Near the rear fence, a woman in a navy windbreaker watched the crowd without trying to join it. Eleanor Graves had parked her rental car after noticing the motorcycles from the road. She was visiting her daughter and grandchildren in Detroit and had intended to spend the afternoon buying groceries, not standing outside a clubhouse watching a machine fail. The sight of an old Shovelhead had drawn her in before curiosity could be replaced by caution.
Eleanor was sixty-eight and had worked for thirty-one years in Harley-Davidson powertrain engineering and testing in Milwaukee before retiring. Her career began in the late seventies as a young technician, when mechanical service problems were still documented through field reports, paper diagrams, and returned parts. She eventually became a senior engineering leader, contributed to major powertrain programs, and held patents related to valve-train design. She had trained engineers who could produce beautiful simulations but sometimes struggled to recognize trouble that began as an ugly sound in a real workshop.
She loved those engineers, most of them. She also worried about an increasingly common habit: treating whatever a computer did not report as something that did not exist. Old machines were particularly unforgiving of that habit. A modified Shovelhead could contain forty years of decisions made by owners who had never imagined their work would be examined by somebody holding a laptop.
Eleanor recognized immediately that Black Fury was unusual. A plate on the engine bore hand-stamped numbers that did not match the mass-produced components she expected. The cam cover had been loosened and refitted repeatedly over the last two days. A later-model Keihin carburetor had been fitted where the earliest factory configuration would have used something else. Somebody had also rerouted a ground strap beneath the frame, where road salt could collect unseen.
She considered introducing herself and asking permission to inspect the bike. Garrett's voice reached her before she moved. He was insulting a mechanic who had quietly suggested that an hour was too short to responsibly diagnose an old custom motor. The man folded his equipment and left. Eleanor stayed near the fence, suddenly less interested in the prize and more interested in how a crowd could make an entire group of capable adults behave less intelligently than they did alone.
At seven thirty she thought about leaving. Her daughter had already sent two messages asking whether she needed directions. Eleanor answered that she was all right and would be home shortly. Then somebody tried Black Fury one more time, and the engine made a faint hollow metallic note beneath the dry turning of the starter.