Looked at the ignition points.
Everything looked close enough.
Nothing explained why the engine would not start.
After six attempts, Nolan stood.
Garrett saw the answer on his face before he heard it.
“I’d pull the engine.”
“Why?”
“Because something internal isn’t right.”
“What?”
“I don’t know without opening it.”
Garrett’s expression darkened.
Nolan continued.
“The engine’s old, Garrett.”
“So are you.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
Nolan ignored the insult.
“These engines wear. Bushings. Cam gears. Valves. Rings. You can spend all day chasing ghosts when the real answer is that fifty years of metal finally reached the end.”
Garrett stepped closer.
“You saying my father’s engine is dead?”
“I’m saying there may be no quick repair.”
“You told everybody in Michigan you can bring old Harleys back from the dead.”
“Usually.”
Garrett grabbed Nolan’s shirt.
Several men shifted uneasily.
Nolan did not.
He had known Garrett too long.
“You’re supposed to be the best.”
“I’m good enough to know when I need a bench and time.”
Garrett released him.
“Get out.”
Nolan gathered his tools.
He left angry.
Not frightened.
Mostly embarrassed.
The third man, Curtis Wade, approached the problem differently.
Curtis had studied engineering before moving into specialty motorcycle diagnostics.
He arrived with a digital oscilloscope, multimeter, timing tools, test leads, and several binders of wiring diagrams.
He was not foolish enough to connect a laptop to a 1972 motorcycle that had no electronic control unit.
Instead, he measured everything he could.
Battery condition.
Voltage while cranking.
Coil resistance.
Continuity.
Primary wiring.
Spark.
Curtis found weaknesses.
But none seemed severe enough by itself to explain the total failure.
After another forty minutes, he shook his head.
“You have multiple age-related issues.”
“How much?”
“If you want reliability?”
“Yes.”
“I would rebuild the ignition, carburetor, charging circuit, and probably open the engine while we’re there.”
“How much?”
“Eight thousand.”
Garrett stared.
“Eight?”
“Could become ten or twelve depending on what we find.”
“For a motorcycle you still can’t tell me what’s actually wrong with.”
Curtis packed his meter.
“I can tell you what I would replace.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Curtis left.
That was when Garrett put five thousand dollars on the table.
By then, the gathering had become entertainment.
Nearly sixty people surrounded the Iron Rail.
Some riders.
Some mechanics.
People from nearby houses.
Teenagers on bicycles.
Phones appeared.
A livestream began.
The challenge stopped being about money.
It became about whether anyone could solve what three respected technicians had failed to solve.
Then Owen Fletcher said:
“I can.”
Garrett looked at him again.
The kid seemed almost offensively unimpressive.
Skinny.
Tired.
Clothes stained from work.
No expensive diagnostic case.
No shop truck.
No company logo anyone recognized.
Garrett laughed.
“Who invited you?”
“Nobody.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Walking home.”
“And you decided you’re smarter than everybody standing here?”
“No.”
Owen looked toward the motorcycle.
“I heard something.”
That made the laughter louder.
Garrett stepped closer.
“You heard something.”
“Yes.”
“The motorcycle isn’t running.”
“I know.”
“So what exactly did you hear?”
Owen looked at him.
“The way it turns over.”
Garrett’s smile faded slightly.
Owen continued.
“When you tried starting it earlier.”
“You were watching?”
“I was across the street.”
“And from across the street you diagnosed my motorcycle.”
“No.”
Owen shook his head.
“I heard enough to want to check three things.”
A biker named Vince Carrow stepped forward.
Vince was massive.
Six-foot-four.
Heavy beard.
Skull tattoo climbing his neck.
He flicked one finger against Owen’s shoulder.
“Kid, men who’ve worked longer than you’ve been alive already checked that motorcycle.”
Owen looked at him.
“Okay.”
Vince frowned.
“That’s all?”
“I heard you.”