Chapter 3

Next came Nolan Briggs, the vintage Harley specialist—the guy every collector in Michigan called when they needed a Shovelhead or a Panhead brought back from the dead. Nolan had oil in his veins; he'd been rebuilding old Harleys since before Owen was born. He spent forty-five minutes: pulled the carburetor apart piece by piece, cleaned every jet, checked every gasket, put it all back together with the precision of a surgeon.He tried the kickstart: once, twice, three times, four, five, six. Nothing. Not even a cough."The carb's clean," Nolan said. "This engine's just done. These old Shovelheads, they hit a wall eventually. I've seen it a dozen times. Nothing left to do."Garrett grabbed Nolan by the shirt and yanked him forward. "You're supposed to be the best in the state.""I am the best in the state! And I'm telling you, she's finished. Done. Dead."Garrett held him there for three seconds, then shoved him away so hard Nolan tripped over his own toolbox. "Get out! Every single one of you! Useless. Pathetic. Useless."The crowd was bigger now; word moves fast when Hells Angels are angry. Sixty people pressed against the fence: mechanics from other shops came to watch, riders from other chapters, neighbors on porches, kids on bicycles.Then came Curtis Wade: former aerospace engineer turned motorcycle consultant, the smart one, the one who showed up with a laptop, a voltage meter, a current probe, and a smile that said he already knew the answer. He plugged in, ran diagnostics, scrolled through data, typed notes, cross-referenced wiring diagrams on his screen. He looked professional. He looked thorough.Twenty minutes later, he stood up and delivered his verdict like a doctor delivering bad news. "Full engine replacement. New crankshaft, new cylinders, new camshaft, new primary chain. We're talking $8,000 minimum. Could push twelve depending on parts availability for a '72 Shovelhead."Garrett's jaw clenched so hard the veins in his temple pulsed. "Eight to twelve thousand dollars to fix a bike that three of you so-called experts can't even diagnose properly?"Curtis closed his laptop. "I don't make the rules of physics, Mr. Steel."

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Hells Angels Bet $5N No One Can Fix Their Bike — Until an 18-Yr-Old Picks Up a Wrench "Give Me 5 Min"