Chopper Hostel

It’s been about a week since I got my dick back. I had been walkin’ around the hills of Appalachia completely cockless and totally ignorant of my cocklessness. Just some anatomically deprived jack fuck, some miserable prick just makin’ it through one of those endless shitty days only to have it repeat the next fuckin’ morning…dickless.

About the third day of dialin’ in the bike around that gem of an air pump Luke Atkinson graced me with I noticed that it had been years since I felt this grounded to this big stupid rock we call home.

My life has always been a constantly fluid abstract configuration. The current state of this configuration is and always has been a direct reflection of the current state of my bike. Remove the bike, I recently found out, and things go completely to shit.

I didn’t even notice the life being sucked out of my soul as I simply lost track of having a life beyond the holler. Still under the delusion that the Latowski was simply a form of transportation I threw an Evo in a four-speed frame and I hated it. Built a little pick up truck that isn’t very reliable and has left me walkin’ more often than not.

I was oblivious to the way life seemed to be draggin’ me down. Nothing was fun and doin anything just seemed like a chore. I was wondering why, over the last few years, was it increasing difficult to be creative. Sure, i was doing creative things but only with enough heart to pay the bills. Gone was art for art’s sake, and in this economy, so was payin’ the bills.

Slowly but surely, I started givin’ a fuck about the world fully realizin’ that it was a place that I never really fit into. I’m more of a “it’s probably not entirely legal or very healthy” kind of guy. I’m just doin’ my thing and if it all shits the bed, there’s nobody in my life that will take the fall with me.

This kind of life never bothered me before but lately (bikeless and dickless) it really started bringin’ me down. I needed something to even the playing field and the only efficient equalizer I had in my life is that black hearted Shovelhead that’s been on me like a cancer since forever ago.

Realistically there was no way that I would be able to unfuck my motor as the well for affordable motor rebuilds has dried up alongside the carcass of my tenure workin’ for the rag.

The best way to keep what’s left of my sanity was to put that damn bike outta my mind because realistically, a locked up bottom end seemed to herald the end of a significant period of my life. I didn’t want to close the door, but it definitely was an option. An option that seemed forced on me rather than decided upon.

But I’m the fuckstick that went flat shiftin’ that motor until it gave up the ghost, so sittin’ here cryin’ about spilt 50w seems a little hypocritical even for me. The motor needed to die, and I was the one that killed it, so all the regrets in the world aren’t gonna get that motor spinnin’ again.

But there was a rumbling in the bush, and that rumble came in the form of Luke Atkinson of @hillbillydemafia tryin’ to get a hold of me. I hit him up and he told me he used to follow my shit in The Horse and was willing to work something out to get my junk barkin’ again. It was another year before we talked about it again.

It was coming up on this summer, my 60th summer riding on this rock and if I put off doing anything with the bike, it probably wouldn’t happen for a long time. I hit Luke up to see if the offer was still open. We worked out the payment for the rebuild and I brought the motor to Lukes shop. He immediately gutted it and started assessing the damage.

The good news was that the cases took very little damage. A couple of impact sites where the connecting rods kissed the cases as the crank bearing let loose. They were visible but aside from removing the rough edges no repairs were needed. When the bearing went it instantly locked up the motor saving the cases from flailing connecting rods. The bad news was, bedsides the stroker flywheels, everything else was toast.

The rods were bent, cylinders scored, pistons junk and for some reason there was indication that a valve hit a piston. Aluminum shavings, from connecting rods cheese grating the cases, had made it to the oil breather and every machined surface with an oil hole in it was scored to shit.

I looked at Luke fully expecting him to tell me it was just too much of a project but instead he gave me a rough timeframe of when it would be done. I was in awe as the damage didn’t even phase Luke. But then again, he flat tracks vintage iron and it’s nothing to him to repair a motor after wadding up a few connecting roads in some 60 year old cases…for fun.

I drove the 100 miles back to Chopper Hostel, I’m sure it hadn’t really hit me that one thing that I was truly missing from my life was soon to be back in the mix. This is a thought that glimmered in my mind so often I just ignored it by now. It never happens, things fall through, the planets aren’t in alignment, somebody went to prison. I had come to embrace disappointment, and I braced for the worst and tried not bother Luke.

I made it home and waited to hear any updates from Luke. I was having a little get together to open Chopper Hostel and spent my time clearing campsites and getting ready for what would be the Hostels first visitors. There was plenty to keep me occupied and opening day was fast approaching. I hoped to have the motor by then but if not these last few years down in the holler have taught me Zen Buddhists level of patience. Come with me young Padawan, let us walk to Dollar General.

I kept busy tryin’ to figure out how I know when I’ve done enough for a group of dirty bikers to sleep in the dirt. As the days rolled into weeks and opening day was fast approaching. Luke and I had been in touch discussing the motor build and all the different parts that made up this cobbled together power plant.

The Latowski’s motor is just a culmination of random parts with smattering of original components to keep it honest. Over the years of miles and rebuilds the current configuration (89 cu Shovelhead, all stroke, stock 80″ bore cylinders and S&S four plug heads and single fire ignition) has been its operating dimensions for three motor builds now so all the parts fit nicely together but that doesn’t mean shit when you fill it with metal shavings. All that being said the motor is made up of different years and applications of parts all machined or modified to work together. ” …that motors like a box of chocolates, what the fuck year is this part from?”

It was narrowing on a week before The Takeover and I got that call I had been waiting for. Luke was finished with the motor but didn’t have the time to pre-run it. He could drop it off at my place as he was goin’ right by to do some racin’ for the weekend. I hung up the phone and joyfully shit myself. I had three days before the event and all I had to do was throw a motor in the carcass and dial it in. Three days was plenty of time.

Long story short the motor was in by the time the dudes on bikes showed up. Ran the oil lines, dialed in the timing and checked valve adjustment. It was time to light that candle.

There were 8-10 half lit biker dudes standin’ around watchin’ and everyone had an opinion. There was enough of “just my two cents” spreadin’ around we could have bought a happy meal. By this point I was high as fuck but all I had to do was fire it up and get the first heat cycle behind us. After that, I needed to walk away from the bike and just enjoy the evening.

With all eyes on the bike it fired right up and a couple mild revs to clear the carb and I waited for that feeling of bliss that should wash over me with the bark of a fresh build, but I didn’t, the bark had a muzzle. It was running but it was running flat like when you have lifters that haven’t pumped up yet only I was runnin’ solids so it was something else. Something sinister. I rode it enough to have it throw me on my face in the middle of a field and then I parked it. It was running well enough to hurt me and that’s a start. I was in no condition to be throwin’ wrenches at the bike, time to relax.

The chopper guys left before I had a chance to ride the new motor. When I did it just sucked. Not much power to start with and it would lose what it had the longer you road it. There was also a significant about of oil comin’ out the vent tube and heavy seepage at the major gaskets and becoming heavy out the primary. Yikes.

I got on the horn with Luke, and we went about trying to chase down the problem. I secretly knew what the root of the problem was and what it was putting Luke through. It was definitely goin’ to end up being “a Latowski problem”. Something stupid that comes out of left field for no other reason than to make you pay for all your past sins and the sins of your forefathers. It sucks but it happens more often than not. That bike is the spawn of a demon seed plain and simple.

I rode it the next day a few miles to further diagnose the problem and when I arrived back at the Danger Hut it was smokin’ pretty significantly out the rear pipe. There it was, the other shoe I was waiting to drop…goody goody.

I got a call from a surprisingly upbeat Luke. He had been lookin’ at a video of the bike runnin’ and noticed the oil pump assembly had a chain oiler adjustment on the center body of the oil pump.

Remember when I was sayin’ this motor is a gathering of mismatched parts? Well, here we go. The right-side case isn’t original to those numbers. I had gotten a S&S oil pump years ago with the ‘Evo upgrade’ which was a jig you mount to the engine case in place of the pump so you can precisely drill a new oil passage that would match up to the higher volume S&S oil pump. Forgot all about it. Unfortunately, I wasted that oil pump along with everything else.

The significance of the chain oiler is that it identifies an earlier version oil pump that doesn’t work with the “Evo upgrade” extra oil passage. The crankcase was just pressurizing without venting properly. He sent me down the correct body and we hoped that we didn’t bust any rings.

After I installed the correct pump, I lit the fire and hoped for the best. It was pushing oil out of everywhere. We knew this would happen as we assumed the cases would be swimmin’ in all that 60w that it pumped in there.

The motor looked like it was payin’ the price for eating gas station sushi. Oil was forcing itself out of every gasket surface and, at this point, was running out of the pipes like an open faucet. Hoping that it was just built up oil from the pressurized cases I ran it, keepin’ an eye on the oil level. It was unfortunately steadily dropping and something was defiantely broken. Luke and I pulled the motor back out.

The motor made it way back to Lukes shop for a full disassembly and inspection. I stayed at home and blew my truck up…again. Life dropped into the same groove it had been in the last several years, walkin’ to Dollar General in the mountains of Appalachia.

I hadn’t given up hope, this is the Latowski we were dealin’ with, and that fucker is evil. Over the years I had formed a thick skin. The key was never getting your hopes up too high because with this bitch there’s always a couple of unforeseen anomalies lying in wait. If you keep your hopes under control the fall isn’t as far when the rug gets pulled out from under you.

The damage was impressive, a couple of broken rings and the caged bearing on the crankshaft exited the chat. Other damage stemmed from those issues. The good news was the heads were still good as well as the cases and flywheels (seems like we’ve been here before).

Luke dove in and rebuilt the motor, again, from the crank pin out. Plenty of bends and gouges were added to the casualties list and those dead soldiers replaced by fresh troops. In a few seemingly short weeks, I was on the way home from Luke’s shop, fresh engine in tow.

I set the long bike chassis on my porch, saddled the motor alongside and let muscle memory take over. This was my second nature. Some dude methodically workin’ on his Shovelhead like he’s done thousands of times before. This is where I am at peace, this is sanity.

Assembling this bike is just putting the pieces home. I have been staring at these constantly morphing assembly of parts for most of my life now. I’ve blown and rebuilt this motor so many times I can’t count, I have been in this place, putting the motor in the bike, so many times it’s like visiting Grandmas house after a long time away. It’s like beef stew on a cold day.

Putting a motor in a frame this big is a cakewalk. 10″ up and 2″ out gives you plenty of room to manhandle a Shovelhead around. Everything else I’ve done so many times I just kinda watch my hands putting a motorcycle together. I don’t have to be present until the double-checking part or when I set down a wrench and have to go find it.

Steppin’ back the bike looked exactly the way it did the first time I put in the motor but somehow it just felt less problematic. Fastening the final connections of the wiring harness and connecting power I notice I was strangely calm, no the hyper-nervousness usually accompanying a moment like this, just on the cusp of victory…or disaster.

I timed it, primed it and double checked the oil, you can only postpone the inevitable for so long. I turned on the power and hit the ‘go’ button, two cranks and it fired to life settling into the high idle I had set for the first heat cycle. I blipped the throttle a few times after it started to warm up and the motor crackled and barked, spinnin’ fast and vibration free. The muzzle had been taken off this old dog and he wants to fuck somethin’! I stared at the runnin’ motor until the rear rocker box got warm and shut it down. First heat cycle.

The next few days were dialing it in. The motor was running strong, but I wasn’t twistin’ the wick until the timing was dialed in and I was used to the motor. A day or two of readin’ spark plugs and I finally took the time to notice how good the motor was running. It’s ready to spin at the slightest nudge from the throttle and after some ignition work didn’t show signs of detonation even under substantial load. I was chasin’ oil leaks and adjusting valves for the next day or two.

So, I was layin’ in a ditch with swamp water leakin’ into my helmet. The bike was idling perfectly lying on its side next to the boulder we just bounced off of. I took a handlebar to the eyeball and crushed a few toes but I’ll be damned if the motor wasn’t idling really, really nice.

It was a stupid mistake. I had been hot-rodding around on the bike and glanced at the boulder to the left of the witches crossing immediately makin’ me ride right into it. We just kinda hit it, the springer went ‘BOING’ and threw me, headfirst, into the swamp next to the tent. I crawled out from under the bike, rolled my eyes and turned the igintion off. We’re back!

The next day my brain was full of the morning fog. Sippin’ the first cup of Joe I gave the bike a once over. Oils full, no loose bolts and the neck bearings still felt good after the rock hoppin’ the night before. I brushed my teeth, pat the dog on the head and confirming to him that I would indeed be ‘coming right back’.

Hitting the gas station I let it idle for a minute and glanced at the pipes. It was cookin’ potato’s with that lopey cam and no sign of smoke or oil. It idled like it was showing off. No oil leaks were visible and the ground under the primary showed no sign of leakage.

I left the gas station, a tank full of overpriced high test and twisted the wick heavy at the bottom of each gear as I rowed my way into the mountains. With the exhaust bouncin’ off the rock walls and echoing across the New River Gorge the volume of the rest of the world was finally fading out. I could finally think.

Draggin’ pipes and primary I was lost in my thoughts. With the world being as complicated yet as retarded as it is, it takes a lot out of a guy. You input information (true or not) all day long. Phones and the web keep that hook firmly imbedded in your lip leading you mindlessly whichever way the hidden overlords need you to go. But out here all you have to think about is carvin’ that corner just right, lookin’ cool and keepin’ an eye out for a good place to burn one…all while trying not to smash into a rock or fallin’ off a mountainside on a heavily modified motorcycle that’s too long, too powerful with not enough brakes. I can go all day doin’ this and never once think of politics or that “Hauk Tuah” chick.

Idling my way down main street of my abandoned hometown I noticed the weight of my newly huge cock. Gone was that pathetic eunuch, bike in a million pieces, walkin’ down the side of the road. That has been replaced by a drum of piss and vinegar and a dick so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it.

The bike has never run as good as it does right now. Lukes incarnation of my motor is perfect. Plenty of stroker torque, the ability to spin effortlessly and the celestial chorus of angels erupting from the pipes. It runs like an heirloom and speaks to something beyond its mechanical attributes.

Goin’ back to where I was only a few short months ago, bikeless and broken, now seems like just the bad end to a good time. With the greatest version of the Latowski firmly under my feet, I am confidence personified in any situation. Without it I am just goin’ through the throes of a passing addiction, hoping to die with the next series of convulsions.

Things are much better after a couple of weeks having my bike back in my life. It was the thing that was lacking as I navigate the path I have chosen and all its risks. I have always thought that my addiction to this motorcycle was an obstacle that needed to be overcome in order to find a more peaceful, ordinary life. I realize now it was a tool rather than an obstacle. A tool the ties it all together, without it it all falls apart without you even noticing it.

It’s a sledgehammer in a world full of fragility, tears and self-loathing. It’s an equal and opposite reaction to this soy-boy rich environment. It’s the toxic masculinity that is so desperately needed in this Beta-male world. It’s up and runnin’ and I’m no longer dickless. Painter…out

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