-engined Low Rider because the perfect lines of the Shovel powered version just weren't there any more. More significantly neither was any large sum of money, which ruled out any Evo anyway.
Looking at Harleys properly for the first time, I came to realise that the coveted Low Rider's lines came from the four-speed chassis, which is near-enough exactly the same frame as used by the Electra Glide, and the fat-bob tanks, albeit smaller, from the same source. In fact, that the Low Rider was an Electra with all the touring kit missing and a narrow front end from the Sportster parts bin – and if I'd thought about it, the later Fat-Bob was a Low Rider with the Electra's five gallon fat-bobs, while the Wide Glide added the heavyweight forks to the equation, although they were stripped of their shrouds and longer. The later models had always been eighty cubers and as such that hideous air filter cover, so I'd looked at that even less closely than the Electra Glide. It's amazing how a single wart can prejudice your appreciation of a beautiful face.
Eventually,
and somewhat inevitably I suppose, the bike that dropped in my lap for
a bargain basement price, which'd make you weep should I tell you, just
happened to end up being as close to the picture in the back of the catalogue
as I could have reasonably expected to get eleven years later. The only
significant difference being that as a 1978 model, in true Harley tradition,
it was branded a '75th Anniversary Edition' and was lavishly treated to
some commemorative transfers, where previously there had been lesser graphics.
That's not strictly true, actually: the wheel centres were painted gold
rather than black – in sympathy with the transfers and pin striping –
and the Comfi-flex seat was covered with a very large piece of dead cow
instead of the Godawful plastic that was commonplace back then; the rest
of the bike thankfully retained the black of the standard model – you've
got to bear in mind that this was the seventies and one of the previous
year's colour schemes was metallic brown with orange pin stripes.
I got it in the April of 1989 with fifteen thousand miles on it, and by October of the same year it was registering close to thirty, and – once over the hurdle of getting it running right – they must be the best riding miles that I've ever enjoyed. I don't remember a cold day among them, any need for mechanical intervention other than general adjustments here and there, and only one really wet trip, and that was that year's run to Kent – and even that was dry beyond Dartford – but then the good times always really stand out in your memories.
Unfortunately
the "getting it running right" stage was to be addressed first.
I would point out that the first five miles were quite possibly the worst five miles I have ever ridden, as the tales of foreboding and warnings about the dubious pleasures of running Shovelhead Harleys ran rampant in my head with every unexpected mechanical noise that met my unsuspecting ears. I don't recall whether I was expecting it to behave exactly like an Evo, but it certainly didn't. It clattered and banged and rattled its way round the Medway towns in search of an MoT testing station where I thought it might pass inspection, which I was increasingly certain it wouldn't. That, in itself wouldn't have been too bad except that I needed the MoT in order that I might tax it at a Local Vehicle Licensing Office and obtain some form of registration number that could fill the void between the taillight and tourpac.
I'd convinced myself that an MoT was out of the question by the time I spotted a signpost for the M25, and so took solace in the words of a long-time friend and longer-time Electra Glide owner, who maintained that the police never stopped full dress Harleys on account of their perceived respectability.
Once away from the unfamiliar roads of an unknown town, the Glide settled into its stride and while I'm not the greatest lover of motorways, I was glad of the rest from the awkwardness of my first acquaintance with the controls. She still felt as though she was running a little roughly but we loped along reasonably happily, maintaining a very American fifty-five. At much above sixty I found that my right foot was vibrating off the footboard, which depressed me a little, but we were at least moving and that was my primary concern.
I'd almost completely forgotten about the missing number plate, lack of tax and certificate of roadworthiness by the time that the police traffic car pulled alongside. It was just after joining the M1, and I thought my number was up, but after attracting my
attention it seemed that all they wanted to do was wish me well: as indeed did innumerable families in their cars who drew alongside to show the kids what was making all the noise. It was all very strange and altogether rather pleasant. Until halfway up the M1, that is, when the engine took to spluttering and dying. It would immediately start up again and run happily for anything between two hundred yards and two miles,
but then it would stop again. Paranoia struck again: dead bike on a motorway, no tax, no MoT, no number plate – or registration documents come to think of it. Not being too far from an exit, I made the most of its ability to run for a short distance and eventually coaxed it to Milton Keynes railway station, unaccosted, and finished the journey in the guard's van on a train, reading through the recently purchased Clymer manual.
It turned out that the problem was the condenser – a common enough problem on any bike fitted with one, but not the first thing I looked at assuming the problem to fuel related. Fitting a new one – a Lucas one from a Vauxhall Cavalier – transformed the bike – as did removing the tourpac, which I did as soon as I got home. I also removed the windscreen – which had been reflecting a lot of engine noise upwards – and that made things sound a lot sweeter, but I did that before I got home because it wouldn't fit through the back gate with it on. And, all of a sudden, the lumbering tourer started looking more like a motorbike and less like a greyhound bus. The only thing left to do, to suit my new ideal, would be to replace the Comfi-flex seat with something mounted on the frame rails to leave me with a Low Rider with Panniers, but I resolved to sorting out the details over the winter months and concentrate on riding it.
All summer she went like a bird: a bloody big bird admittedly, and a heavy one, but a bird nonetheless.
As I got more accustomed to the noises that emanated from the low-tech engine, I found that the Glide would sweep along really quite quickly – certainly as quick as it was
comfortable to travel with the three foot wide handlebars, sitting way up in the air on the Comfi-flex – and would cruise happily in excess of the legal speed limit on the motorway, while sounding like it was barely breaking into a sweat. It was still revving a little higher than my youthful knowledge told me to expect so a smaller rear sprocket was added to the winter's shopping list just to make it that little bit easier. I caught a few people out
too, scratching round corners – quite literally – at respectable speeds, using the Harley's low centre of gravity to my advantage, and the lack of litre-plus Japanese Multi post-corner acceleration as an incentive not to slow down going in. I have to say too, that I never felt a need for more braking than 
was on offer – even if it were at the expense of a grabbing hard at the lever – although this might be explained by the standard fitting of the rear `banana' calliper to the front wheel. On the one occasion when I anchored up very sharply the tyres couldn't hold the weight (although these were some very strange tyres that came with the bike), and I ditched it on its right hand side, where it slid some fifty or so yards downhill on its crash
bars, scuffing the crash bars (and surprisingly lightly) but protecting everything else. I took that as a hint to fit some decent rubber: a pair of AM21 Avons – yes, two rear tyres, because Avon hadn't yet started making the 5.10 x 16 fronts – having been more than satisfied with them on my XS1100.
The Avons inspired more heroics, and while I can't deny that ground clearance is a serious problem, I'd suggest that you can hustle a Glide through the chicanes quite quickly enough – once you're used to it. Ground clearance is a bigger problem with a pillion although it can be eased with a little experimentation with the rear suspension: you've got to bear in mind though that the front end is not easily adjustable, and jacking up the rear for full luggage and a pillion makes the bike very unstable when ridden empty and solo, when you'll notice that the forks compress while the back end stays exactly where it was: this reduces the rake and trail, and can lead to a very strange ride.
On a final note, relating to tyres, I eventually fitted Avon Elans, a matched pair, in response to recommendations from Avon, and the transformation was marked. Avon's AM21s are my favourite fitting on big stupid first-generation Jap superbikes, and are wide enough to fill the gap on the big twin, but they are heading toward being a low-profile tyre and this eats into your ground clearance more than is sensible. Also, realistically, they are not designed for the sort of weight and use of an Electra. The Elans are. Taller in the sidewall, and beautifully meaty in the tread they are set up for the job and it shows. Another five-degrees of lean - at an estimate - but without the waywardness that would have been a fact of life with the previous heavyweight tyre fitment: the 5.10x16 Speedmaster. All of which isn't to say that you shouldn't fit low-pro tyres on a Harley, but take a lead from Harley's Deuce and use a bigger wheel to keep the same overall wheel height.
Back to the plot.
In the October she stopped. It wasn't a graceful freewheeling to a halt, it was a definite stop – or at least it was for the rear wheel. The gearbox had locked up, and not without good reason for a section of the speedo drive worm had lodged itself in between the meshing gears and hit 'stop' mode.
It had failed.
Whether it had failed me, or
whether I'd failed it depends largely on your way of thinking but be warned:
do not fill your four-speed gearbox to the right level and then refit
the filler cap and believe you've done the job because you haven't. Read
the book, and read it properly. It takes a fair while for the high viscosity
gear oil to filter through the transfer hole between the outer cover and
inner shell of the gearbox. It certainly takes it longer than it takes
you to fill the outer cover, and even dip it for level. It takes a couple
or more fills before the right level can be achieved, and if the right
level is not achieved, two things happen: firstly the thrust bearing for
the clutch pushrod doesn't get to 
run
in oil, and will overheat and fail; secondly the speedo drive gears won't
get their fair share of oil and will ultimately give out. I was forewarned
of my gearbox level problem when I found the thrust bearing to be in a
very bad way. Not realising that it should run in oil, I merely derided
the quality of the bearing and temporarily put in a significantly more
substantial bearing (off a Cossack Ural!) until I got a correct replacement:
there was nothing in the manual to suggest why the bearing might fail,
merely how to replace it. Likewise, when the speedo drive gear was really
straining, it started howling like a banshee. There was nothing untoward
to see, and no suggestion as to where the noise may have been coming from,
and once it had cooled down everything was all right again: granted, the
speedo gave false readings while all this was going on, but have you heard
of an an old Harley speedo that doesn't give false readings?
So it was time for a strip down: Harleys are nice simple devices, it will therefore be a doddle, yes? Perhaps if you know the way in which the engineers who built it thought, otherwise they can be a nightmare of scraped knuckles and muttered expletives: the more bits there are on it, the worse it becomes, to such an extent that I became increasingly convinced that chopping Harleys was less to do with losing excess weight to compete with the lighter, more agile Brits, and more to do with not wanting to have to put a lot of the things that you've just taken off, back on again. For something that is ostensibly a very straightforward piece of mechanical engineering, there are thousands of nonsensical mickey mouse brackets and bodges. The lack of proper workshop facilities won't help if you are to attempt to tidy little bits up here and there, but it seems almost as though the whole motorcycle has been assembled according to some master plan devised by Edward de Bono or Dr Rubik, ably assisted by Heath Robinson. In terms of its cycle parts alone, it is a bizarre contest between the ill-fitting and the unnecessarily complicated.
In fairness, it is a consequence of the evolutionary nature of its development: the Shovelhead is an engine that was then thirteen years old, and that was based heavily on the Panhead, which had lasted ten years, and that had a lot of parts in common with the Knucklehead from 1936. It was fitted into a close relation of the Duo Glide chassis that was conceived thirty years before, and subtly modified to accept a bigger battery for the electric boot ten years previously. It had been through numerable primary drive case changes, gearbox changes, exhaust changes etc. Each generation of engineers built upon a foundation bequeathed to them by their forebears and they added to their legacy. It was only with a clean sheet, by way of the FXR and accompanying 5-speed gearbox, followed almost immediately by the Evolution engine that would allow the then-current generation of engineers opportunity to build brackets from scratch to meet a specific, one-time only requirement.
With the best of intentions I resolved to build new c
ombination brackets to replace the multiple ones that seem to exist to confound each other with the view that it would ease the task of maintenance and
lose a whole load of weight into the bargain.
As is the way of such things, I never did.
The alternative was to do what countless people had done before me, and remove the dresser bits in their entirety and whittle it back into a Low Rider/Fat Bob, and every time I laid a spanner on it the temptation to do so was greater – especially bearing in mind that there was no need to make it an irreversible change.
Such were the frustrations of separating the gearbox from the frame that I left the job of sorting out the gearbox to an expert, and decided that having stripped it down that far, it must make sense to do the same with the motor – anything to minimise the number of times that I need to repeat that exercise – so the engine and gearbox was dumped on Dave Francis' doorstep for a full inspection and post mortem. A 1200 Shovel rider himself, Dave was a Godsend. Knowing what works and what doesn't, what he does, he does well: specialising in the mechanicals and preferring to leave the cycle parts to others. Equally importantly, he doesn't charge a fortune and will advise you when it is necessary to buy the factory parts and when you can afford the cheaper options without compromising quality: a very useful man.
It was decided that it was worth taking onboard the more sensible recognised preventative maintenance jobs – as well as fixing the broken bits – at a very early stage, and at the end of it I got an engine that was significantly better put together than when it left the AMF-controlled factory a decade-and-a-half previously.
While on that particular mission, I did the only decent thing and bought a Corbin Nostalgia seat – the long awaited
minimal seat height. This suited everybody's tastes except my Girlfriend's, who preferred the luxury of the Comfi-flex by-far, but it's a relatively simple job swapping between the two, and she learned to live with the Corbin seat over moderate distances. Realistically, when doing any serious two-up touring with full luggage, I refitted the Comfi-flex anyway as the rack and tourpac didn't fit with the positioning of the aftermarket item – often refitting the
screen for the event too, if only to deflect the attention of the law.
With the revised seat, the change in the riding position was quite radical: sitting in the angle formed between the frame rails and the rear mudguard, rather than above the rear of the fat-bobs, you're sitting a good six inches further back and four inches lower. 
Now, rather than sitting on top of the job, much like you would on a Honda C90, you're right down there in the middle of it: sitting bolt upright with both arms locked out straight. You also get to feel far more vibration first hand, which initially lead me to think that all was not well, but it is a
small price to pay for the general improvement in rider satisfaction – well, for this rider's satisfaction anyway.
There is actually nothing intrinsically wrong with the Comfi-Flex, quite the opposite. It is a clever piece of engineering that would put a lot of modern structures to shame. Connected - if that's the right word - to the frame via the seat pillar that bisects the engine and gearbox,
and a heavy-duty bracket that takes the weight of the pillion, it provides two adults with a perfect perch from which to watch the world speed past. The rear bracket incorporates an adjustable spring system, damped through friction, to compensate for different pillion weights, but I generally had it softest for solo, firmest for pillion, and it worked well. The first time you hit a significant hole in the road the bike drops and you
with it, but when the bike return to its path, you stay where you are ... and then gently with every ripple, return that little bit closer to your normal ride height: all very serene. Situated, as it is, above the oil-tank, it can be swung rearwards out of the way, once a simple clevis pin is removed from the seat post, to afford access to the filter and filler, which is also essential when adjusting the rear spring. When removed from the bike, you
are left in no doubt that the specs in the '78 brochure are lying, as the seat alone must weigh as much as the entire weight differential between the FLH and the Low Rider, and the forks, wheels and mudguards haven't so much as seen the scales yet.
I took the opportunity to take the whole bike to black, while it was off the road: I wasn't greatly concerned that it was a 75th Anniversary model and I had to lose the gold
painted wheels which looked far bigger than the blackened ones of the standard model. On inspecting the tank badges one broke, so they were binned and forgotten about, likewise the 'King Of The Highway' legend that graced the sides of the pannier lids. In fact everything that identified it was removed, except for the 1200 badges on the front and rear mudguards which serve to differentiate it from the 1340 models, and the 'FLH' trim at the trailing edge of the front mudguard.
And then it was time to remove the original paint.
Now,
we knew it was thick, because some of it had chipped off some time ago,
but we hadn't accounted for how resilient it would be: Nitromors seemed
to polish it. Eventually, most of it came off using a bead blaster, but
even then the toughest stuff held up to everything up to an angle grinder!
The bare metal was duly dispatched to a 'friend' who'd done this sort
of stuff before and I thought could do with the money, and he passed it
on to a mate of his who was a professional, charged professional prices
and appears to have used an aerosol ... lessons learned, eh? But at least
it was black, even if not as black as I'd have liked. I aspire to the
minimalist school when it comes to badges, and had no desire to clutter
up the lines with nameplates, on the basis that if you need to ask what
it is, you don't really need to know – and I didn't buy it on the basis
of being able to tell the world that I'd got a Harley.
The other modification that I'd always intended to make was the changes to the final drive gearing, and seeing as the primary drive was off, I decided it would be a good idea to increase the size of the gearbox sprocket to take the gearing into the right ballpark, then fine-tune it on the rear wheel sprocket. Increasing the gearbox by two teeth didn't
seem to be too bold a jump, and that, couple with a reduction of four on the rear wheel should make it more leisurely on the long haul.
Bad decision.
Rather than make it long-legged, it made it
more awkward in every situation. In town there wasn't a gear in the right
place: second was too high, first was way too low, indeed it was horrible.
On A-roads you'd struggle to select and maintain top - which is only fourth,
don't forget. Even on motorways, top was too tall and it was a struggle
to take it there and maintain speed uphill. The rear sprocket was removed
and the original returned to its natural home, which improved matters,
but not by enough. Hindsight being what it is, I should never have messed
about with it. The 74-cube big-twins are happy little revvers. Well, when
compared to the bigger motors they are, and the fact that it was revving
fairly highly in top at a recorded ton was not actually the problem 
I
perceived it to be: that it would pull a ton was more than enough, and
by trying to make it better, I ruined it's sweet power delivery. As if
that wasn't enough, I created another problem which is that the bigger
gearbox sprocket encroaches deeper into the space set aside for other
things, and one of those other things is the bridge between the start-motor
and the primary case. Less of an issue today with belt-drive, but worth
being aware of on older bikes. If you must fit a bigger gearbox sprocket,
keep an eye on your chain. Not an easy task on a twin-pipe dresser because
you can barely get to the chain, but check it you must because if you
don't the chain will flap about and it will grind away at the starter
motor transfer casing ... and to resolve it, you've got to take the primary
case off again and either repair or replace the damaged area - and one
of the damaged areas is the inner primary itself. Ooops.
Granted, I could have done all manner of things to generate the extra power required to help it pull cleanly, but what I really wanted was the original bike back. It was sorted, it was comfortable, it predated the worst excesses of the emissions systems that American law insisted on complying to which lead to the 1340, and I'm a keen advocate of the school of thought that when something is right it should be left alone. More so now, having not left it alone and suffered the consequences.
The only thing I did do, in pursuit of better running, was fit a 
Drag Specialities two-into-one header that followed the line of the original system but at the expense of the twin exhaust set-up. This was actually as much to do with the
realisation that I couldn't get the twin silencers to line up properly having removed them, as it was the improved gas flow that must have resulted from the rear header pipe's undisturbed route to the atmosphere. I mean! Have you seen where the left hand exhaust comes from? Mind you, it worked. In binning the original exhaust, I lost the rattling exhaust heat shields, masses of weight and a shed load of bracketry.
Lastly, I replaced the switch gear from old tired original switches to nice shiny new, but crap, replacements and spent the next few months changing them back as the new ones failed. Dreadful quality and another mistake I won't repeat.
Regrettably, the bike never did make the same impression on me as in that first year. probably because I never did do the decent thing and resolve the gearing issues, but probably also because I had immense problems starting her for the last six months. All electrical, all a pain in the backside. The most lasting one was electro-mechanical to be fair, and next time you chortle when hearing of the electric start clutch problems of a Virago owner, don't laugh too heartily because exactly the same happened to the Shovel (and more expensively since to my '96 FLHT). It's a simple thing and a former Virago owner even had the audacity to suggest it – showing me the one he'd taken out and bodged while waiting for a new one to arrive. The resulting problem is that the starter motor engages perfectly every time except under load, at which point the clutch mechanism fails to grip and nothing happens. Most embarrassing when you're trying to leave a campsite surrounded by hundreds of Harley clones ridden by people who have another reason to be pleased to have bought the modern efficient version.
Sad to say, I fixed the problem for the new owner and did the clone route myself – a VN1500, which was a better bike in almost every way but was faceless, soulless, drank like a fish and lost half its value in two years.
It seems a strange way to close, on a duff note, but that's not the intention. The primary message for newcomers to classic Harleys is to bear with them. Accept their foibles because the alternative is tedium. 
I would dearly love another old dresser. I'm not sure about the new versions because I don't always want the screen and you cannot remove them without losing all the instrumentation and most of the wiring harness.
My ideal would either to stick and Evo or a Twin-Cam 88B into a four-speed chassis (if I would bring myself to hack an original frame up) or else to tack the old Glide bits onto a Dyna, making the most of the fact that it is a close relative of the four-speed frame: either route would give me a true successor to the bike which, if I think about it, made a bigger impression than any other before or since ... except the Cyclone.