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Off the Chain
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Big Dog Bulldog
David Morris
08/01/2007
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Photography by Cordero Studios/corderostudios.com
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As for Carl Morrow’s establishment, it mirrors the
matter-of-fact reverence for motorcycling that is omnipresent in Daytona Beach.
In sharp contrast to the all-American retro-style signage that marks the spot,
the building is fronted by a waterfall that would not be out of place in a
Japanese garden. Housing showroom and shop, the edifice radiates an unaffected,
elegant simplicity, like the man who built it.
 Morrow is a legend among motorcycle tuners, with a reputation
built over 40 years of performance engineering and a client list that has
included Ed "Big Daddy" Roth, bad boy builder Jesse James, Evel Knievel, and the
Sultan of Malaysia. Morrow has ridden more than his share of runs on the
Bonneville Salt Flats at close to twice the ton. His array of patents and
innovations has earned him guru status among the cornucopia of Harley-Davidson
aftermarket fabricators. Morrow’s Typhoon carburetor, Ram Air kit, special grind
cams and gear drive kits have powered the pride of Milwaukee to
record-shattering heights. His trophies and photos populate the pinewood panels
of his impeccably manicured showroom. But like most exceptional individuals,
Morrow speaks softly and with self-deprecation. (Click image to enlarge)
Morrow confirms that the Big Dog is as high style and cutting
edge as it purports to be. "We looked long and hard at this product before we
made the decision to become a dealer," he says. "We’ve made the commitment to
representing them exclusively because, well, the quality speaks for itself." A
walk-around confirms that affirmation. "Look closely. See just how much billet
aluminum is used to make this bike. These braided steel brake lines with a
special coating. The precision of the joins and welds. Big Dog pays attention to
all the little details."
Lined up alongside each other, the children of Sheldon Coleman
Jr. are
a gleaming invitation to explore the beast within. All powered by the
esteemed overhead valve, 1900+ cubic centimeter, 45-degree V-twin motor
from
S&S, the current quintet of Big Dogs—K-9, Mastiff, Pit Bull,
Chopper and
Bulldog—are defined by subtle distinctions. They weigh in
around 700 pounds; all
feature Baker six-speed transmissions,
electronic single-fire ignition, primary
chain drive and belt final
drive. Four-piston calipers, front and rear, promise
secure stopping.
Except for the rigid Pit Bull, a hidden shock rear suspension
mitigates
the effects of less-than-agreeable pavement. The fat 300 rear tire
runs
across the range, with the Chopper being the exception. The Bulldog
distinguishes itself with its 56mm inverted front suspension, whereas
the rest
of the family employs 41mm telescopic forks.
 Attention to detail, in conjunction
with a sense of style that is as refined as it is muscular, gives Big Dog
motorcycles their distinctive appeal. (Click image to enlarge)
With a 77-inch wheelbase and a length of over eight-and-a-half
feet, I contemplate, with a mixture of excitement and reserve, the prospect of
experiencing this handsome animal out on the road. Here in the epicenter of the
motorcycle universe, where rebels and racers have woven their one-upmanship into
the tapestry of Daytona’s biker history, I imagine myself aboard the Bulldog,
strutting with the best of them. Morrow makes the offer I dare not solicit.
"Come by tomorrow," he beckons. "We’ll take her out. And you can see for
yourself."
The morning of our ride has come. The master is astride his own
hand-built one-off, a massaged H-D whose mojo has been awakened by Morrow’s
magic. The Bulldog poses for me, waiting. The boys at Carl’s Speed Shop have
started up the 117 cu in V-twin mill, and it emits a low, steady growl. My soles
crunch the fine shale of the driveway as I approach, and my soul is singing the
outlaw beat of a highway hymn. My adrenalin pump is in overdrive. In my mind—or
is this all a lucid dream?—I see the shadow of an angel sitting on the tail of
the beast, a blonde vision in denim and leather, a down-home gal whose blood is
as hot as she is cool. It is my male ego inventing her of course, I know, and it
is the Bulldog’s karma soaking into my ethereal self. There’s some right
powerful juju in this bike, and I haven’t even ridden it yet.
I swing into the saddle of "my" Big Dog and the fantasy merges
with reality. My angel is nesting herself behind me, her slim frame fused to
mine as she coos, "Hey baby, this dog is soooo bad." My right wrist flicks, the
accelerator twists, and the S&S engine barks like a thousand whips cracking.
I am a meteor sling-shot down a flaming road, windblown, muscles flexed,
screaming out my glee like one of the Divine Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
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