Grace The Halls


Friday night, 9 o’clock, downtown Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Corner brick bar, three days before Christmas. Some 60 years of coal dust had robbed the ceramic stone of its color and replaced it with flat black. Two Shovelheads were parked at the curb. A drizzling rain formed a puddle on the solo seat of one of the two black bikes. Christmas lights flickered on the rain-slicked concrete sidewalks. The worst storm of the winter was still a day away, and the wind was gathering up an icy momentum.

Ella, a dumpy and dowdy waitress wearing a worn, Christmas red and green blouse, leg warmers, and a mini-skirt, hung flickering white lights above the bar’s hundred-year-old etched mirror. The yellowed glass was surrounded by dark mahogany and ornate carvings, chipped and stained with years of downtown saloon abuse.

Ella’s father, a large, old, grizzled bartender, slowly stroked a tall tumbler with a soiled towel. He was somber, his eyes reddened by four decades of beer breath and cigar smoke. He stared intently at the glass that reflected two days of whisker growth, cracked glasses, and a split lip. The day before yesterday local hoods had barged in to collect protection money. He didn’t have the cash and a check would have bounced. They threatened to take the only family member he had left and turn her out.

His eyes lifted slightly to watch his daughter trembling on the step stool, festooning lights from rusty nails; she pretended nothing was wrong. One of the men had held him down while the other one gangster-slapped his leathered mug. As he turned the glass in his hand he could still see the terror in his daughter’s face as she witnessed the beating.

“Whatta ya doin’ old man, tryin’ to rub through that fuckin’ glass?” sneered the shorter of the two bikers sitting at the bar, jarring the old man back to the present.

He looked at the glass, then set it down. He was bald, and although the temperature in the pub had dropped some 15 degrees, pearls of sweat rose between his few wisps of remaining hair. He wondered about the bikers. Overnight they had become regulars, coming in daily at 2 p.m. and staying until closing. Had they been hired by the threatening hoods?

“Now we made him sweat,” the wiry, devilish-looking biker said, nudging his partner.

The other biker was a massive, menacing man who stirred the ice cubes in his tumbler of Jack Daniel’s with a short straw. Staring at the amber liquid, he had nothing to say. His rope-thick, auburn hair cascaded over his shoulders. The full beard was matted and untrimmed. He wore Levi’s, a black belt with a brass wheel buckle, a solid blood-red flannel shirt and a black vest with long leather fringe that married with his hair over his shoulders. He looked powerful, like an angry volcano. He glanced up at the frightened bartender. The old man flinched at his direct gaze.

The younger and smaller of the two had an itchy trigger finger. He scratched the growth of beard between his goatee and sideburns. Shifting in his seat, he gulped his rum and coke as he watched the bartender wipe the glass.

The bartender set his towel down and went to his daughter’s aid. He steadied the ladder while she completed hanging metallic reindeer on a Budweiser sleigh. He was nervous about turning his back on the bikers. They always sat in exactly the same stools at the darkest end of the bar, farthest from the door.

“You boys live ’round here,” ventured the old barkeep, searching for some hope.

“No,” said the shorter man who wore a black leather shirt and vest. Gimme another drink, old man.” He was slick and scary looking.

“Sorry, boys. Didn’t mean to bother you. You been coming in here a while, now, and haven’t said a word.”

“We don’t need to say shit, just pay our bill and get out, right?” Blade said, spinning a razor-sharp buck knife on the edge of the marred, varnished mahogany.

“Yes, sir, right. Couple of days before Christmas. Ya got family in town?” The old man continued to press into dangerous waters.

Blade stood up abruptly and kicked his bar stool, spinning it into the jukebox across the room. “Silent Night” screeched and skipped. “Shut the fuck up, old man. I don’t want to talk about my family, and I don’t want to talk to you or your fat-assed daughter. Just bring me a goddamn drink.”

The bartender nodded, sweat dripping down his cheek, while he turned toward the well bottles. He fumbled with the tall glass. The mob had leaned on him for months. Then a week ago they’d made a mess of the place, smashing furniture and glassware. When they saw that the old man didn’t have a pot to piss in, he thought they’d leave him alone. That wasn’t the case. They abandoned his fleeting material wealth and initiated beatings and threats against his daughter. He checked the revolver in the drawer next to the sink. It was an old .22 caliber rusted by years of barroom mildew. He slipped the new drink onto a clean napkin in front of the nasty biker. The biker spun the knife, and the startled ‘keep dropped the empty glass on the floor. It shattered. “Sorry,” he said, leaning over with a soiled towel to clean-up the mess.

“Don’t let it happen again,” Blade said, nudging the other biker. Mun just shifted his eyebrows. The wind whistled against the wooden shutters covering the windows. He looked at his watch. Lights in the bar flickered and hail tapped against the foggy windows. It was nearing 2 a.m. Mun leaned closer to Blade. “Let’s go,” he said.

“What the fuck for? We ain’t got no place to go.” Blade had come to Pittsburgh to see his child. He broke parole in the process, then his ex refused the visit and reported him. Both men were on the run, but trapped by an incoming winter storm. Gulping the drink, he slammed his glass down on the tacky wood surface. “Okay.”

They got up and headed for the door.

The old bartender had spent 40 years behind the polished varnish and had never witnessed bikers riding in this kind of weather. They grabbed their jackets and scarves from the antique coat rack. Rain and hail pelted their jackets as they mounted the bikes and kicked them over. The old man listened as the Harleys rounded the corner, then the storm drowned them out. For the first time that day, he felt safe. “It’s all right, baby,” he said to his daughter, holding her close. “It’ll all blow over.” A storm shutter tore free and violently slapped the side of the building. The explosion jarred the only two inhabitants.

“Not this time, Daddy,” she said sobbing and stomping her worn running shoes against the sticky floor. “I can’t take it anymore. We’ve got to get the hell out of here. They’re coming back.” She stomped up the stairs behind the heads to their equally dingy apartment above.

Christmas eve, 2 p.m. The rumble of the approaching Harleys filled the drizzling air. A chill rolled up the bartender’s spine. His knees felt weak. It was raining and freezing outside, yet the bikers were returning. Their drinks were on the counter, along with small plastic bowls of chili, before they turned the brass handle on the door.

“Looks like I got the old man trained,” said Blade, tossing his heavy, wet riding gear on a nearby stool. It rocked and almost went over. Mun said nothing. “And chili, too. I’ll bet little miss interior decorator cooked it up.”

“Yes, she did,” said the old man, “and it’s damn good.”

They pulled up their favorite stools, guzzled their drinks, and dug into the chili.

“Smells good in here. Maybe you can it and sell it for what you owe us,” Frankie Devino said, kicking open the door. “You got the money, old man?”

“I told you I don’t have any money,” answered the barkeep.

Devino opened his expensive cashmere trench coat and withdrew a submachine gun. He was young, handsome, well dressed, about 6 feet tall, and mean to the bone.

“Then you’ll make a fine example for the neighborhood, you scroungy piece of shit.” Two other bent-noses kicked in the feeble doors, shattering one of the classic stained glass windows. Shards of glass dripped to the floor. One of the other two men also wore a trench coat, a cheap, vinyl one. It was slick, black, and soaking wet. His hair glistened in the dim light of the bar as flakes of snow slid off his padded shoulders. He had the long form of a pump shotgun under his coat. The other bodyguard was short, with wavy hair and a pockmarked face. He reached for his .45. The storm wasn’t just outside the door.

Ella turned and dropped a large vase of poinsettias; it shattered at her feet. She ran to her father behind the bar, “Daddy,” she screamed, “it’s not worth it.”

The other coats opened and the two forms of lethal weapons came into view, a High Standard, 18-inch barrel, 8-round pump shotgun and a stainless .45 automatic. Both men shifted their gaze to Ella, her legs visibly shaking as their stubby forms scrambled around the open end of the bar. Frankie focused on her nipples beneath the loose sweater and her sizable breasts bouncing in their halter. Tears were already streaming from her eyes.

Frankie cocked his weapon and lifted the muzzle in the direction of the old man. The first round split the mahogany of the bar as lightning cracks a tree trunk. The old man bent to ward off the oncoming barrage and reached for the frozen .22 in the drawer.

Mun took advantage of the girls heaving distractions and drew a freshly oiled 9mm Browning out of his vest. Blade dropped his plastic spoon beside the half-empty bowl of chili, and the two slipped behind the bar.

“This isn’t our battle,” Blade hollered. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

Bullets cracked across the bar, chewing up the surface like a chain saw, bits of wood exploding in the air. The girl dove behind the bar as another round of gunfire shattered glasses in an explosion of jagged shards reflecting against the array of colored Christmas lights. Snow was dumping outside; inside the flurries were razor sharp.

Mun didn’t reply; instead, he leaned around the corner of the bar and fired. Caught off guard, the enforcer with the stocky legs planted them shoulder width apart. His .45 was cocked and chambered and leveled in the direction of the girl. Surprised, pockmarked face turned as the bullet slammed into his elbow, spinning his torso against the wall. “What the fuck? ” Frankie shouted, turning the muzzle of the auto in the direction of the bikers and pulling the trigger. Frankie’s weapon discharged, chipping the top of the bar as if it was clawing in the direction of the bikers. Blade grabbed Mun and pulled him around to face him. They slid into the slime of decades-old snot, piss, and puke that coated the underbelly of the bar.

“Goddammit, it’s not our fight,” Blade shouted. “We’re wanted. We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

“I’m not,” Mun said, his dark brown eyes boring into Blade’s. “Code of the West. They’re firing at a woman. We’ve gotta fight.”

Blade looked in his brother’s eyes. Just then, Ella screamed. He turned in time to see a half-dozen bullets rip through his black riding jacket. He’d owned that leather for 12 years. The automatic’s user paused to reload. Blade and Mun slid up the gooey facade of the bar, coated with puke, smears of thousands of shoes and boots, bubble gum, and boogers. Their heads pressed against the underside of the bar; they listened for the reloading of the machine gun. The firing paused, but the smell of gunfire lingered. Mun brought his thick mane of hair around the lip of the bar as the old man did the same with his rusty .22. Mun motioned Blade to move across the room to shelter behind the jukebox. “I’ll cover you,” he said.

“I was hoping you’d all come to the fight,” said Devino, watching Blade run for the jukebox. “Makes it more interesting.” His confidence and adrenaline pumping, Frankie didn’t hesitate. He ducked, drew a fresh clip out of his suit jacket, and slammed it in the chamber. Then as the old man raised the rusty, small-caliber revolver, the Italian cocked the fully automatic weapon.

“Let me get him,” hollered the tall, slick goon, while pumping a round into the chamber. He fired. The short weapon jumped in his gloved hands, the .32 caliber pellets missing the owner but blowing a hole the size of a trash can lid in the wall behind the bar-magnum load.

“He’s mine,” said Frankie, “Get the bikers.” His eyes were as cold as a New York steel bridge in winter.

The old man leveled the gun at Frankie, cocking the double-action revolver.

Frankie started firing. Splintered wood, bits of razor-sharp glass, and screaming filled the bar again. Mun stood. “Code of the West, muthafucker,” he hollered, distracting Frankie. The gunman glanced in the direction of the massive biker at the dark corner of the bar, then back at the old man. His bullets slashed through the wooden bar like a bandsaw cutting balsa wood. The old man pulled the trigger, the gun misfired, and two of Frankie’s bullets split the old man’s shoulder like a cherry bomb in the center of a watermelon. Spinning, the old man careened into the remnants of the well bottles behind the bar. “You bastards!” Ella screamed and sprinted to reach her father.

Mun chambered his weapon, stood, aimed, and fired. Nothing happened. The 9mm had jammed. Blade dove from behind the music machine toward the center of the room and fired, catching the guard in the knee. The thug screamed, flinched, and fired, blowing out the corner of the bar where Mun stood. Mun crashed backward, overturning tables and chairs. Blade’s second round split Frankie’s teeth and tore out a chunk of his jaw like a cleaver through a chicken thigh. Devino’s eyes bulged out, and he squeezed the trigger of the automatic as Blade fired a second time, blowing Frankie’s cold heart out the back of his single needle shirt.

Blade shifted his attention to the stocky enforcer with the big-bore automatic. The man was confused, splattered with Frankie’s blood, scared, and in pain. He shot at random around the room. Blade caught him in the thigh with his last round. Stunned, the man was driven against the old wall. First his face went white, then noticing the biker attempting to reload, while squirming in the rubble, his fear turned to rage. He took the massive auto in both hands and aimed toward the biker.

The .45 sounded like a cannon, ripping into the hardwood floor. Blade ducked, but a sliver of lead caught his gun hand. He tried in vain to conceal himself behind the semi-auto, while attempting to reload. Only one clip remained.

The wounded gunman, a fireplug of a man, followed Blade with the muzzle of his gun, blowing holes in the floor as Blade rolled toward the jukebox. Bullets tore into the music maker, spilling fragments of vinyl Christmas records over Blade. He hadn’t had the time or composure to reload, and he found himself under the lethal eye of the .45. He could hear the weapon rechamber after the last bullet. He had nowhere else to go. He fumbled for the clip, on the inside of his heavy leather shirt. He knew his time was running out. He wondered whether Mun would make it? How bad was he hit? He thought about his kid, her perfect red hair, her bright green eyes. Mun had jeopardized his job and his freedom to come along on this risky ride. He hoped his friend would survive. Blade pulled the clip free and drew it closer to his auto. It was empty.

The pain in Mun’s gaping left thigh was unrelenting, yet he rolled free of the rubble and fired into the ceiling fan, tearing at the cords holding the porcelain lamp and rotating fans. Severed, the unit fell at the feet of the gangster. He ignored it and took final aim at Blade. Mun rolled along the sticky floor and fired again, splitting the man’s navel. His next bullet pierced the gangster’s skull; he died instantly.

“Fuck you, biker trash,” came the voice of the wounded slicker with the shotgun, the color leaving his narrow face as his hand slipped to the trigger of the shotgun.

Coming to his dead brother’s aid, the lanky pasta maker fired at the wounded biker. Mun returned the fire, but his weapon clicked with the frightening sound of an empty clip. For a moment there was silence. Only the storm, sirens, and the tinkling of glass set the disastrous tone. Then, the sound of a 12-gauge cartridge slamming into its chamber interrupted the storm. “It’s my turn to be the boss, now,” he said. The slicked back hair of the tall hood glistened in the dim light. He went after the ammo-less biker. His first bullet took Mun’s weapon out of his hand . Lead pellets tore into the muscular fiber of his forearm. Mun rolled to avoid more of his medicine.

Blade cocked the heavy pistol in his good hand and threw it at the greasy hitman. It slammed into the side of his face. Mun took the opportunity to take two massive steps and dive for the shuttered window. Blade pulled out his Buck as the young hood recovered and began to fire again. The bullet shattered the floor at Mun’s escaping feet. Blade’s arm screamed with pain, but his namesake was for his ability to open a Buck lightning fast, with just a flick of his left wrist. Another shell exploded and blew out the adjacent window as Mun fell onto the street and the mounting snow outside. Blade let the knife sail and turned to follow his brother. Shattering the wood slates and the glass it was protecting, Blade made a similar exit, spilling onto the snowdrift outside. Two rounds followed them onto the street, then stopped. The knife had struck just above the slimeball’s heart, slid in between a couple of ribs, and severed the main artery.

Ella held her injured father in her arms. Blade reached back in through the broken glass to retrieve his riding gear and shouted as he strode toward his bike, “Merry Fuckin’ Christmas.”

End

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Bonneville Effort 2007, Chapter 9

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This will be a heartfelt report as we near and pass deadlines, scramble, dodge and grab the plan B book. We’re getting close, but can’t go to paint without a front end. It never arrived, so I picked up a contact number and reached out. I sent an e-mail to Leo DiOrio and he responded, “Don't panic.” That was a month ago. I spoke to other builders and they were also waiting.

I couldn't wait any longer. Rodan, or SCTA official, rides a new Dyna Glide and it sports the new 49 mm semi-narrow glide. I was impressed, strong, sharp looking forks. I reached out to Harley-Davidson and they responded quickly. We ordered the new 49mm Dyna Glide front end. We were also running super low on funds and couldn’t pick up our AIM data system. We had the Bonneville blues.

I’m standing at the gate right now waiting for UPS, but nothing stops the 5-Ball racing team. I spoke to Kent at Air Tech about a fairing this morning, to Berry Wardlaw about NOS system questions, to Jeremiah about our NOS fittings, to Delvene Manning about our bike class this year and to Custom Chrome who just came on board as a Platnimum sponsor. Made my day, saved our asses.

The lovely Nyla made a mad dash, snatching a homeless credent off the streets, so she could use the carpool lanes. She grabbed the cash and hit it to AIM sports dealer, GT Fabrications in Anaheim, to pick up MyChron3 XG data acquisation system. This afternoon I’ll run it over to Gard’s LA Choprods for final tank assembly. Then the tank could go be delivered to Jim’s Custom Paint.

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This weekend we started on the final Nitrous system install—the straps. We are fortunate to live in LA, where the creed is, “You can do or find anything in Los Angeles.” We have three major steel supply yards in a mile radius of the extreme Ivory tower International Bikernet Headquarters. We hit Phillips Steel and asked them to fabricate our straps. They did and had a steel hinge to work with.

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?You can see where I cut the axle, slipped a washer over the end and welded it. I tried to blacksmith the end down, but I sensed destruction and gave up.

I bungied the Nitros bottle in place using the old strap loops and started making measurements. But first I had to split the steel hinge in two and remake the hinge link. Then I slipped the hinge between the frame rail and the bottle.

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I tried to fit the hinge so it ran square with the tank and that allowed me enough space to weld it on both sides.

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Then I cut the strap. We wrapped the Nitrous bottle with blue masking tape to prevent paint damage while attempting to tack the straps in place. Again, we tried to keep the strap tight to the bottle to hold it square.

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We made, no less, than three research missions to various hardware stores to find the proper strap for the bottle. The notion was to build a bottle valve guard to prevent the bottle from becoming a rocket or bomb during an accident. After finally finding the right strap we asked the lovely Ninja goddess, Nyla what she thought. “Why don’t you fasten the guard to the frame?” She said and winked at me. That was the solution. We grabbed a cap off an acetylene bottle and tried to work it in, but that was awkward, if we tried to hook it to the bottle. I’ll get back to our solution in minute.

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First I needed to face up to the Pingel electric shifter. This puppy will allow Valerie to shift from the bars, I hope. I had a long conversation with Mr. Pingel and he explained the severe need to prevent any binding since an electric shifter pops through gears with 18 pounds of thrust, whereas Pingel air shifters sports 40-50 pounds of boost. The directions call for the shifter mounted above the foot shift lever on the frame.

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The lever off the trans is a couple of inches shorter than common foot shift levers and that concerns me, since it will take more thrust to drive the shorter lever.

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LA COUNTY CHOPRODS

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The Pingel directions call for a static test of their system before installation so we charged our Big Boar battery with a new Xtreme Charger. It’s cool, tests the battery and gives you tremendous info. After charging over night and watching the LED lights blink from 50 to 100 percent charge on the Xtreme Charger we tested the Pingel electric shifter and it did exactly what it was supposed to do.

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Here’s the Pingel 1-inch handlebar switch. To test the system we had to wire the battery to the system and hold one button down for 5 seconds. Then, with the shaft centered we push one of the buttons and watched it jerk in one direction. Then we centered it again and pushed the other button. It was supposed to jump in the other direction and did. We were good to go.

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Pingel supplies all the wiring, connectors and components to make their system work, including this mounting bracket which I cut, drilled and mounted to the top of the BDL inner primary, by drilling 1 inch holes and taping them with 5/16 coarse threads.

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The directions call for the clamp to rest close to ¾ the length of the solenoid cylinder for the best angle on the thrust. We shot for the prescribed deminsion and came up close.

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Here’s a major consideration for mounting. First, we wanted the Pingel solenoid to make a direct thrust and not be forced to hit the shifter at an angle. In addition a critical element needed consideration. The thrust of the Pingel unit is 2 ¼ inches, or 1 1/8-inch in each direction. The directions call for avoiding slamming the solenoid to full capacity, but just slightly less. “The strength is at the end of the reach,” Mr. Pingel explained. But I could damage the shifter if it went too far. I had to test the shift lever reach and make sure it would shift within 1 1/8 inches in each gear, confirm it and test the positioning of the shifter.

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The positioning looked good from front to back, so I moved on to create something that would extend out from the tranny to reach the Pingel heim joint. Actually I just spoke to Wayne Pingel a couple of minutes ago, “It's all wrong, Ball,” he said. “You need to pivot the clamp 90 degrees. Not the cylinder, just the clamp and move it away from the wiring slightly for shifting ease.”

I'll fix it in the next segment.

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I dug around in our metal bins for a chunk of aluminum to make a stand off from the tranny lever to the Pingel shaft and went to work machining it with our new, old Logan lathe we just recently bought from Gard Hollinger’s LA Chop Rods shop. He was moving new equipment around and didn’t need another lathe crowding his shop. I was jazzed to have it.

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Working in the shop alone has it’s drawbacks. I machined this piece and it worked like a champ, but there’s always an alternative. I wish I made it so it could be adjusted for a longer throw, if I needed it.

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salt painting
Rare Bonneville art from the Bob T. collection.

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The masterpiece worked well to give the Pingel unit a solid, direct throw. We’ll see if it works. I’ll ask Mr. Pingel to check this article and let me know if I headed in the wrong directions. Whiskey, women and the wrong direction are ingrained in me.

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The Pingel directions call for the solenoid to rest in the 80-90 degree relation to the shifter. I think we hit the nail on the head with that requirement.

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Actually we blew it and needed to turn the clamp verticle or 90 degrees.

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Remember the U-bolt for holding a NOS valve guard. Well, the lovely Nyla suggested we mount the guard to the frame and I came up with this crazed notion. Since we’re not concerned about weight we cut up a Acetylene bottle guard cap, split it open and went to work.

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Jeremiah is a master with a grinder, except when he nearly ground a finger off. He cut the cap a couple of times and ground it to contour the shape of the NOS bottle. We welded tabs to the frame, and that puppy fit securely around the valve. We still needed to pick up the necessary fittings and make sure the hose can escape back to the NOS solenoid.

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A reader reminded me to my chagrin, “Just 45 days left before Bonneville.” We’re burnin’ daylight fast, but we’ll make it goddamnit. Fortunately the Harley-Davidson front end parts we're arriving and we scrambled to make the front fender. Then we can finish welding all the tabs, let the master grinder, Jeremiah, have at the frame and send all the shit to powder and paint.

H-D

HARLEY PART NUMBERS FOR THE KILLER 49MM DYNA GLIDE FRONT END:
45948-06 left leg
45947-06 right leg
45718-60 stem nut
45717-63 lock washer
45538-06a top crown
46384-06 bottom crown and stem
48198-06 Dust shield
48184-01 top dust shield
48307-06 Bearing adjuster
40928-06 Axle
(4) 4351 fork screws
40936-06 right spacer
40940-06 left spacer
6590HW washer
7068 Lock washer
7956 axle nut

Larry, from the Chop N Grind Team and Palm Springs H-D, helped me scramble through the numbers, so the order would be correct the first time—we hoped.

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New H-D 49mm trees.

I ordered the sprockets from Azusa Engineering. I needed to have the handlebars bent by a local guy in Long Beach. Maybe we’ll attempt to bend them ourselves. Then we need to figure out some of this wiring mess and we’re ready to rock. See ya at the next segment. Don’t grind your teeth. I’m crunching enough for all of us.

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Jerry from Rollin’ Sixes Choppers sent the following suggestions regarding paint:

It’s been awhile since I last talked with you. I’d like to see it painted in big flake like we use. That bike will look like flashing diamonds going across the flats, but that’s just me. We got one of the best nose art, and pinstripers in the country working with us. So if you need anything just let us know. I want this bike to look like a ghost bike riding out of a mirage in the distance. I want people to see the flashing of the flake thru the heat waves coming off the desert floor before they see the bike. I want them to hear it, then see the flashing of the flake before they can tell it’s a bike. I want it to hyptonize them.

I usually keep this to myself, you will be surprised who doesn't know about it. I like to Cryogenic my motor, trans, etc. I really think this will help you set a new record. I got a 89-inch stroker motor that I have used this on and it eats 124s for lunch. It’s been together for about ten years now with no problems and I ride it hard. It has over 200,000 miles on it. It drastically cuts down friction in the motor. We have a place down here that does it. The motor can be done after it’s together.

–Jerry
Rollin Sixes.
239-770-6024

V-rod headlight
Here’s the unit with one of the initial sketches. It sports the V-Rod headlight and an illegal rear fender. Except now we're running a fairing, since we'll be in the partially streamlined class.

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