The Clutch And The Redhead

I knew instantly what it was when the clutch cable snapped coming out of the campground at Devil’s Tower, Wyoming.

“Goddamn it!”

“What’s the matter,” Red asked, tightening her hold on me as the bike bucked and stalled.

“Clutch cable...broken,” I yelled, as I stabbed at the pavement with both feet, trying to keep the bike upright and nearly breaking an ankle in the process.

“Goddamn it all to hell!” I was instantly furious, mainly at myself.

I managed to get the big bike far enough off the road, and put down the kickstand. We got off and removed our helmets. All around us, the crystal morning air of the Belle Fourche valley was still and silent, a sweet morning breeze barely stirring. The Tower, bathed in early light, stood sentinel tall and regal. No cars moved on the smooth two-lane highway.

“Is it bad?” Red asked softly.

“It’s not good.... I left the spare cable at home. In the bike stuff closet. Stupid idiot that I am! We can’t make the Wing go without it.... at least, I don’t think we can......”

“Can’t we buy one?” She asked.

“Look around you, Babe,” I was dangerously close to getting angry at her, too. I swept my hand in a wide arc. “There probably isn’t another clutch cable for a 1981 Honda Goldwing Interstate within 1500 miles! None! Not in any direction you’d care to look! Let alone the fact that it’s 0630 on a Sunday morning.......!”

She said nothing.

After an uncomfortable silence, I said, “look... the road’s slightly downhill here. I’ll put it in neutral if I can, get it started, and then roll down this hill and jam it in first. Maybe I can shift it without the clutch.”

Sweating profusely, we got the heavy bike rolling fast enough to not stall when I jammed it into gear, but I couldn’t seem to up shift using the lever and revs only. The transmission screamed in protest. Finally, the bike bucked and stalled again. After a moment, Red walked up to me as I leaned glumly against the bike.

“No go, huh,” she asked.

“Nope.”

She looked around. “What now?” She asked.

“Now nothing! We’re done! Finito!” I was in a rage. “Get your stuff off and we’ll start walking.”

But she didn’t, and we stood there for some time.

Then she looked at me, and said very carefully, “is there something we could do with the old cable?”

“No! Damn it!”

But then I took another look. The old cable lay coiled and jammed in the frame. I straightened it out. And then I had the first glimmer of hope....

“You know what.....? Maybe I could make a loop out of it and pull it up with my hand!”

I made a hand loop, but the thin cable bit into my palm, so I fumbled around through our tools, pulled out our tubular sparkplug socket, and retied the loop through it.

“A handle, huh?” Red said.

“Yup”

But I didn’t have the strength to pull in the clutch while seated on the bike.

“It won’t work,” I said. “Takes too much strength!”

“Maybe I could do it from the back,” she said, smiling at me.

I looked at the clutch arm linkage coming out of the engine case. She would have a direct upward pull. “Well, damn, “ I said. “Do you think you could?”

She grinned at me.

We started the bike. I yelled to her.. “Pull it in!”

“Got it, “ she yelled, and I tapped it easily into first, “Let her out slowly!” She did, and the heavy bike moved almost smoothly out onto the highway. “Now the real test,” I said. “In, again!”

“Got it,” she relayed, and, with my heart in my throat, I shifted into second. “Okay,” I breathed, “Let her out!” The bike went into second gear just like always. Within miles, we were riding as smoothly as if the clutch cable had never snapped.

“It’s gonna work!”

“Yippee,” Red yelled.

And that’s how we came home, 1700 miles -- over the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming, over Beartooth Pass in the Montana Rockies, through the Bitterroots of Idaho, through some of the best mountain scenery in America -- with my slender wife hanging on to her improvised block and tackle on the backseat, never complaining, always smiling. Once in awhile, on a rest break, I’d catch her massaging her aching hand. We stopped at three Honda shops, but none had our cable, and it would always take at least three days to get one in. We knew we could be home in three days.

Once, at Lolo Hot Springs in Idaho, I watched her sleep in the morning light filtering through the tent fabric, the gentle sun warming her smooth freckled cheek, and I marveled how so much strength could be packaged so delicately .

She stirred, and opened her eyes....... “Coffee ready,” she asked, yawning.

“I never deserve you,” I said.

“Oh, there you go,” she said, smiling. “You’re being silly again.... what about the coffee?”