Dungeons & Dragons
Dungeons & Dragons
LEANINGS
Peter Egan
I ALMOST STARTED TO SAY MY PHONE HAS been ringing off the hook, but of course phones don’t really have hooks any more. This phrase summons up visions of “Lassie” episodes in which Timmy climbs on a stool and cranks the wall phone to tell Jenny that Porky and Jeff are trapped in the Old Cave.
Yes, I’m old enough to remember this program-but too young to have completely forgotten it. “Pre-senile,” I believe, is the term.
Anyway, my hookless phone has been ringing quite a bit lately. Friends-and a few thoughtful readers-have been calling to see if I found that Harley XLCR Cafe Racer I was looking for. Some have bikes for sale; others know where they can be found.
A few months ago, you see, I wrote a column about driving all the way from Wisconsin to Pennsylvania to pick up an XLCR that turned out to be a bit rough around the edges, so I came home emptyhanded. At the end of the column, I mentioned that there was another one for sale in the Chicago area, and I might drive down there for a look.
Well, I did.
The owner gave me directions to his house in Naperville, just west of Chicago and said, “There’s a carport on the left side of the house, and the garage is around back.”
I could instantly see the whole place in my mind’s eye. I pictured a carport in the California style-a couple of 2x2 pine stilts holding up a faded green mat of corrugated fiberglass-and the image evoked a pungent memory.
The last “carport bike” I looked at was a Triumph Trophy 500 in Anaheim, 25 years ago. The Trophy was for sale because the carport had collapsed on it, what with all the old lumber piled on top. Also, the owner had more tattoos than teeth, as my friend Richie would say. So I knew what to expect this time and stuck the Walther in my boot, figuratively speaking.
But when I found the address in Naperville, the house was a magnificent stone edifice and the “carport” was a portcullis in a castle wall with big iron gates beneath a crenulated arch. Before driving through the gates, I turned to my friend Lew, who’d come along for the ride, and said, “I hope these villainous Norman knaves don’t pour boiling oil down upon us.”
But no oil came cascading down, and the garage was indeed around back-a beautiful stone building full of bikes and racing cars. Gearhead heaven. Better yet, the owner was an upbeat, pleasant guy who was thoroughly candid in pointing out everything, good or bad, he knew about the bike.
“It was repainted the correct black,” he said, “but the paint’s got a few spots of orange peel, and it doesn’t have the original AMF stickers on it. The battery seemed weak, so I ran out and bought a brand-new Harley battery for it, but now the old one’s taken a full charge. The new battery goes with the bike, just in case.”
We fired up the XLCR and he said, “If you really get on the throttle hard, the clutch slips, so it might need replacing.”
I rode the Harley down a winding road past a golf course, and was just barely able to make the clutch slip, hammering the throttle in second gear. If he hadn’t pointed this problem out, I’d never have noticed. Also, the headlight didn't work and the left turnsignal wouldn’t flash. Otherwise, the bike ran great. It looked neat, clean and well cared for, with only 8400 miles on the odometer. New front brake rotors, chain and sprockets, no oil leaks.
Based on the need for possible clutch and electrical work, the owner lowered his asking price $500, and we had a deal. So I drove out through the castle gates with a Cafe Racer rocking gently in my van. Somehow it all seemed to fit together. The XLCR has a medieval, dragon-like quality about it, with the architecture of a classic chess piece. A black knight, perhaps.
That evening, I went to work on the Harley. The clutch turned out to be merely maladjusted-too little freeplay at the pushrod. The aftermarket quartz-halogen headlight bulb was bad, and all four turnsignals had mismatched bulbs. I replaced them with stock bulbs from our local Harley store, and everything worked fine.
Between that weekend and the arrival of winter snow a month later, I managed to put 400 miles on the XLCR, just riding around the autumn hills. For some reason, I never get tired of riding this bike, and can stay out on it until I run out of daylight. It has a combination of torque, sound, narrowness, size, comfort and off-beat mechanical charm that doesn’t seem to wear on me.
So, after thousands of miles of travel and searching, I’ve finally got my XLCR and I’m happy as a clam, right? Not so fast there, pardner.
You see, last year, when I set off on this quest, I’d hoped to buy my old, original 1977 XLCR back from my friend Butch Chase, who lives nearby. Butch considered my offer, then said no.
“But if you can find a nice clean example in similar condition, I’ll trade you straight across for your old bike,” he offered.
The sentence that launched a thousand ships.
It took me to the East Coast and back, visiting old friends and meeting new people, then down to Chicago. Off to the DMV, the insurance lady and the Harley store. Oil change, adjustments, cleaning... I’ve got a lot of time in this latest XLCR and have developed a genuine fondness for it.
But I liked my old one, too, and this year’s theme for me is “Get your favorite old bikes back.”
That first XLCR used to sit in the garage with my black bevel-drive 900SS Ducati and BMW R100RS. Those bikes are there now, back in place, waiting for their old pal to come home.
When we finally make the trade, it’ll be like the last move in the world’s strangest chess game. Played with a castle and a cast of black knights.
I started to say it would be the last piece of the puzzle, but that’s not quite true. Still missing are some fabled weapons wrought by wizard blacksmiths who once dwelt among the ancient Britons...
