In my younger days I could cradle a V-twin between my arms and place it inside a frame as a Shaolin Priest burns dragons and tigers into the flesh of his forearms in a ritual act of Kung Fu manhood.
But now, old enough to remember the bare-footed Chinaman who finally tamed the Wild West in the mid Seventies with vicious strikes and whirling leg sweeps, a bag of herbs and a wooden flute, my strength has diminished slightly. I now use a series of cables, pulleys and an old boat winch to hoist the V-twin into the much-maligned frame.
Looks like things should bolt-up pretty well.
The fact that a man, so filled with transcendental self-awareness and inner peace, should be found dead in a Motel 6 laundry room under a pile of dirty towels and pillow cases from autoerotic self -asphyxiation, causes Master Po and The Buddha to openly weep.