Misunderstood and often overlooked, Harley’s Ironhead Sportster has always been one of the Motor Company’s underdog engines. While there’s some truth in its reputation, there’s a lot to like about the old Ironhead if it’s the golden age of choppers that trips your trigger. The iron lump has cooling fins in spades, quintessential Shovel-esque rocker boxes and the same leaky, implement-grade character as its Big Twin stablemates. And it helps that Ironheads, at least for now, haven’t been hit quite as hard by the chopper tax, making them one of the last honest entry points into vintage Harley-Davidson ownership.
That outsider status is precisely what drew Aaron Perera in. He wasn’t shopping for the easiest Harley to live with, and breaking the bank on a Shovel wasn’t in the cards, especially since Aaron hails from the UK. The appeal came from the challenge—the opportunity to counter perceptions of the Ironhead Sporty’s reliability—and craft the perfect low-slung ’60s chopper of his dreams.
Aaron’s mechanical instincts were shaped long before Harleys entered the picture. Growing up, weekends were spent on the driveway with his late father, fettling old Volkswagens and learning the basics. Motorcycles were always part of his life, too, starting with dirt bikes, then mopeds and 125s. Later, with a young family and limited funds, practicality steered him toward a Kawasaki VN800. It scratched the riding itch, but it didn’t linger in the imagination.
That itch returned not long after the cruiser was sold. An Evo chopper project came and went when it didn’t quite hit the mark. “It just didn’t have the character I was looking for,” Aaron admits. So he sold the Evo, bought a welder, and began looking for something older, rawer and more demanding.
The right bike surfaced at Heron Cycles in Stowmarket, a small specialist workshop roughly an hour from Aaron’s home. Jay at Heron had a 1972 XLH for sale—largely stock, running well enough and wearing all the quirks that make Ironheads divisive. Right-side shift, left-side brake and breathing through a knock-off Super E carb. At first, Aaron hesitated, but when he learned another buyer was circling, hesitation gave way to instinct. The deal was done, and the Sportster was his.
For nearly a year, Aaron rode the XLH as he found it, using that time to understand the bike on its own terms. Slowly and inevitably, the urge to cut into it grew too strong to ignore. But rather than hacking up a clean original, Aaron took a more considered approach—setting the stock frame aside and sourcing a rough donor chassis from Ireland that could be reshaped without regret. That frame would eventually find its way back to Heron Cycles, where Jay would help translate Aaron’s vision into steel.
And that vision was clear from the outset: short, compact and low. Nothing excessive. Just a tight, sixties-inflected Sportster chopper that looked like it knew exactly what it was.
Armed with Aaron’s reference photos, Jay fabricated a hardtail from scratch, incorporating a subtle two-inch stretch. The rest of the build came together through careful choices and creative budgeting. A chrome, OE-style 20-inch springer fork immediately sets the tone of the build, speckled with just enough corrosion to show it’s been around the block. It’s topped with a pair of aluminum risers and Stay Wild’s Monterey handlebars.
The peanut tank is a familiar Sportster motif, but it’s the area behind the rear cylinder where this bike really shows its maturity. Aaron mocked up the oil tank in cardboard before Jay fabricated the final piece. Perfectly filling out the rear triangle, Aaron avoided one of the most common pitfalls in the hardtail Sporty game.
The custom sissy bar is also Jay’s handywork, supporting a Lowbrow Stingray fender and a tuck-and-roll Cobra seat from Bangkok’s YA.SEAT.CUSTOM. Aaron then sourced a 21-inch spool wheel for the front and an 18-inch to match out back—both shod in classic Avon rubber. This attention to detail led not only to a balanced silhouette, but also locked in the ’60s chopper flavor Aaron lusted after.
Mechanically, the V-twin remains refreshingly straightforward to accomplish Aaron’s goal of a perfectly reliable old Ironhead. It’s largely stock, with the addition of hotter P cams and a Mikuni 38 mm carb feeding through a velocity stack. Ignition is handled by a Dyna S, while Paughco shotgun pipes deliver a raw, unsilenced soundtrack that suits the bike’s old-school character.
Aaron handled the paint himself, laying down rattle-can gloss black in a garden shed. It’s a nod to the skills he learned years earlier working alongside his dad, and it suits the bike’s ethos perfectly. The finish isn’t precious, but it’s honest—and easy to live with on the road.
That mindset was tested on a European trip with friends, when the Sportster’s generator failed in Amsterdam. With no local contacts and a dwindling battery, Aaron turned to social media. Within minutes, Joris from In-N-Out Classics responded, inviting him to the workshop just twenty minutes away. A Cycle Electric generator was installed on the spot, and payment was politely refused. All Joris asked was that the original unit be sent back once Aaron returned home.
Back in the UK, the electrical system was fully upgraded with a Gremlin Wiring kit, electronic ignition and a Cycle Electric generator of his own. The transformation was immediate. Starting became effortless, reliability improved dramatically and the Ironhead settled into its role as a genuine long-distance machine. Since then, it’s covered serious ground—through Holland, Belgium, France and Scotland’s NC500—with every mile adding hard-earned patina here and there.
Aaron talks about the bike with the kind of affection that only comes from shared miles and solved problems. He loves the oil leaks, the rattles and the way the engine sounds like an old sewing machine at idle. Plans are already in place for a trip to Sweden, and he’s confident the Sportster will rise to the occasion.
There’s occasional talk of moving on to a Shovelhead, but Aaron isn’t convinced it would offer anything this bike doesn’t already deliver. “I’d only build the same bike with a Shovel motor,” he says. “So what’s the point?”
Looking at this Ironhead, it’s hard to argue. Some motorcycles don’t need upgrading or replacing. They just need to be understood—and left alone once they get it right.
Images by, and with our everlasting gratitude to, Del Hickey
