Memories 1: Maurice Huenen

In AM Klassiek No. 9 you ask 'which bike I remember most from my past'. To then come up with Blauwtje again is something else. But then there was that Harley WLA. The first bike I ever rode. It was somewhere in 1981…

Our neighbor's nephews at home had bought a Harley. A 1952 WLA. Red and just a civilian version. It was a 'non runner' and the price was accordingly. The thing was put in our neighbor's garage to tinker with, so that it would come back to life. You guessed it, that bringing it back to life was not that easy. They had kicked themselves silly on that calf-bone-ramming kickstarter. Although it was on after ignition, it still hit back more often.

And if it did start, it suddenly wanted to turn backwards, causing the flames to shoot out of the air filter at the carburetor. The flames resolutely hit the groin of the person who tried to adjust the mixture with the choke while the other was kicking it on. It was dryly noted that he had faced hotter fires. But in any case, the thing wouldn't run.

Everyone took turns lending their fresh starting leg. So did I. I gave it a stallion after which the V-block decided to strike back. With a firm swing I was thrown over the handlebars whereby my bulb shop 'en passent' made a hard acquaintance with the handlebars. A pleasant feeling was really something from another world!

My father came to take a look after a few days. Analyticaly observing what was happening he asked: “Guys, could it be that the distributor shaft is half a turn wrong?” A firm 'no way!' was heard resolutely. My father pulled his cigarette just as resolutely and nodded with an understanding gesture as if to say 'I didn't know that just now'. Father and I walked from one driveway to the other and when we were back home working in our own garage we suddenly heard a loud curse from 'Harley's side': “Goddammit…..He's right too!! I immediately went back to the Harley boys. It turned out that the shaft was indeed half a turn wrong. The distributor was lifted out, the shaft turned, the distributor was put in and the ignition was quickly re-timed. The big moment had arrived.

The Harley got a kick on its kickstarter and it came to life instantly. The junk that had ended up in the exhaust from a thousand times of kicking but not walking, was scorched and set on fire. A short fiery speech followed by a minute-long smoke production made a richly lubricated two-stroke absolutely pale. The Harley was alive!! The helmet went on and the neighbor's nephew went for a ride. While the Harley slowly disappeared from view, the smoke screen marked the distance traveled for a few minutes like the breadcrumbs of Hansel and Gretel of old and the street filled with blue vapor as far as the eye could see.

After ten minutes I heard him return. The smoke around our heads had disappeared by now and a somewhat crackling Harley breathed an unforgettable nostalgic smell. The next day I was asked to ride it for a while, because the unsynchronized gearbox did not shift so well. 16 years old and without a driver's license... The thing would be overhauled anyway and the damage to the gearbox was ultimately more or less minor. But oh well, it would all be fine.

I got on, started the WLA with a single kick and rode away as if I had never ridden anything else. Once up to speed, I had to make a firm left turn. I squeezed the front brake, but it didn't respond at all. Red-hot! Startled but calculating, I immediately consulted the rear brake a lot firmer. However, it caused the rear wheel to lock up immediately. Letting go and carefully operating it again provided sufficient deceleration after which the bend was neatly initiated and rounded just as neatly.

Turning on the road took some getting used to. Putting the foot clutch slightly slipping and controlling the brakes, the Harley could be turned. Proud as a dog with seven tails, I parked the Harley in front of its owner's nose and reported my findings. The Harley owner was still roaring with laughter because he knew in advance exactly how the braking action would go, ha!

A week later, the brother of the Harley owner came back from a ride on that bike. He parked it in our driveway, completely sweaty. The battery was dead, so he had to push it for miles.

With a cup of coffee he could recover from his efforts while he asked my father what the cause could be. The schedule was consulted by father. In all tranquility a cigarette was smoked and lit. When he had read up on it the three of us went to the Harley. Wires were checked.

I got some tools and took the cover off the dynamo. Dad looked at the wires, looked at the diagram and looked at the wires again. He took the cigarette from his lips, pointed to the terminals under the cover and said: "Just swap those two wires with each other. Then it will work again". The neighbor's nephew looked at him in disbelief as I quickly swapped the wires for him and put the cover back on. We agreed that I would just push it on.

With a loud bang in the exhaust, the Harley rose from its death for the second time. The multimeter on and yes, the battery was properly charged. No more pushing was needed. His brother must have ridden that thing for another thirty years!!

All in all, it is understandable that I will never forget that motorcycle. Unforgettable even. However, the motorcycle virus had mercilessly infected me!!

Greetings!!!

Maurice