“What kind of lunatic built this?”
From behind him, Jim’s voice seemed to echo from the previous day.
Dutch never fixed anything normally.
By ten-thirty, they reached the cam area.
Rusty leaned close.
Leo held a flashlight.
“There.”
Rusty followed the beam.
His face changed.
Big Dave moved beside him.
Milo looked over his shoulder.
Rusty whispered, “That is not stock.”
Leo said nothing.
Big Dave stared at the component.
“Shovelhead.”
Rusty nodded.
“Modified.”
Milo exhaled.
“Kid was right.”
Leo looked relieved.
Rusty turned toward him.
“Not done yet.”
Leo nodded.
“I know.”
They began measuring.
The internal geometry confirmed what Leo had described.
Dutch’s motorcycle had been modified years earlier using an improvised combination of components that no factory manual could account for.
The standard timing reference was wrong.
Not a little wrong.
Dangerously wrong for the hybrid setup.
Big Dave leaned against the bench.
“Twelve degrees.”
Leo nodded.
Rusty looked at the boy.
“How did your father remember that?”
Leo shrugged.
“He remembered numbers.”
Rusty did too.
Arthur could hear a bearing and tell you whether it was slightly dry.
He could watch an engine vibrate and identify which mount had begun loosening.
And once he learned a measurement, he rarely forgot it.
Rusty returned to the motorcycle.
“Okay.”
For the first time in two weeks, he felt something close to optimism.
Then Milo rolled a pushrod across the steel bench.
The rod wobbled.
Rusty’s optimism died immediately.
“Again.”
Milo rolled it.
Wobble.
Big Dave grabbed another.
Same result.
They removed and checked the rest.
Two were visibly bent.
One was borderline.
Rusty placed both hands on the workbench.
The repeated kickback had done damage.
Big Dave measured the rod.
Then checked the catalog.
“No standard Evolution replacement.”
Milo flipped through another reference.
“Shovelhead’s too short.”
Rusty looked at the modified geometry.
“Of course it is.”
Big Dave swore.
Leo stepped down from the crate.
“What?”
Rusty shook his head.
“Custom pushrods.”
“So?”
“So we don’t have custom pushrods.”
“Make them.”
Rusty looked at him.
“We don’t machine pushrods in-house.”
“Someone can.”
“Not by Friday noon.”
Leo stared at the damaged rod.
Big Dave dropped his wrench onto the bench.
“We’re done.”
The sound echoed through the garage.
Nobody contradicted him.
Wednesday afternoon disappeared into phone calls.
Rusty contacted machine shops.
One could do the work Monday.
Another wanted original specifications.
A third said they might fit it in by Saturday afternoon.
Too late.