How To Be an Adventure Enabler

“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?

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.