The hidden electrical circuit was restored to reliable operation without erasing the quirk Dutch had intentionally built.
Fuel was checked again.
Oil circulated properly.
Compression remained healthy.
At 10:47 Thursday night, Big Dave stood beside the starter.
“Let's hear it.”
Leo shook his head.
“No.”
Everybody looked at him.
Rusty said, “No?”
“We wait.”
Tommy stared.
“You have spent two days trying to start this thing.”
“Yes.”
“And now you don't want to start it.”
Leo nodded.
Pete laughed.
“Kid's become a real mechanic. He's afraid to find out.”
Leo looked offended.
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No.”
“Then why wait?”
Leo looked at the bike.
“Because Mr. Jim wants to hear it.”
Rusty softened.
“That isn't a mechanical reason.”
“No.”
“It could fail.”
“I know.”
“If it fails tomorrow, we have no time.”
“I know.”
Rusty studied him.
Leo finally admitted, “If it works tonight, Mr. Jim isn't here.”
That settled it.
They did not start the motorcycle.
Instead, they spent another hour checking everything.
Then Rusty sent everybody home.
Leo stood alone near the bike before leaving.
He rested one hand lightly on the seat.
“Dad,” he whispered, embarrassed even though nobody was close enough to hear, “I think we got it.”
Friday morning came cool by Oakland standards.
A thin layer of marine haze softened the sunlight.
By 9:00, Apex Iron Works was cleaner than it had been in years.
Nobody had planned that.
They had simply needed something to do.
The FXR occupied the center of the bay.
Rusty wiped the tank twice.
Tommy polished fingerprints from the exhaust.
Big Dave checked the same fasteners three times.
Pete put a voltmeter on the battery every twenty minutes.
Leo swept.
The same broom.
Same corner.
But nobody saw him the same way anymore.
At 11:42, Rusty looked toward the clock.
“At least he's late.”
The ground began vibrating.
Pete removed the voltmeter.
“Nope.”
This time twenty motorcycles rolled into the lot.
Not six.
Twenty.
Jim Mercer entered first.
Hank behind him.
Bobby.
Older riders Leo had never seen.
Some had ridden in from other counties ahead of Saturday's memorial.
Nobody spoke loudly.
Dutch's motorcycle made the atmosphere too serious.
Jim removed his gloves.
“Friday.”
Rusty nodded.
“Friday.”
“Noon.”
Rusty looked at Leo.
“Technically eleven fifty-four.”
Jim almost smiled.
He approached the motorcycle.
“Is it ready?”
Rusty could have taken credit.
Nobody would have stopped him.
Instead, he pointed at Leo.
“Ask him.”
Jim looked down.
Leo swallowed.
“Yes, sir.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
That earned several quiet laughs.
Jim nodded.
“Best answer I've heard all week.”
He swung one leg over the FXR.
The suspension settled beneath his weight.
His hands wrapped around the grips.
For an instant, his eyes closed.
Maybe he was remembering Dutch there.