Knuckle Down. The Road of Persistence.

In 1936, Harley-Davidson unveiled the Knucklehead, named for its distinctive engine rocker covers that resembled a clenched fist.

The final production run in 1947 marked the end of its era before the advent of the Panhead, so the ‘47 Knucklehead stands as the ultimate emblem of post-war American resilience, freedom, and innovation.

This bike, with its pioneering 61 cubic inch overhead valve V-twin engine, and iconic Springer front end, transcends the physical, embracing Robert M. Pirsig's concept of Quality; the subjective, emotional value beyond the tangible. It signifies a deeper connection, an embrace of the harmony between metal, rubber, oil, and open road, inviting its rider to become a part of the historical spirit of a rolling masterpiece.

The 1947 Knucklehead isn't just a motorcycle.

It’s a symbol of the human capacity to create; not just with the hands of Union labour on American soil, but with the heart, a touchstone for understanding the world around us, and with that, ourselves.

It is important to understand this context because the rest of this story is built in that frame.

The soul of my first ride is that 1947 Harley-Davidson Knucklehead, a machine with a history as rich as its deep-throated, asphalt-shaking growl.

Back in '89, I bought my Knuckle from an outlaw biker in Phoenix, an experience as much an interrogation as a transaction. He made sure I was worthy of this slice of Americana, this artefact of steel heritage.

He wanted to be sure she would be ‘mine’, that I understood her, that I wasn’t just buying her to flip in some trade down the road.

I shipped her back with me to England, where she served me well. Roaring and resolute, thunderous and tenacious, her rumble of defiance echoing through the streets of South East London.

Just like any lady of her stature, she had her eccentricities. She was always stubborn about starting and stopping (those drum brakes), and she had a thing for leaking oil.

But as my bike mechanic used to say, 'That bike doesn't leak oil... she's marking her spot.'

I loved her.

But, in 1997, an inglorious fall from grace on my Ducati Monster left me with severed nerves to my left arm. A diesel slick, a measly 20 mph tumble, a slide, and a hard introduction to a lamp-post.

No audience. No heroics. No valour. Just ugly.

Suspended in the dreamy fog of hospital-grade morphine, I vowed to rebuild my Knucklehead. She deserved it. She was past due, and I ached to resurrect her with a little modern finesse; Disc brakes, electric start, hydraulic forward controls, suspension, an S&S Carb, a full engine rebuild... all aiming to meld the spirit of her vintage past with modern functionality.

I entrusted her restoration to another outlaw biker I knew, Big Mick, confident he would bring her back to life, reincarnate her as a stunning retro classic custom.

In the aftermath of hospital, as the pink world of morphine faded, my calls to Mick echoed in silence.

First daily, then weekly, and eventually monthly, the unanswered calls piled up, carving out a hollow pit inside me. Gutted, I thought I’d lost my steed, vanished into the ether of other lost and forgotten things.

But, like a relentless engine, my resolve didn't waver. Every year, on the 22nd of May, my diary reminded me: 'Call Mick'.

And call him, I did.

Religiously.

Every. Single. Year.

Met with the same unchanging silence.

Then, after 15 years of this echoing nothingness, my phone rang.

It was Mick. His call was like an unexpected jolt from a pothole in the road, a sudden shockwave from a past long dormant.

We met. He was still the bear of a man I remembered: burly, with a code of honour etched beneath layers of questionable politics and dubious tattoos. A blue-eyed symbol of grit and resilience, a paragon of the outlaw spirit.

He filled me in on the twists and turns of his trail, sharing where he'd been: He'd found himself on a compulsory sabbatical, 'inside', at the behest of Her Majesty, tangled up in some biker gang homicide.

Newly released, he had found my archived messages (a testament to the steadfast reliability of those vintage answering machines).

His question was simple, "You still up for finishing the project?"

My reply was immediate, "Yes… Sir!"

So, it was an honest man, having served his time, who presented me with the reincarnation of Harley's most exquisite mechanical beast. The rumble of her engine loud as the laughter of God, a beacon of renewal and timeless elegance in a world too often enamoured with the transient and superficial.

An impossible Lazarus-like tale of persistence. My loyal Iron Horse, reincarnated.

And the lesson?

Stay. True. What you are seeking is seeking you.

Too Bad You’re Gonna Die.

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? BJ Cunningham C/O DEATH? Cigarettes