How To Be an Adventure Enabler

Kyle Smith

“Are you sure about this?”

The clink of my glass landing on the coffee table was a tiny bell that called Lance and me back to reality. We stared at each other for a beat.

“Why not at least try?” I said.

Wild schemes and ambitious plans seem to be a side effect of an obsession with vintage cars and motorcycles. Hang around old cars long enough, and you’ll fall into one of three camps: Those who never take adventures, those who take adventures, and those who help others take adventures. None is more important or special than the others, but I personally really enjoy spending time in the third group. I thrive on getting people outside their comfort zone. Neither Lance nor I had any idea what the road trip scheme we were spooling up would soon become.

My friend Lance was sitting in my living room in Traverse City, Michigan, because he had tacked a few days onto the end of a business trip in the state. His visit overlapped perfectly with a few days that I was actually home between work trips. After dinner one night, as he, my wife, and I hung out in the living room, I went into the kitchen to refill our glasses. When I came back, he pointed his phone screen at me. It showed a Facebook Marketplace listing for a hardtail 1963 Ironhead chopper located a few hours south. “I’ve always thought buying a chopper like this and riding across the country would be cool,” he said.

My wife left the room, knowing what was coming. The bed of my 20-foot van was empty, I told Lance, and the gas tank was full. If he wanted to drive down and get the stupid thing, I would do anything in my power for the next four days to set him up for success on this idiotic adventure. Before I could finish my sentence, he had already sent a message to the seller. Lance is no stranger to ridiculous adventures, and I figured if I helped out there was a chance this one could work.

Chaos ensued. We spent the next four, very late nights—we worked during the day—trying to make the long-stored chopper run, then to make it run well enough to go cross-country, and finally to formulate a ballpark plan for his trip. It was a stretch of time I will never forget. After working our normal jobs during the day, a group of friends rallied every night, each playing some supporting role in a merry cast of characters any sitcom could only dream of: Brett took photos, Greg kept everyone fed and watered, Bowen supplied never-ending energy and optimism, and I provided space, tools, and all the mechanical knowledge I could muster. Together we gave Lance superpowers in his headlong dive into a bad idea. One person couldn’t have got that terrible chopper running and riding for a successful trip all the way back to Los Angeles. But five of us?

Kyle-and-Lance-working-on-chopper
Brett Lirones

Turns out, five of us couldn’t either. We went through that bike from front to back in three nights, grabbing parts from my random parts stashes and upgrading or replacing things as we could. A few items were two-day-shipped, but others were lucky finds. Somehow, I had new wheel bearings that fit the rear wheel of the Harley, and a “good enough” chain that came off some other project but was in better shape than the chain that came on the chopper. We levered on new tires and got the brakes functional.

On the last day, at 3 a.m.—my neighbors might be the most patient humans on earth—we hit the go/no-go point for this Frankenstein’s monster we had created. In a few hours, Lance was either going to kickstart this beast and ride south or get on the flight he always had booked as the backup. The straight-piped V-twin loped around the neighborhood as we all took turns trying out our handiwork and getting a taste of what Lance was in for: a motorcycle that ran what most would call “okay” and rode slightly worse than that. The garage echoed with high fives and the crisp snap of beer can tops.

After a few hours’ sleep, I woke up and climbed into a modern Ford F350, pulling a trailer bound for Barber Vintage Fest, 883 miles south, in Alabama. Lance wisely slept a bit later, then threw his leg over a hacked-together Harley and rode 90 miles to the ferry that would carry him and the bike across Lake Michigan—allowing him to make forward progress while sleeping—before he started west at whatever pace the bike liked.

Before he could even start the bike to ride it off the boat, the kickstarter broke. From then on it was a scramble of phone calls as both of us scrolled our contacts, wracking our brains for any friend we had who might be in Wisconsin with Harley Davidson parts. We both arrived at the phone number of Pat, a mutual friend from McPherson College, our alma mater, who had experience with ironheads.

After a push start from a kind stranger, Lance rode another hour and a half to Pat’s place in Neenah, Wisconsin where the pair picked up where we had left off in my garage. This time, a lot more expertise was in the room. As far as I can remember, these are the exact words Pat said to me over the phone through the Bluetooth connection of the truck, as I rounded the south end of Indianapolis: “I can’t believe you let him out of the driveway on this thing.”

I know. I’m an enabler: one who enables another to persist in self-destructive behavior. Lance’s road trip idea was not a good one, but who am I to interfere with a man’s dreams? The entire time I worked side by side with Lance and everyone in my garage, we were laughing and having a great time. We both fully understood how bad of an idea this was. It would have been prudent of me not to support such a ridiculous escapade, but given the time and funds, I would have happily switched places with Lance. I wished I could have been riding west, and the least I could do was to help someone crazy enough to try.

I’m still making excuses not to follow through on that wish.

Lance ended up at a Harley Davidson dealership in Wisconsin, 50 miles from the coast of Lake Michigan, looking for parts. In the parking lot, he met a gentleman who had overheard his story at the parts counter. This guy had an early 2000s 883 Sportster he had ridden all over the country, and he wanted to see someone else do the same. The bike was ready to ride. Lance should buy it to finish the trip, he said, then named his price—a phenomenal deal.

Gotta watch out for those enablers. You can find them anywhere.

Lance Butler ironhead chopper and Sportster 883
Both bikes did eventually make it to Los Angeles, but one arrived on a truck.Lance Butler
Click below for more about
Read next Up next: 2024 BMW X5 xDrive 50e Review: High-Tech at a High Price

Comments

    “…tiny bell that called Lance and I back”
    Please friend, write in proper english. This of course should read “Lance and me”.

    Per Microsoft AI the correct cosmic phrase is “Lance and I back.” Also the word English should be capitalized.

    Well, it’s still “me” and not “I,” regardless of what an AI tool says. “I” can be the first person subject in a sentence, but it is never used as the object of a verb or a preposition. It’s “John called me” and not “John called I.” For some reason, English practitioners have started to shy away from “me” believing “I” always sounds better. It’s still improper.

    The reason choppers had the “peanut” gas tank is because thats about as far as you could travel before having to fix SOMETHING on the bike. For a number of years I had a 1973 Ironhead chopper and can assure you that God himself using red Locktite couldn’t keep parts from vibrating loose.

    Of course he had to try it and of course you had to help. That, sir, is called living. Yeah, yeah, we all need to “be prudent”, or else we won’t live very long, but prudence can creep over into “too scared to leave the house’ if we let it. And yes, every chopper (good or otherwise) needs flames! Good story 👍👍

    This rang true. I’m an enabler. Goaded some pals into getting the Iron Butt award (1000 mile bike day), on the way to Sturgis, Roped one of those pals into going to pick up a C4 Vette race car in Missouri. Starting from Phoenix, in a 1990 F250. Which we did a door-to-door dash back from MO in all the way to my front door, just because I didn’t want anyone stealing the 3 sets of sawblade alloys in the back of the Ford.

    This is kind of my thing, I went to pick up an EBay $500 Audi in NH 20 years ago, drove that one home to AZ i;3 days. Took the ‘89 Range Rover to Laguna Seca for Car Week this year.

    But I gotta admit, when we drove off into the darkness of the December desert bound for Sears Point, in a ‘97 35’ Pace Arrow… that had been sleeping for 20 years until my buddy woke it up and drove it out of the woods… two weeks before the race (yes) and it started having fuel starvation issues… but we took the backroads route of 95 to Interstate 40 anyway…

    I was like “when did we turn into THESE guys, anyway?”

    Without some daring, Life would be pretty bland, wouldn’t it ? Or as a couple of my older mentors frequently said years ago, “TAFC”: first word being Take, the last being Chance, and I doubt I need to fill in the other 2 words. The best stories are about what you got away with doing – or almost got away with – and the building/repairing thrash is a bonding humor-fest like nothing else, in my experience.

    I road a hard tail chopper from Orlando to almost the Canadien boarder in NY. That was in 1968,my body has
    never recovered.

    I can attest to the fact that Kyle Smith is the world’s greatest enabler. When the adventures outlined above happened, I was still skeptical about the virtues of motorcycling. As we speak, I have not one, but two Honda XR’s due to his (and others mentioned in this article’s) influence. One of them is well on its way to having some very nice ridability mods at his urging.

    If you do not have friends who enable you to try something new and adventurous, then you really need to find new ones; these are some of the most rewarding friends a person can have.

    The biker code is this > “It’s not the destination, it’s the adventure of getting there.”

    This is another fine example of doing just that. Bravo!

    It’s not the journey, it’s the friends we made along the way. Similar sentiment. Fun was had, that’s what made it worth it.

    I had a random thought of buying an old school sportster chopper back in the early eighties. First one I couldn’t even kick over to start. Super high compression and I weighed about a buck twenty five dripping wet. Next one had a springer front end and a hard tail. Rode it about 5 miles on city streets. My butt came off the see every bump I hit and the springer felt like a pogo stick. Felt like I was on a horse in the rodeo. Worst riding bike I’ve ever been on. Oh but the cool factor. No thanks. I passed

    Not for everyone and not for me. After too many years with a bad back riding a hardtail is out of the question. Its not your butt, it’s your back- quote ” an engineering disaster ” end quote – the next morning. Bring all the Doans pills and Ibuprofen you can scrounge. Not a Harley guy but the XLCR makes my top ten list every time. So the clean used Sporty Sport decked out in like guise ( code name XLCS ) in my head would be my choice. In this case. Loose the fishtails, bolt on some ape hangers for a long ride and mount that you’ll need vintage leather tool kit between them. Hey, it’s a real deal chopper not some b.s. redi-made. God loves fools and kickers.

    Hmmm… You want to do what? Well, that maybe not the worst idea I;ve ever heard, but it’s probably bottom ten.
    Uh, What time? 🙂

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Your daily pit stop for automotive news.

Sign up to receive our Daily Driver newsletter

Subject to Hagerty's Privacy Policy and Terms of Conditions

Thanks for signing up.