So there I was last Tuesday, staring at this old 1976 Harley shovelhead in my buddy’s barn. Dust bunnies big enough to ride on, spider webs like lace curtains. Looked like it hadn’t run since disco was cool. My hands were already itching to get greasy.
The Beast Awakens (Or Tries To)
First things first, I needed to see if the engine was seized solid or just sleeping. Grabbed my breaker bar, planted my boots good, and gave that crankshaft nut a heave-ho. Felt like turning concrete. Threw some penetrating oil down the spark plug holes – the good stuff, the kind that smells like trouble – and let it soak overnight. Came back next morning, grunted a bit more, and finally felt it give. Victory round one.
Next, the carburetor. Pulled it off and wow. Like opening a jar of primordial ooze. Varnish, gunk, and something that smelled like ancient bad decisions. Tore that sucker apart:
- Dumped everything into a coffee can full of cleaner.
- Spent an hour poking tiny passages with wires thinner than my patience.
- Replaced float needle seats and gaskets fresh out the kit.
- Put it back together mostly feeling okay, but you never know with these old CVs.
Chasing Sparks and Sparks of Anger
No juice. Dead as a doornail. Battery was toast, obviously. Jumper cables from my pickup truck – sounded promising right? Nope. Just clicks. Dug into the rat’s nest of wiring under the seat. Found more electrical tape than actual wire connections. Half of it brittle and black. Cuss words were definitely flying.
Ended up ripping it all out. Went down to the shop, grabbed a new universal wiring harness – basic, just lights, ignition, horn (for fun). Took me half a day and two beers just to trace where stuff should go. Hooked up a fresh battery. Crossed my fingers and hit the starter switch.
Blessed sound! Starter whirred, engine cranked! Got all giddy like a kid.
The Real Moment of Truth
Primed the carb, pulled the choke. Hit the starter again. Engine turned over, coughed, sputtered… and died. Did this dance a dozen times. Kept fiddling with the idle screw on the carb, like tuning a grumpy radio. Finally, after giving the throttle a healthy twist and praying to the motorcycle gods… it caught! A ragged, throaty roar ripped through that barn. Ungodly loud, smelled rich and oily, shaking dust off the rafters.
Held it there, listening to that shovelhead rhythm. Lumpy, uneven, but ALIVE. Big ol’ grin splitting my face. Let it warm up for a few minutes. Took all my willpower not to shove it in gear right then. Just shut it off, patted the gas tank like an old dog, and soaked in the glory of that first fire-up. Long road ahead, paint, brakes, the works… but today? Today felt damn good.
