Thursday, April 14, 2011

My Side of the Driveway

Fifteen years ago, I got the fever… the fever to find, to ride, to tinker, to enjoy the freedom of a motorcycle. I have a house full of children, a driveway full of cars and a schedule full of work. The activities of a busy family life and an ever demanding forecast of financial obligations have always left me to be the scavenger for my own “toys “.

My wife has been a patient onlooker. Her father was a tinkerer with old cars. She knows well the smell of WD-40 and pumice hand cleaner. She remembers the odors of spent motor oil and understands the why of small pans filled with gasoline that host small bolts and parts that need to be soaked and washed.

She watched as I breathed the life back into an old van that needed engine work. She understood when I chugged home with a 1968 Jeep that had no top on it… it smelled of mildew and exhaust fumes. She shook her head and raised her hands to her head when I towed an early model VW van into our driveway. She has, over the years, not been surprised when I would come home in a different Jeep than I left with that morning. On many occasions, she has told me that I am just like her father… I take that as a complement. I choose to take that as a complement.

But through it all, I have always been on the lookout for a motorcycle… one that was affordable… one that I could trailer home and tinker with. I never really considered being able to drive one home.

I have always looked in the paper for a project bike. I take notice of motorcycles in the dusty driveways of country roads. If the bike is shiny and clean… if it sits proudly, reflecting the sun with chrome trimmings, I know to pass it by.

I did some work at a home with a large basement. I needed access the underside of the first floor, so I moved crates and boxes and inhaled the stale dust of decades into my lungs. And there she was… looking at me from behind a moth-eaten tarp. I could only see her front tire and the shadow of her shape. She was long and slender under her covering… she called me closer to her. I knew I was crossing the lines of professionalism by looking around… but I couldn’t fight the temptation.

I knew she was an older bike, but I couldn’t tell what kind she was. The dust of ages filled every void of her frame and handlebars. But where was the motor? What a shame… she sat there under her own weight… without a soul…lonely… perhaps forgotten. I knew I would have to ask about her.

I did ask about her. She had an exciting past. My heart skipped a beat when I was told that she was a Harley. She first came to life and drove the roads of California. With her military owner, she moved to Texas and Louisiana… she made the trip to South Carolina and found freedom in the back roads of the Deep South. I learned that some 15 years ago, her owner pulled the engine out of her and attempted to do some minor engine repair… engine repair that went undone.

Parts and pieces of her motor were placed in boxes and plastic crates that were stored close to her lifeless frame. She was stored under the crawl space of one home… and after one move, and then another, and yet another, she quietly sat under the tarp that I found her draped under.

Her owners maintain these temporary homes as rental units for other families. Over the years, she was separated from most of her pieces… cardboard boxes fell to the humidity of the southern summers. Plastic crates cracked under the heat of the summers and the cold of the winters.

I was given permission to rummage in the dark spaces of these other homes in search of bits of motor and nuts and bolts. I took another quick look at her that day so I could try and identify what was missing… what I needed to look for on my new quest. I rubbed a layer of dust from her handle bars and I felt her relief… perhaps she felt my enthusiasm…

I entered the first crawl space of the first home. I had flashlight… I had a new crate and I had my oldest son. It was a scavenger hunt.  We began sifting through old piled up boxes filled with forgotten gardening tools and bottles… the air was thick with dust and time. In the corner… under some dry rotted plastic was her engine… part of her engine. There were no heads on it and the cavity was filled with cob webs and rust. My son found a box of engine parts and pistons. We sifted through the sandy dirt to find a pile of screws and parts of the transmission and clutch.

Our second house found us again clutching our flashlights and rummaging through old papers and boxes. We needed the exhaust pipes and the seat… and the gas tank. We needed one more of her two heads. And there they were… they had been waiting for us. The dulled finish on the tail pipes was engraved with the beautiful inscription we were looking for… Harley Davidson.

We pulled the collection of parts and pieces together on our little trailer and strapped the motorcycle down and headed for home. She stood proud on the trailer. The wind pulled the years of dust from around her. I could feel the eyes of men and boys watching her make her trek to a new home.  And when we reached our home, I felt the eyes of my wife scanning her for signs of life. I could feel her smile inside and I knew she could sense my enthusiasm.

We were here again… we were here with my side of the driveway that is stained with spots of oil and transmission fluid. We were here with the children that crawl like ants over the newest rescue project. We were here with the opinions from our neighbors. We were here with the smells of WD-40 and small pans of gasoline. All is well in this place… and she is happy with the air and the sun falling on her once more…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman