The Beauty and the Beast - Part 1

By Mal Thompson

It was still over eighty degrees and raining. The forcast was for rain all the way home. My brother, Jim, and I had talked a trucker into letting us ride "suction" behind his rig so that the rain wouldn't sting our faces so badly. He had agreed to tap his brake lights twice before slowing so that we wouldn't cream the back of his trailer. It was already dark as we left the city lights of Fort Worth for our home in San Antonio. We didn't relish this 270 mile trip in the rain, at night, but god we were happy! we were riding our two brand new Vincent Black Shadows! Thanks to our father for financing the bank note, Jim had traded in his Ariel square four and I my Harley "45" at Gene [actually George --ed] Fasig's Indian shop for the "Worlds fastest standard motorcycles." It was May fifth, 1953. Jim was twenty three, I was seventeen.

Now, it's thirty seven years later. Mother and Father are gone. Jim died over a year ago, and I am that much older. Today, as I ride that same machine (rebuilt to it's old glory), on those same Texas roads, I think about all those years in-between. The years of drag racing, the over three hundred trophies we won, and the pact that Jim and I had made to store the bikes forever, or until they were worth something (whichever came first). The reason for this pact was that our Father had two 1942 Packard automobiles that he sold for junk some years later because it was difficult to get spare parts for them. when Vincent closed it's doors in '56, Jim and I knew that the value of our bikes would go nowhere but up, and we didn't want to make the Packard mistake. Hence, the reason for keeping them in storage for over twenty five years.

You MPH readers know the basic story about the theft and recovery of these bikes; so I won't go into that, except for expressing my heartfelt thanks! First to my wife, Jody, for buying a TV guide with Jay Leno's photo in it with his arm around the rear wheel of a Shadow (I dropped Jay a line telling him about the theft); second, to Jay for calling me and giving me some names and phone numbers of people he thought may be able to help find them; to Dave Rosenfield (one of the names Jay gave me) for suggesting MPH and giving me John Webber's number; to John and MPH for printing the story; to the reader in Houston who called me and told me where they were; and finally, to Union Cycle Salvage who, when they found out that the bikes were in fact stolen, accepted the loss and turned them over without a squabble.

I glance down at the speedometer as I crack the throttle, and it jumps past sixty. Sixty eight rings a bell in my mind, and I remember. There used to be a tac there--we had the red line at sixty eight hundred. The tac is gone now. So is the smell of nitro and burning rubber, and the engine drones quietly instead of the ear-splitting-stacatto of the tuned two inch pipes. We never won any money in those days. They didn't give any--just cheap trophies. We did it just for the fun of it. The best time for this bike was 145 in 8.9 seconds. But this speed, and all those shelves of trophies that Jim and I had, would never have been possible without the genius of our Father, William Clifton Thompson.

Dad was born in San Antonio, Texas and, as a teenager, was really into bicycle racing. "Bullet Bill" They called him. when motorcycles were invented, he had one of the first. I thought he told me it was an Excelcior, but I am now told by the experts who have seen the photograph of him on that bike, that it was actually a 1913 Jefferson. Anyway, it must have been around, or just after, 1913 that he made the first motorized trip from San Antonio to Corpus Christi, Texas on it. A distance of over 150 miles down dirt trails. His life-long friend, Otto Leoloff, was a couple of days out front in a horse drawn buggy depositing cans of gasoline along the intended route. Dad missed a couple of the pickup points and ran out of gas. He tried to borrow some from a local farmer, who of course, in those days, had none. He did, however, have some "white lightning" corn squeezings that he claimed really burned when you put a match to it. Dad figured, "What the heck" and poured it in the tank. Much to his surprise, the engine fired up, ran cooler, quieter, and with much more power. Eureka! The first use of alcohol in an internal combustion engine! Returning from his trip, Dad wrote the science department of the University of Texas and asked if anything other than gasoline could be used in an internal combustion engine (not telling them about his discovery). Their answer was classic. Dad framed their letter and hung it on the wall. Briefly, they said that in no way could anything other than gasoline ever be used. They even went into all the scientific reasons as to why their statement was true. Dad never trusted universities or their professors again. He used to tell Jim and me, "They will only teach you why it can't be done--not how to do it." Then he would add, "Use your imagination, that's the only way that man ever gets anywhere." A little while later, armed with his knowledge of the use of alcohol, Dad got a job with the Indian Motorcycle company as the pit manager for their racing team. Indian's primary rider in those days was a young man named Don Johns. Don subsequently became five times world champion quarter mile dirt track rider. What no one knew, except Dad and Don, was that while everyone else was at about four to one on gasoline, they were at seven to one, burning alcohol! Dad said that Don's riding wasn't really all that great--but, his bike was.

When the "war to end all wars" broke out, Dad was assigned to the US Army Signal Core as (you guessed it) a motorcycle rider. A message courier--back and forth to the front lines. The war ended, and Dad remained in France bicycle racing until they refused to re-new his visa. By this time, he had earned seventeen worlds bicycle records and was the first American to compete in the Tour-de-France. Dad really loved Europe and wasn't ready to return to the States. He moved to England around 1919 and got a job in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne as the works manager for the NUT Motorcycle Company. Here, he either designed or helped design the final NUT engine. Dad was now playing with sidecar racing. He met a young girl named Winifred Ann Simeson from Byker, Newcastle who was (I was told) the first female sidecar racing passenger. Dad accepted her as a team-mate. One thing led to another and they married. The NUT Company folded, Dad became a market gardener, Jim and I were born, and we still lived in Newcastle.

Woha! As I drop the anchors, a little to the left as I pass an elderly gentleman farmer in a pick-up truck doing about twenty. This is just one of the hazards of riding the south Texas country roads. Along with rattlesnakes and armadillos crossing the road, white tail deer and other "critters" as we call them, keep jumping out in front of you! Rolling the throttle back in, I remember those days back in Newcastle. I was about four. We were living at #11 Ancrum street in Spittle-Toungs. One night, the ball I was playing with rolled under the living room couch. I went looking for it with a lit candle! The next thing I knew was my father holding me out in the street as we watched the house burn down. I have always felt sorry about that, as all of Dad's bicycle trophies went up with the house. But, I don't feel sorry for the next stunt I pulled. We had moved around the block to #6 BellGrove terrace. There, I managed to blow up the stove when I was about ten. I was "cooking" gunpowder--for fireworks--for Guy Faulks day. The reason I don't feel sorry is that Dad taught me how to make gunpowder in the first place! I remember him coming home that night (mom hadn't said much since the big "boom" and the stove door bouncing off the wall). He was riding his NUT motorcycle with the flat board sidecar on it that he used to deliyer his produce with (Dad never drove a car--always either a bicycle or a motorcycle). He gave me a whipping that night. Not for blowing up the stove, but for not working as a team! I was allowed to make gunpowder, but not without him or my brother being with me. I learned from that--teamwork! Along with gunpowder, he taught me the science of chemistry, the logic of mathamatics, the pleasure of reading, and later, how nitro-methane burns holes in pistons.

In 1946, Dad took all of us to America and his old home of San Antonio. There, he set up a bicycle shop for selling british bicycles. That idea didn't go over too well as Americans didn't want the "skinny tired" English bikes back then. This was the classic case of being thirty years too early with the perfect idea! He converted the shop into a machine shop and foundry which he and my brother operated. I helped out best I could. Jim and I were pretty good riders in those days. Jim started out with an Indian Scout at sixteen, and I, at fourteen, on the Harley "45". Dad pulled the same thing on both of us before we could get our license. He took us out to Otto Leoloff's farm and made us ride on a cow pasture until we spilled. Our instructions were to learn how to fall. The bike was supposed to go off at one angle while we turned loose, tucked, and rolled off at a different angle. After ten or twelve spills done to his satisfaction, he'd give us his standard lecture on how they have never built a motorcycle the size of a truck, and how automobile drivers tend not to see anything smaller than a truck. Also, when the crash is inevitable, don't panic, just pick the softest spot--just aft of the front wheel. This way, he said, the bike will tend to imbed its-self--you turn loose, tuck, and go over the car. After these lectures (and a few more) we were then allowed to pick up our bent bikes and bruised bodies (both now thoroughly covered in cow s--t) and head back to the shop. Now, we had to learn how to tear down, to the last nut and bolt, and re-build our motorcycle. And, that included the engine. This also had to be done before we could get our license. He said that we had to learn to appreciate our equipment if we wanted it to last. He also used to say, "If it will come apart, you can learn how to fix it. Use your head. If it won't come apart, buy a new one." I remember, a few years later, while I was replacing the front forks on my "45", I had only a few bruises--his advice about the "soft spot" worked! He also had us do what we thought was really stupid. He made us wear helmets! Nobody wore helmets in Texas in those days. The other riders made fun of us! But, we survived. A lot of them didn't. Let me not forget about Mom here. She made her contribution to our safety (also before we could get our license). Her exact words to me were, "Malcolm, I just want you to know one thing before you take your test. You have to have eyes in your ass to survive on a motorcycle." I have never forgotten her making that statement. I transferred it to my twenty eight years of flying fighters. We changed it slightly into "check six", and another analogy "situational awareness". I think about this as I leave the country road and jump up onto the interstate heading for San Antonio. I "check six" as I accelerate, and here comes a Corvette--doing about eighty! He zooms by me and I can't resist. I take in a handful of throttle and the tank raises as the rear wheel tries to close on the front. The rear of that Corvette comes up fast. I zip past him, then back it off to sixty five--the limit. He comes up alongside with an amazed look on his face. I'll bet he is wondering, "Just what is that black thing?" I think, "That was nothing, back in '57 this beast really screamed!"

The steel rear fender with it's small seat pad would hit you in the butt bone with a four "G" acceleration as the four point five Dunlop tire with it's five inch gum rubber slick bit into the blacktop. The James Tennant-Eyles rebuilt tank that I'm looking at now wasn't there then. Just two, two inch pipes mounted either side of the oil tank held the fuel. There was a little chest pad strapped across the fuel pipes and the foot pegs and gear shift were aft of the rear axle. It only had one brake, the right front. we were geared for 150 at 6800 RPM in fourth gear, but tire slippage (on the drag strip, not on the rim) kept us usually around the mid 130's. We had enough power for take off in third and with the exception of a split second during the shift, blue smoke came from the rear tire right through the traps. Dad said that the reason for using fourth gear (instead of other combinations) was that the drive train absorbed less power that way. Okay--We never questioned what Dad said. He also had us go to at least 7200 before the shift, he said we would loose too much power in the lower RPM's in fourth if we didn't. He said that this engine had to stay at high RPM's in order to get anywhere. Okay, but we envisioned getting somewhere. Getting spread all over the strip when the rods and flywheels came apart! He said they wouldn't, and they didn't. He also had us mix the fuel not sooner than five minutes before the run. Okay--we never ques... you know the line. Aha! The fuel! Jim loved this part! I remember it well. It was 60% nitromethane, 39% alcohol and one percent ether. Dad said the ether was a retarder, whatever that means. Jim would mix the fuel in one beaker while saving a couple of ounces in the alcohol beaker. Dad would only let us use--guess what--200 proof drinking alcohol! Why? we didn't know, but we never ques... Jim would pour the mixed fuel in the tube tanks, then, with the always present crowd standing around watching, he would look at the small amount left in the other beaker and say, "What the hell", and drink it. Usually a couple of girls in the crowd just abut passed out thinking that Jim was going to die and the Harley drivers, always in the back of the crowd, were hoping Jim would die! Jim would then climb on the Lightning on it's drop-off stand and I would back the Shadow to it on it's stand. We would "butt-start" it tire to tire. But not sooner than about forty seconds before the run. Another one of Dad's rules--something about engine temperature. Oh yes, also before the first run of the day, we had to heat three quarts of oil until it was smoking, then put it back in the tank before starting. After engine start, the RPM had to be kept above three thousand or the platinum plugs would foul. We would taxi to the line about thirty seconds prior to when we thought the flag would drop. I say "we" because I got to ride it sometimes, but usually I rode Jim's bike, the street Shadow. The whole run from engine start to coasting down the return strip would last less than a minute. Dad never came to the drag races. He was quite happy working at the shop and waiting for us to return with our trophies. He was always there for the front end and head removal. He insisted on a teardown inspection of at least the pistons after every Sundays day of racing on the nitro-burner. Jim's bike, the gas burner, got inspected after every four or five weeks--depending on how hard I had ran it. But, as I drone down the highway, even I'm getting confused. I'm thinking that maybe I had better explain just which bike is which, how they got that way and just what else Dad contributed to this endeavor.

By 1954, Jim had become a fairly good mechanic. I was mediocre in this respect, as I was totally involved with fulfilling my dream of becoming a fighter pilot. My years in England during the war watching the Spitfire pilots fly had me hooked! In 1955, I was accepted into the Aviation Cadet Core to fulfill my dream. One problem however--the Core had a rule, among many other rules, a cadet could not ride, or even own a motorcycle! Well, I had to have a car and couldn't afford the down payment. But, I owned a Vincent. I made a deal with Jim. I would trade in my Vincent on a car, and Jim would go down the next day and buy the bike back for a much lesser down payment (used car lots didn't like bikes). This way, I got my car, Jim kept the bike in the family, and we were both in debt. Well, I went off to pilot training. Jim had his bike (8716) and my bike (8714) and, while I was gone, he bought a 51 Shadow (5769) from Bobby Harper--the only other Vincent owner in San Antonio at that time. It seems that Bobby had arguments with cars on two different occasions and decided that motorcycle riding was not for him! Now, with three of the worlds fastest motorcycles, and drag racing becoming popular, Jim started talking to Dad. Dad agreed. We all know 8714 was never a true Lightning, but with Dad's mods, it was close enough for us. What Dad did was to design the mods for both bikes. Jim did the work (that's why he got dibs on riding the Lightning). I didn't even know about the re-building until I got back from pilot training in the fall of '56. The Lightning was now sporting 13 & 1/2 to one with two front heads (one from 5769) ported out to 1 & 3/8's with TT carbs, Mark two cams, and the aforementioned two inch pipes. The rear frame was solid with the shock and springs removed Two steel rods were in their place. All unnecessary weight had been removed. Even the front brake drum was turned almag with an iron sleeve pressed in it.

Dad had built a dynamometer out of an automatic auto transmission. It didn't measure horsepower, but it did give a reading of max total power. This is how Dad got the best balance of fuel mixture versus carb settings and tuned the pipes. Everything in both engines was polished and balanced. I didn't know that they did this to both bikes until I sold Jim's bike to Ken Gross a few months ago. That is when Charlie Taylor, his mechanic, discovered that the Shadow had nine to one pistons, MK II cams, an Alpha big end, and that all internal parts had not only been polished, but the cam followers and push rods had been balanced to exactly the same weight. This brings me to a very emotional point in this story.

When, thanks to you VOC members, I recovered the bikes, wait, I have to stop here and mention something. Living down here in south Texas among the cactus plants, Jim and I were out of touch with the rest of the world. We had never heard of a Vincent owners club! If we had of, we would have been members from the time we bought the bikes. It wasn't until I talked to Dave Rosenfield last year that I found out about it. Now, I can say thanks to you "other" VOC members. Anyway, after recovering these bikes, I was torn between my pact with Jim never to sell them--a pact which he lived up to until the day he died, even though he needed money--and my need to accomplish something with what I had left. I decided the most logical thing to do, considering my limited finances, was to sell Jim's bike, which was still in one piece, the left over parts from Bobby Harper's bike, a pair of Rapide cases and front fork blades that Jim had picked up through the years, and restore my bike, the Lightning, to it's original Shadow configuration. Welllll... not exactly original. I figure that if there is a life in the hereafter, Dad will be watching! So, this one's for you Dad. I had my engine mechanic, Mike Parti, go with your Lightning cams (still good), Ian Hamiliton's pistons (shimmed down to a little over nine to one), and Bobby's rear head ported out to 1&1/4 to closer match your 1&3/8 front head. I'm using modern 32mm carbs and, I found out your "booze" helps off-set this 94 octane unleaded gas. So, we still have the fastest street Shadow around!

Due to the recovery notice in MPH, I had a lot of bids on the bikes. I sold, not to the highest bidder, but to people I thought would appreciate, restore and ride them. I hope that someday we can get 8714 and 8716 sitting next to each other in their restored glory. That would only be fitting, as they sat next to each other--silent--for all those years past. The last time the Shadow ran was just before I went to the Far East with the Air Force. It was 1965 and I had stopped by to visit Jim and say goodby. But, I had to ride the Shadow one more time. The Lightning was already in storage as, back in '60, we had chased off all motorcycle drag racing in Texas. We always won, they always lost. It got to where Jim and I had only each other to run against. So we quit. It wasn't fun anymore. Well, I rode the Shadow that day, just around the block, and managed to put a ding in the front almag rim. Jim wasn't too happy about that, but he said that he would fix it. He never did. I also told him that the front carb throttle slide was sticking. He said he would fix it also. He took it off that day while I was there--but never quite got around to fixing it or putting it back on. when I recovered the bikes last year, the front carb was still off (and missing) but the engine still turned over. Through the years, Jim had turned the engine over at fairly regular intervals to keep the parts oiled. These "crank throughs" were usually done after I called him from wherever I was with the Air Force. The first thing we discussed on those calls was always, "How are the Vincents?" never, "How are you?" or "How am I?" that came later. Speaking about recovering the bikes, I have to tell you a little about that.

When our reader in Houston called me as to the location of the bikes, I was about to go to bed. Jody was already in bed. It was 10:17 on a Wednesday night. After that call, and a few I made to the Houston police department, I couldn't sleep. I tried. About one in the morning, I woke Jody and said, "Let's go--we're going to Houston." We got there about five in the morning. Peering in the windows of the closed used bike shop, I couldn't see anything that looked like a Vincent. We went to a McDonalds and had breakfast. Jody was in a daze--still asleep. I was "bouncing off the walls". The shop finally opened around 9:30 and I played "The stupid buyer" as instructed by the Police, until the owner, Tony Cable, described them to me (they were stored in a different location). That's when Jody went outside for a cigarette--actually to call the Police who were waiting for the call. It was then that I advised Mr. Cable that the bikes he had described were mine and that they were stolen. He asked me to describe them in detail--which I did. Then he simply said, "I don't need to see the titles, they are obviously your bikes" then asked, "Do you have a trailer hitch on your car?" "Yes" I answered (everyone in Texas has a trailer hitch). "Well" he continued, "Just down the street is a U-Haul, go get a trailer and we'll go get them and load them up for you." On the way home that day, I couldn't help but keep looking in the rear view mirror and watch the Shadow float up and down as we passed over the dips in the road. "You know," I thought "Those Vincent shocks aren't really that bad after all." We were both tired after no sleep. By this time, I was in the daze as I had really never expected to see the bikes again. Jody was still asleep, for real this time, curled up in the seat next to me. I look back at the Shadow as I go over a fairly large hump in the road to make sure that she doesn't come loose in the ropes. She doesn't, just rides smoothly up and down. She looks like she is trying to fly! I recall when she really did fly. Not down the drag strip--but in a real airplane.

I would guess that some Vincents have made a trip by air, but none that I know of--except this one. Back in '59, my Commander, "PD" Straw, picked me to be his backup pilot in the Ricks Trophy Race. An Air National Guard fighter race from Jacksonville, Florida to Dallas, Texas. We were going to be in Florida for about two weeks while we practiced for the race. PD felt that there would be so much "brass" down there that there wouldn't be any government vehicles left for us. Therefore, he had me load up the Shadow on the C-47 "Gooneybird" support aircraft so that we would have transportation while we were in Florida. The Gooneybird driver didn't like this too much as it was illegal to haul private equipment aboard government aircraft. He said that if an engine even "coughed" that the Vincent would be the first thing out the door! Luckily, an engine didn't cough, and they got the bike there and back with no problem. While in Florida, PD got me into the only race that I ever lost.

PD always rode on the back. One night on the way back to the hotel, he spotted the local biker hangout. He made me pull into the drive-inn where he started bragging about the Vincent. You really have to know PD to appreciate this story. He was, and still is (but now retired as a Major General), a short, bow legged, Texas fighter pilot who always wore a cowboy hat, and always carried a bull whip--to "Keep the troops in line" he said. And, he was always hollering, “Let's get the troops out of the hot sun!" PD was always hollering. Well, his bragging about this bike being the "worlds fastest" etc., got me into the hot sun that next Sunday--out at an abandoned airport. PD and I were looking at something under a purple horse blanket on a trailer. They pulled off the blanket and there it was. A really beautiful bike, a fuel burning BSA Rocket dragster. I lost the run that day--but only by a wheel length after missing third gear. He (I forgot his name) wouldn't run me again--even with all of PD's hollering. He was too amazed with a gas burning street machine giving him that much trouble. we discussed times over coffee that afternoon. He was turning 110 in 13 while the Shadow ran 115 in 12 flat consistantly. I found out a year or so later, that young man had traded in his BSA for--guess what--yep, a used Shadow! I guess we won after all!

Well, Jody and I got the trailer load of bikes back home from Houston OK. Now the question was--what to do with them? "First things first", I thought. And, being the Shadow was still in one piece, I started with it. I had forgotten what little I knew about Vincents, but with the help of Dave Rosenfield who lives only about 40 miles away from us, and a few parts, including an oil filter, from Coventry Spares, I got started. I cleaned up the original carbs I had from Bobby Harper's bike and installed them. I flushed the engine, oil and fuel tanks, oiled and checked all the cables, replaced the old battery and the front tube. The rear tire still had the original air pressure in it! The mag was week, but still in time, a couple of new plugs and I was ready to try it. Fire it up! with the help of a can of spray "easy Start" she did! Damn!! She sounded good! Her first breath of air in over twenty five years! I did go around the parking lot. Transmission seemed okay. The generator worked. The lights and even the horn worked! While at the local bike shop ("local" down here is anything within one hundred miles), I was planning ahead. I bought a helmet. I had to ride it! No I didn't... Yes I Did! All logic told me No! The engine should be torn down first--the tires were over thirty years old, and besides, I would need a damn good excuse! Jody would never let me ride this thing in this condition. Let's see... I had a new license plate due to transferring the title, what I needed was.... yes! An inspection sticker! That was it! Brilliant! I fed Jody a line about how the sticker would increase the value of the bike and that we may need it to ship the bike across State lines etc., both lies, but she bought it!

With Jody in trail covering my "six" with the Buick, we headed off to the inspection sticker shop only eighteen miles away. With the plan to sell, and my age now, I just knew that this would be my last ride on this bike. The twin pipes with their straight through, glass pack hand made aluminum mufflers moaned as I hit sixty--she still ran as though she hadn't missed a day! And, as I glanced at the original front tire, I thought "If that sucker goes--this will damn sure be my last ride!" But, it didn't, and we got home with no problems, with the exception of it being a bitch to start. I found out later even that was my fault, as I had the plugs gapped at thirty thou.... We did get the sticker--she passed! A couple of weeks later, the deal was made. I shipped the Shadow to Ken Gross. I crated her in a used BMW crate. Not a good way to go I thought, but I couldn't find anything else to put her in. I can not explain just how I felt that day when I took her to the freight line. I do know my heart was trying to jump into my mouth, but couldn't get past the lump in my throat. The tears in my eyes blurred my vision as I patted her on the tank for the last time. I tried to tell her in my own way that she would have a good home. After all those years of riding her and the 142 trophies she won for me--it was not easy to let her go!

Now, on her sister machine, I ride the Loop around San Antonio then turn off on a side road. I pull into the cemetery and taxi up to the grave site for the dedication of Jim's memorial plaque. As I sit here with the engine idling, I think that this trip down memory lane is over. But, somehow, Jim will hear this great engine--and approve. From here, I'm going a couple of miles down the road to the military cemetery to visit Dad--Then I'm going over to PD's house to take him for a ride. I just hope he hasn't found that damn bull whip!