Care for Cowboy

QUICK THROTTLE MAGAZINE STORY: BY BEN “COWBOY” WYCOFF

Yep, thatʼs my bike.

Many of you probably saw the post on Quick Throttle magazine with a bike in flames. It was mine. My very first Davidson. My only way to get around in a new city. The first bike my daughter rode on. The first bike that instilled a love of motorcycles in a 17 month old little girl.

You can make all the jokes you want about it being “slow”, or a basket case, or ‘oh look, a hog roast!ʼ, but that motorcycle was my beating heart, and I stood on the side of the road as it burned to a crisp.

Sure, it had its issues. What bike that is as old as the rider doesnʼt? But I put 15,000 miles on it, and it taught me a lot. You can buy a motorcycle, and ride it; but you can also buy a motorcycle, and give it life. I found that 1991 FLHS at Woodstock Harley Davidson in Illinois, buried in the back room. One of my brothers had the same bike tore down in his garage, and I knew it was me. Slash cut straight pipes, 16” apes, that bike had my name all over it.

When I moved to San Antonio, I waited 2 months for Harley to get the bike to me. It showed up, and I was on it. Until the ignition went out. Local Indy shop fixed it up, and I was on it. Until the inspection plug came out rolling 80mph down 35 south. Then I was on it. Until the carb was clogged and had to get cleaned out. But I was riding that old HD. Then I blew a tire. Then someone tried to steal it. Then I rode it some more. Until that one trip to Dallas.

My daughter spent a lot of time with me while I changed the battery, changed fluids, replaced highway pegs. She wasn’t even walking and would reach to sit on it when I would walk her by.

If I was taking the battery out to put it on the tender, she HAD to have her wrench. She couldnʼt really do anything, but Iʼll be damned if she didnʼt make sure the moving parts moved. Or didnʼt move. Whatever her little imagination wanted it to be. She just knew she was with the motorcycle and Dad.

Thatʼs what made that trip to Dallas hurt just a little bit more. That bike taught her to love motorcycles. It showed a little girl the value of a good adjustable wrench. And it all went up in flames.

The bike was running better than ever. New air filter, fresh fluids, half the bike had been replaced. Just another trip to Dallas. Fuel stop, fuel stop, Waffle House. Then 10 minutes from my destination, the bike shuts off. Shit. Pull onto the shoulder, hit start. “Bro, get off your bike itʼs on fire.” I looked down, flames started coming up from behind the carburetor. F@ck. Grab a shirt from my lid-less saddlebags. Try to put it out. “Itʼs gone, bro, let it go.” And I did. I watched the kickstand melt off, I stood in the grass as the bike was completely engulfed in flames.

I stood there as the fire department sprayed water up my exhaust, peeled the melted seat off, and watched the wiring harness disintegrate, ensuring I wouldnʼt be fixing her.

I helped the tow man drag it onto his flatbed by the engine guard, scratching off the last bit of old school Harley blue. Then I knew it was over. The same bike that I blew life into, that gave life to me, was never going to breathe again.

Iʼll miss you Blue. But youʼll always live on. Through my daughterʼs wrench, and my beating heart.