The Road To Harleysville

The Road to Harleysville

LEANINGS

Peter Egan

A VERY DANGEROUS THING HAPPENED TO me last month: I sold my 1953 Cadillac Fleetwood to a friend in California. His parents had one exactly like it when he was a kid, and he had to have the old Caddy as a keepsake and reminder of the era. So off it went to California.

When the car was gone, of course, I had two big problems on my hands:

1) Too much money in the bank for a person of my intelligence;

2) Enough empty garage space to park the U.S.S. Lexington.

I don’t really need an aircraft carrier, so my next inclination was to get something smaller, such as another motorcycle. Or two.

Seems I’ve finally reached the age (I hesitantly admit) when I’m seriously in the mood for a small number of “keepers,” favorite bikes that will stay in my garage pretty much for the duration.

The first bike on my short list of keepers was the bevel-drive 900SS Ducati I bought back from my friend Tom Barbour last month. Next on the hit list, if you will, is a Harley XLCR Cafe Racer like the one I foolishly sold seven years ago.

Most of my sportbike friends understand the Ducati re-purchase perfectly, but are mystified by my attraction to the Cafe Racer. My defense of the bike always includes words like “charismatic” and “instant, bottomless torque,” but the fact is there’s no good rationale. It’s like trying to explain Guinness to someone who thinks beer should be translucent; you’ve simply gotta like the stuff.

So on a canoe trip down the Brule River in northern Wisconsin last month, I mentioned to my friend Jeff Craig that I was looking for a nice XLCR, and he said, “Oh, a neighbor of mine has one for sale that I recall is pretty clean.”

Unfortunately, Jeff lives just north of Philadelphia and I live in Wisconsin, so his neighbor was not exactly freeway close. But he sent me some pictures and the bike looked okay, so last weekend I impulsively threw a ramp in the back of my blue Ford van and blasted out to the East Coast for a look.

Even if the bike wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, I'd get to visit Jeff and his wife Nancy, cruise through the Appalachian fall color and see historic Bucks County, where Washington crossed the Delaware and where-more significantly-Jeff has four Velocettes and three Triumphs in his garage. Not to mention a steam launch, several classic wood canoes, a Yamaha SRX600 and a Miss NGK poster.

After a day and a half of relentless driving, I exited the turnpike, drove through a town called Harleysville (yes) and a few miles down the road turned into the correct driveway. I’d zeroed my odometer before leaving home, and I glanced down as the van rolled to a stop. The odometer clicked over from 999.9 to 1000 miles, on the dot. I am not making this up.

I always appreciate pointless coincidence, and driving through Harleysville to buy a lOOOcc Harley exactly 1000 miles from home seemed like a good omen.

Unfortunately, the bike was a little more thoroughly broken-in than what I was looking for. Leaking forks, mushy brakes, nicks in the paint and more miles on the odo than expected. It was in need of much TLC to be as nice as my old one. And my old XLCR is the gold standard, the elusive Holy Grail I carry around in my head.

I hemmed and hawed for a while and actually considered buying the Harley, but decided I just didn’t want to face another project. I have a Lotus Elan and Bridgestone 50 exploded in my garage right now, and was afraid a third explosion might just reduce me to total option paralysis.

Also, I have finally learned from my last few bike restorations that you just can’t get there from here. Which is to say, it always costs more to restore a tired bike than it does to just go out and buy the nicest low-mileage example on Earth. Plus you get to spend two years in your garage, running a bead-blaster, breathing fumes and spinning wrenches.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, if redeeming old bikes is your passion. In fact, I probably have two or three more restorations left in me-I always look forward to bringing these lost old souls back to life-but what I’m trying to avoid at this stage of my life is accidental restorations.

I knew if I replaced the leaking fork seals I’d have to polish those corroded fork legs. And while the forks were off, I’d have to get that gas tank repainted...and Jet-Hot the faded black exhaust system...and then the engine would come out...

Noble work, all. But I was looking for a nice clean XLCR, not another chance to atone for my sins.

Nevertheless, I took the bike for a ride before I made up my mind. It ran well, and I was instantly reminded why I like these things so much. Swinging down those winding Bucks County roads, past old stone farms, colonial inns, single-lane timber bridges and pubs with names like The Stag and Hounds, the XLCR was right in its element-thundering, torquey and mechanically direct as a hammer.

“I must have one of these bikes,” I muttered inside my helmet, “but I shall not weaken and buy this one.”

Spent the rest of the weekend with the Craigs, dining and drinking well, riding Jeff’s SRX and new Triumph Scrambler, visiting local bike and car shops, and looking at vintage planes at nearby Van Sant airport. Lovely country, this part of Pennsylvania.

I drove straight through coming home. A thousand miles in 18 hours. I should have been tired, but I was fired up on a combination of coffee and desire to find an XLCR. Maybe the nicest example on Earth. Or at least one of them.

And now, after being home for two days, I see on the Internet there’s a pretty clean-looking, low-mileage example for sale in suburban Chicago.

I might run down there this weekend but I should probably change the oil in my van first. And maybe catch up on my sleep. This Holy Grail business really runs up the miles.