Oct 31, 2022 — True! — agitated — very, very dreadfully agitated I had been and am; but will you say that I am mad, if you could see, hear, and feel the things I have experienced? I cannot say that I have met anyone who is as mechanically inclined as I, with the ability to truly see beyond the machine, and comprehend that the motorcycle is a living organism, the electrical components — its nervous system; the engine — its heart. Hearken! And observe how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it began to take hold of me. Forsooth, the neurotic obsession paid me frequent visit even in slumber! I loved the old Harley. It never failed me on the road, and continued to run well given my attentive, meticulous nature. I had no desire to sell; paradoxically, I cared for the machine as a physician their patient, and as a son comforting a father approaching the winter of his life.
I think it was its exhaust. Yes, it was this! The sound emitted by this ghastly contraption resembled that of an echo out of the depths of Hell. Whenever I would start the engine, my blood would run cold, the roar striking me as if with Medusa’s gaze, momentarily confining my body in a stone prison. Modifications made no difference, this was a sound that came not from the muffler, but from the beating heart of the engine itself. And so, I made up my mind to put this sinister steed to rest, thus ridding myself of its tormenting symphony.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight I went to work! I was never more attentive and caring for the old Harley than during the week before I killed it. I cleaned out the carburetors, replaced the stator; I even installed heated grips and a new Mustang seat — the latter of which I was not too thrilled about, but that is another story.
Every night at midnight, I slowly opened the door leading to the garage — oh, so gently! I took great care in not disturbing the slumbering two-wheeled creature. And what care I took in my approach; I could navigate this room blind and still locate all my tools. The scheme was simple: every night I would descend here, and quietly take apart the machine. But if it awoke to missing parts, it would quickly grow suspicious of my nocturne dealings. No madman is this cunning, I tell you; I thought this through with great precision. I knew I would have to loosen the bolts in advance — while keeping the rest intact — to make the murder as swift and unexpected as possible. Night after night, I would weaken the beast, and on the morrow, I would greet it with such bolstering enthusiasm, inquiring how it passed the night. So you see, it would have been a very profound machine, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I worked on it while it slept.
This is no inanimate object, I say; its will is its own, and every moment I extended my nighttime visits by yet another day, I ran the risk of being found out. The consequences would surely have meant my demise: an old engine — especially a 74-cubic inch OHV — that knows it is being put down, that the Harley boom is over, will roar even more violently... And I feared I would become one of those pitiful, lost souls in the underworld without toll to pay the ferryman.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers — of my sagacity. I could not help but chuckle a little… Suddenly, the low beams flickered. They were pointing to a direction opposite my own, though I did not dare move a muscle. I stood like this for some time, and pondered how, after this cold night, I would never again feel the effects of this stony stance. I could not contain my delight, it was overcoming me, and the sentient machine before me grew nervous. I heard a faint clicking from the alternator — the low, stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when it knows danger is imminent. Though it could have been trying to justify this rationally — “Tis nothing but the wind, or a mouse scavenging for its supper,” it might have said to itself. All the while I remained still, ready to pass judgement.
There would indeed be justice on this night. For all the wrongs the infernal combustive clanking had caused me, for all the haunting nightmares I could not shake off. Death itself lay before this bygone piece of scrap metal, and it sensed it. A faint beating could now be heard, coming from within the engine. And it grew louder, louder! The engine began to combust, though poorly as I had siphoned out most of the fuel. Yet a new anxiety took hold of me — I feared the sound could be heard by my neighbours! The old Harley’s hour had come!
Before it could seize the opportunity to torment me a final time, with its odious reverberation cleverly masked by all the chrome, I leapt on it with purpose. Our last ride would be one straight to the bottom of the river Styx. I was able to get to the engine block in little time, given my preparation, and I successfully extracted the beating heart, the very soul of this engine, positioned in the cylinder head above the combustion chamber. This is known to most as the Camshaft, and it had spun its final revolution. There was no pulsation; the motorcycle was stone dead. Its noise would trouble me nevermore.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment and disposal of the parts. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all, I dismembered the frame. I cut off the cylinder head and the handlebars and the tailpipe. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I replaced these planks in a manner that was undetectable to the human eye. There was nothing to wash away, not even an oil stain left on the floor!
When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o’clock — still dark as midnight. Suddenly, there came a knocking at the front door. What had I to fear? This was the perfect crime, and the evidence could never be dug up unknowingly. As I peered outside my door, there stood one of my neighbours, clearly alarmed by some of the commotion he heard coming from the garage.
“I know the sound of a difficult Harley,” he said. I explained that I was fiddling around with some parts, but that I lent the bike to a friend. Curious, he inquired if he could have a look at what I was working on. Luckily, I was rebuilding an all-together different engine in the same room, so I enthusiastically invited him in. I brought some chairs into the room, and I even placed my seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the bits and pieces of my victim.
My friend was satisfied. He cheerily commended me on the fine work I put in, but as he was speaking, I felt myself growing pale and wished him gone. There was ringing in my ears, becoming more and more distinct. I spoke over it, wishing it would pass, and I realized: it was not coming from within my ears at all! Yet this tragically pleasant and suburban neighbour had not even noticed!
The sound kept increasing in volume. I did not know what to do. The sound was similar to a ticking or a clicking — nay, a beating! In fact, it almost sounded identical to a stuck valve or a loose cam chain. I continued to speak, but the noise increased. I laughed and spoke louder, but the noise steadily increased. It was coming from below! What was this! Oh God! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise rose over all to a deafening crescendo. Louder — louder — louder! And still, my neighbour was lost in thought, chatting about his latest project bike. Does he know what I’ve done? I thought. Can he be taunting me, mocking my hubris? Oh, he knew! I was playing my part perfectly; I was making a spectacle for his entertainment!
Anything but this agony, release me! I felt that I must scream or die! “Villain!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of my hideous Harley!”
