Dad met mom in high school. At 17 they fell in love and in 1967 they knew that it was only a matter of time until my dad was drafted. But Dad was a hippy, free love and peace and all that happy horse shit that created the most amazing era and time to live in history. So dad joined the air force. His enlistment stories are fucking amazing, everything from painting his snub nose van with political statements and parking it in front of his officers building, to painting a giant peace sign on the two story barrack facing the highway. (he said the punishment wasn’t worth the prank on that one) But Dad bought an Iron head before he shipped out, and that bike lives on in history as the machine that nearly killed half my family.
He was 18,he didn’t have any tools and the motor needed a lot of machine work. He worked for this local Harley mechanic in town. He was an older man, his shop was dirt floors and his main tool was a hammer, but he knew his shit. But this was beyond that. So he took this two year old bike with a thrashed motor to a young mechanic the next town over and asked him to simply make it run again.
The mechanic told him he had two options, to rebuild it with original factory Harley Davidson parts or for the same price or less, with aftermarket parts. He asked “What’s the difference then?” the mechanics response? “you’ll go a lot faster on the aftermarket parts kid”
Done deal. Aftermarket. Enough said.
“That god damned bike had so much power it was sick” -Dad.
I recently asked my dad for a detailed summary of what was done to that motor. This is his exact response.
” Everything. Dytch stroker kit, they made them for Sportsters back then, I think they were mainly for race bikes. New flywheel, aftermarket rods, high compression pistons, and sleeves, oversized valves, cam, all kinds of stuff I can’t remember now. But the compression was so high I could barely kick it over, Especially when it was cold. So I’d have to tow it behind a car or push it down a big hill or get someone to push you, but that usually never worked.After it was warm you could kick it but barely, so you couldn’t let it sit too long or you’d be stranded. Sometimes I would start down my dad’s driveway if I started pushing from inside the garage and jump on, but usually he’d have to tow me”
He rode that bike year round, 30 minutes through blizzards to visit with my mom for an hour before being kicked out to ride 30 minutes back home.
Dad got shipped off to basic shortly after and mom hid out at his parents house while he was there. The bike waited for his return as well. After basic they moved to Sumpter South Carolina where the bike got it’s first facelift. Dad was a poor Airman so he put his diy skills to good use. He fabricated some drag bars out of the chrome legs of a kitchen dinette chair and made rigid struts out of a stop sign post. He custom fabricated a king queen seat with a built in six pack holder in the queen ridge and six over slugged fork tubes. He told me last summer while I was in the direct path of the solar eclipse that during the last one, in March of 1970 he had just finished the build and put my mom on the back to ride into town and show it off. He said the minute they hit the main drag of town the sky went black and no one gave a shit about his chopper. That’s the typical outcome for something for my dad. Everything is a shit show. But it makes for a damn good story.
Dad’s chopper Sumpter 1970
My grandfather, trying to help his son out elected to keep the bike running for him while dad was stationed in Hawaii and took it out once for a short cruise. That was the day my grandfather took his first and last “hell ride”. My grandfather was an impressive man, He came from Italy as a baby was raised tough as nails, fought in the war and worked in a foundry. Nothing scared that man. Except for that Iron head. His version of the story was the bike took off on him and he held on for dear life while riding out what I pictured as he told the story one gnarly ass wheelie. My dad said it’s far more likely he got whiskey throttle and slid off the seat and somehow got lucky and recovered before total loss of control. Either way, after that the bike sat in wait for my father’s return from his military contract. My grandfather eventually convinced him to sell it and after a few years of the new owner having it but never riding it he lost track of the bike. I’d do anything to get my hands on it. It was last seen in Apollo Pa.
Chop Blog 