The Beauty and the Beast - Part 2

By Mal Thompson

Before I continue my ramblings about the past, I must take time here to say Jody and I really enjoyed the International, the Mariposa part especially. It was really nice to be able to put faces to the names we have gotten to know through my sideline business of making parts for the old Vin. I was quite flattered that you enjoyed my first story so much. Also, I had many requests to write more about those days of so long ago. In response to those requests, I have searched the old gray matter and have been able to come up with enough of "every day life in the fifties while riding a Vincent" to put together another part of "Mal's musings." You know, I'm really surprised my memory is that good. I take after my Dad, and he used to say, "My memory is very good, however it is also very short." I mean I have trouble remembering Ron Kemp's name--and between him and the guys at VOC Spares (I forgot their names)--they have all my money! I have found out though, that when I ride the old Beast, my thoughts automatically go back to those days, days that I have not really had reason to think about until now. The memories return just as vivid as though they had happened yesterday. There is a "however" here, I now attempt to keep my mind on the road instead of the past when I ride the Beast--since I damned near hit that truck on Highway 95 the other day. Now, to be more safe, I just grab a little "drinkee-poo" and sit in my studio where the Beast is parked and talk with her. Just looking at her reminds me of the time I fixed that flat in the front tire out on that old country road. And, of another time when Jim had to re-braze the rear of the gas tank because I had left out the long skinny bolt that doesn't do anything. Dad had warned me about that bolt, saying it must be there for a purpose. But, I hadn't figured out just what that purpose was. Thinking about Dad brings me back to where I left you in my first story--Jim's grave site.

Well, I left Jim and headed off for the Fort Sam Houston cemetery to visit Dad, with Jody right behind me in the Buick. Jody figures I can most likely handle what is in front of me and that anyone behind me has to get through her in the two ton Buick before they can get to me. She calls this "protecting her investment." I do tend to wonder if that investment is in me, or in the Beast. Anyway, we found Dad's grave site with no problem among the hundreds of identical military style headstones, as Dad's grave site has a tree. It was just a skinny little shrub when one of my ex wives and I planted it years ago. Now it's over twenty feet tall. I stood in it's shadow as I tried to convey my thoughts to Dad. I just wished there was some way he could know that the Beauty and the Beast have both been restored and we have an international club that is taking care of all the old Vincents. He would have really liked that. Looking at his gravestone, I regret Jim and I couldn't put the epitaph on it that he always joked about having. Military regs only allow name, rank, and dates. Dad wanted, "I told you bastards I was sick!" You know, that idea is not as funny now as it was then--now that he is gone. Well, I know he is not gone for me. Every time I work on the Beast, I think, "How would Dad have done this?" Or, "I'll bet Dad would have a good fix for that."

Leaving Dad, we headed over to PD's house to take him for the ride. By the way, PD still had his bull whip but decided not to take it, thank the Lord, as he felt he would need both hands to hang on. Good move on his part as he hadn't been on a bike since with me back in '59. We rode out to our old Air National Guard outfit to "harass the troops" as PD calls it. Arriving at the gate to Kelly Air Force Base, I was surprised to not only be waived right in, but the military guard even snapped us a salute! We didn't have a base sticker on the Vin and neither of us had Kelly identification badges--both required to get in. What I found out after we got to the unit, was that Mary Jo, the Commanders secretary, knowing we were coming, had called the guard at the gate and told him simply, "If you see two ORF's riding an old antique motorcycle, just let them in." ORF is our unofficial US military acronym for "old retired fart". Anyway, we got to show off the bike to a lot of the troops, and even had our photo taken. Believe it or not, two of the sergeants still working there were on that flight back in '59 and had helped load and unload the Beauty. They thought this was the same bike. I tried to tell them that this one was the nitro burner back then, and they had loaded it's sister bike, but they were too busy ooing and aahing over the restoration and the fact PD and I were actually riding it to really listen.

We left there, and I got PD home in one piece much to the delight of his wife, Loa. I was guessing she would be nervous with us tripping around the freeways in heavy traffic on that old machine. But, come to think of it, she has put up with PD's antics for over forty years, so I'm sure that she's used to things like this. Even now, at over sixty five years young, PD still flies a P-51 Mustang with the Confederate Air Force! We did have one small problem on the way to his house--we ran out of gas. It seems that the "goop" that James Tennant-Eyles sent me to coat and protect the interior of the tank has cut my reserve from around five miles to about 500 feet! We had to push her the last couple of hundred feet to the pump. Dropping off PD, and with Jody behind me as usual, I started the 140 mile trip back home. This gave me plenty of time to think of the old days (I hadn't had the argument with the truck on 95 yet), and our times at our hangout, the Big Orange drive-inn restaurant. To take you back to Big Orange in 1953, I must set the scene a little.

The Big Orange was located on Broadway street--the main drag back then, and was built in the shape of a giant orange. It even had a big green neon lit leaf on top. There was no indoor seating--just a parking area for about thirty cars. Also, along the fence line on the south side of the parking lot, they had a few built in tables and benches. That's where we motorcycle riders parked. The term "bikers" hadn't been invented yet and the Hell's Angel's were yet to be born. The worst trouble we ever got into was an occasional beer. Well, maybe a little hard liquor every once in a while. In those days, "grass" was something you cut on weekends, and "coke" was something you drank out of a bottle. I worked there at night as a dishwasher. Dick and Pop served the beer, soft drinks and hamburgers etc. We had two carhops at night--Billie and Virginia. Billie was a willowy cute girl who didn't ride a motorcycle, but always rode with her boyfriend, Steve, on his Harley "74." Virginia, on the other hand, had her own Harley "74," and not only rode it to work, but in all the events that we had. Virginia was a legend in her own right. Let me explain here. First, she was the only girl in town who rode a motorcycle~-not very ladylike in those days. And, second, she was--well, let's say "well endowed." A petite girl from the waist down, but from the waist up--WOw! we had quite a lot of business when she was working. Men, young and old, would drive from miles away and buy anything just to get to watch her carry the trays to the cars. Somewhere along the line, Virginia got the nickname "Monk." I never knew when or why. But, I did know that whenever Monk dropped her bike at a red light, all she had to do was stand in the road and take a deep breath. In less than thirty seconds, at least six guys would be helping her pick up that Harley! Nobody ever helped me pick up my bike. Come to think of it, she seemed to drop that Harley quite a lot. Now, I'm beginning to wonder if she didn't drop it on purpose! Thinking about dropping bikes reminds me of "one legged" Bill. He dropped his Harley quite a lot also. But, he had a good excuse--he only had one leg.

Bill had lost his right leg in combat in Korea and had modified his Harley "74" so he could ride it without using that leg. One night, after I had finished my work washing dishes, Bill and I were heading down Broadway for our respective homes in the south side of town, when we came up alongside an elderly couple in a car. They were in the right lane while Bill was in front of me passing them on the left. The old man, who I would guess was about seventy, picked this time to turn left! I managed to stop the Vin in time but Bill clipped the car and went sprawling. Neither Bill nor his bike were hurt but his wooden leg had come loose from the impact. It was still connected to him by his jeans around the boot top. As I watched all of this, Bill jumped up, grabbed the leg in his arms and hopped over to the car--Bill had become very adept at hopping on one leg since he lost the other over two years ago. Anyway, he gets to the car and screams, "Look what you've done!" Well, the old man clutched his chest and passed out while his wife went into hysterics. It took us at least thirty minutes to calm her, revive him and to convince them that Bill was okay. Bill got his leg re-situated, we picked up the Harley, cranked up and left. when I looked back, the old man was still breathing hard and still holding his chest. I'll bet he never turned left again without looking first!

Going home from that part time job reminds me that I had other part time jobs (I was trying to pay Dad back for the Shadow). One of those jobs was at "Skinny" Peirce's Indian shop on Saturdays polishing motorcycles and cleaning floors. I had gotten this job a year earlier while I still rode the Harley "45." Although Skinny didn't say anything at the time, I found out that he wasn't very happy about me riding a Harley and working for him at an Indian shop. I Had to park my "45" around back. By this time, brother Jim had heard about this fantastic motorcycle--the Vincent, and I found out that Indian sold them. As I mentioned before, Dad made the deal and I ended up on the Shadow. This made Skinny happy and I kelp my Saturday job. One of those Saturdays, I was sitting on the sidewalk cleaning up an Indian Chief that had just been repaired, when along came the tightest pair of "painted on" blue jeans that I had ever seen! She had blond hair and blue eyes and I wasn't about to let her get by without at least a phone number.

I don't remember now just how I did it. But I do remember doing some fast talking! Her name was Dee and she had never been on a motorcycle, much less a Vincent. I told her about a "rocket run" scheduled for that same night. She thought it sounded like fun and accepted my invitation to ride with me. For those of you who are not as old as I, or did not live on this side of the pond back then, I had better explain just what a rocket run was. Two of our members would set this thing up. One would take about a dozen skyrockets, a couple of pipes to launch them with and a pocket full of matches and park himself on top of an unidentified hill way out in the country. The other guy would meet all of us at the Big Orange just before dark and lead us to another hill at least thirty miles'from where his buddy was. He would then have us synchronize watches and point us in the direction of the hill where the other guy was. On the hour and each half hour the guy on the hill would send up a skyrocket--until somebody found him. He would then launch two which signaled the end of this mess. The reason I say "mess" is that, as you can now imagine, a real mess occurs when 50 to 100 motorcycles all crank up at the same time and head off at top speed down country roads at night! Luckily, we all seemed to have our own idea as to which were the best roads to take to find the guy on the hill, and the pack was usually fairly well split up in the first thirty minutes. This was the neat part. At about 25 after the hour, the'roar of the bikes would settle, then die out, as everyone would shut down and head for a tree or, preferably, a telephone post to climb so they could see the next rocket. When it went up, all the engines cranked and off we went again! Toward the end, we would be passing each other on the same road, in opposite directions, practically at top speed, wondering just who was correct! when the two rockets went up, we all quit and headed back to the Big Orange. There, a small trophy was given to the winner while we counted heads to see who was missing. Usually, we lost two or three guys that didn't make it back to the Big Orange before it closed at midnight. Well, we didn't loose them--they were lost out in the country somewhere. The procedure was for them to find a farmhouse or something and call in to let us know that they were okay. I'm amazed that we never had anyone get hurt on those rocket runs--except for the two guys that went over the cliff into that gravel pit. We did have to take them to the hospital, but nobody else ever got a scratch! Well, this is what Dee was innocently getting herself into.

She was just getting comfortable on the back of the Shadow when we got to the starting place. Then the run started. I remember I had to slow down because she was hanging on so tight that I could hardly breathe. We didn't win that night, but I remember that Dee was the best damn telephone post climber that I had ever seen! In those days, the posts had foot irons that started at about eight feet and went all the way up. While I held the flashlight, Dee would just jump up and grab the first iron, pull herself to that level, then scoot right up to the top. when the rocket went up, she would shout, “There it is," and point the direction. I would be putting the flashlight in my jacket and starting the Shadow while she was coming back down. We made quite a team come to think of it. I'll bet we could have won one of those runs if we had of kept at it. Dee and I spent a lot of time on the Shadow in the weeks after that. We even christened it one night--but that's another story for a different kind of magazine.

Along with the rocket runs came the "lime runs." These were the invention of someone from Hell-~someone whom we called "your local motorcycle dealer." They would set up a course right in town. A splash of powdered lime along side the road'just before an intersection meant to turn, left or right, your choice If you didn't see another splash of lime in about a thousand feet, you went the wrong way--do a "wifferdill" and go back the other way! This went on for about twenty miles in traffic! And the first one to the finish was the winner. Broken bikes and dented cars were left all over the place! Hospitals got a reasonable amount of business, while the motorcycle shops had a booming business on Monday mornings. I could never really "get into" these lime runs. I guess I valued my life or my Vincent to much. I was, however, interested in top speed.

The Harley riders had been bugging me to race them for top speed. They knew all about the ads of the Vincent being the worlds fastest motorcycle, but they had yet to believe it. Until this time, I hadn't been too eager to prove this one way or the other. The reason was simple--all the roads back then had been laid out by cows or drunken cowboys. We didn't have one road that had a straight stretch of over a half mile long in it--until somebody built Loop 410--or at least part of it. Today, Loop 410 is a six lane freeway that totally encircles San Antonio. Back then, when they built the first part, we not only didn't know what it was for, but couldn't understand why they were building this thing way out in the country! It was so far north of town that there was nothing out there but cactus and mesquite trees. It started nowhere, and went west for over fifteen miles to nowhere. Thinking back, I must give the City planners credit, as they had a much better vision of the future than our feeble minds had. Anyway, now we had a place to race. It was a little tricky getting past the construction barriers, but once on the road, wow! Nothing but fifteen miles of smooth, wide road, and no cars! I had to make many trips out there. Even though the Shadow "walked away" from everyone, they wouldn't give up. Even the two north side motorcycle police officers with their souped up Harley "BO's" tried. They, loaded down with all those lights and radio equipment, really bit the dust. Before each race, I would tell the other guy, "When you're flat out, just lay down." when he did, I was usually around 90 in third, I would just snick it into fourth and walk away. This went on for about six months until they finally resigned themselves to the fact that nobody in town could beat the Vincent. After a race, the usual comment was, "I can't understand it, my speedometer was pegged at 120!" I understood it. Dad had explained it to me. He said that a Harley at least has the worlds fastest speedometer. Also, if you ride a Harley and it won't go fast--chrome it. If it still won't go fast--have it make a lot of noise.

I think I may be in trouble here. It seems that "Texas Iron" a new Texas motorcycle magazine dedicated to Harley riders, picked up on my first story and is printing it with my permission. I'm sure they will find this one also--so, "Hey guys! Dad said those things, not me! You can find him at Fort Sam." Seriously, I have found out that the one bike that Harley riders really respect and admire is the Vincent. Theyvdid back then, not only because of it's speed, but also due to the fact that it had a large V twin engine similar to theirs. They did wonder about the "no frame" design and wanted to know what happened when you "blew" a front cylinder. Jim and I hadn't really thought about this, but a few years later, in our drag racing endeavors, we understood their concern. It seems that a souped up Harley is quite prone to shoving a connecting rod right through the cylinder wall. Another point back then, when a brand new, fully loaded, Harley "74" sold for about $700, a Shadow sold for over $1,200! Today, I have found out that the Harley riders admiration is not the same. It's gone up--along with their knowledge of the machine! Example: just a few months ago, I was on an antique bike ride with some guys from San Antonio when we passed a large building with a sign out front that said, "Motorcycle show." we hit the brakes and went back to check it out. The girl at the entrance wanted six dollars each for us to get in. While my buddies discussed the cost, I managed to convince her that my bike was a show bike, and got in for free. I parked right by the front door, shut down, and went over to look in. The show consisted of mostly Harleys along with a few Indians. I heard someone say, "Hey guys, there's a Vincent Black Shadow out here!" Before I could get my helmet and gloves off, there were at least fifteen Harley riders around the Beast. I was about to start answering questions when I noticed they were answering their own! One guy was explaining the reason for the two propstands and that they came down together to make a front stand, while another guy, believe it or not, was explaining the reason for the two sprockets. The only question I was about to answer was, "What year is it?" when a guy at the back of the bike spotted the old original Texas license plate and hollered, "It's a '52." I really think that this bunch must have gotten hold of some old MPH's! well, looking back at my buddies, I noticed they had decided not to pay the six bucks to get in, and were ready to go. I straddled the Beast and, with all these guys watching, thought, "Don't fail me now!" with it's souped up engine, it can be cantankerous to start. But she did, first crank, and I rode off as proud as a peacock! I hope this part of my story gets me out of trouble with the Texas Iron bunch.

Back to that antique bike ride for a moment. It was sponsored by Joe Harrison's Honda shop in San Antonio, and in the ride was the most beautifully restored bike I have ever seen. It was a '51 BMW 600cc twin, and it looked like it had just been taken out of the factory crate! It didn't go very fast, but just purred along on the whole trip. Another reason I mention this ride again is that I find it very unusual for a dealer of modern "rice burners" to sponsor an event for our old European bikes! Not only that, but they owned and operated that BMW. Besides, I won a hundred dollars just for showing up with the Beast. Advert over--let's get back to the old days.

Talking about Harleys a moment ago reminds me of that guy on that damn purple Harley Sportster. He must have "nipped at my butt" on at least twenty five drag races! Whenever Jim and I arrived at the drag strip and I saw that purple Sportster, my heart would sink. I just knew that this would be the day that I would miss a gear and he would "take me!" But, through superior skill and cunning--or one hell of a lot of luck--I never missed that gear, and he never beat the Beauty. Jim used to tell him, "If you keep this up, we may have to go up to nine on the compression." I thought that this was neat, like, "No problem, we'll just do a little work on the engine and be back in business!" Wrong! This is how dumb I was as to what was in these engines. As I found out a couple of years ago, the Beauty was already at nine to one! Jim was just joking! He never told me the truth--and that was, with the octane of gas back then, the Beauty was already "maxed out!" Dad had already done everything that could be done to that engine. We had- nowhere else to go! But, someone else had somewhere to go. We met him at the Houston drag strip.

As usual, Jim would end up riding the Beast against the top fuel car for top eliminator. Yes, this was back when cars ran against motorcycles. They quit doing that in the late fifties because the cars kept loosing it, and getting in our lane! It did get a little dicy, but we just made sure that we got off the line fast enough so they could have both lanes to play with while they tried to get their machine under control. we found that even though these nitro burning cars had a top end of over 140, we could get to the end of the quarter before they did due to the fact that they spent so much time burning the rubber off their tires at the start. Hold it here! I just have to say something about "control."

Since I joined the VOC a couple of years ago, I have read a lot about "tank slappers". I'm sure glad that we didn't know anything about this back then! It may have really changed our mind as to how we rode the bikes, or--to be more accurate, if we rode the bikes in drag racing! We never had any hint of a problem in this area! Again, Dad comes into the picture. He had modified both bikes with the double friction disks in thehsteering damper and, I remember, he told us, "Keep the damper tig t just lean the machine. The only problem we had with control was with the Beast, and that was with fishtailing coming off the line.

In order to give you a better idea of this, let me try to take ygg through the quarter mile on the Beast in her best run of 145 in 8.9 seconds. Yes, I have to brag here--it was I who made that run. Jim didn't like to speed shift. Dad told us that he had hand ground the gears to accept what he called positive shifting, except for first gear, he said you would be standing still for that one anyway. Even now, while riding the Beast, I can scratch my nose with my left hand and shift at the same time. I don't do that too often. The day I made that run, Jim and I had ran against each other (as usual) for top bike. Jim was ready to run against the top auto when that guy dropped out with some kind of engine problem. Now,'all Jim had to do was to put-put down the track to claim the trophy. Whenever this happened, Jim would usually let me ride the Beast while he "tapped into" the left over alcohol and mixed it with a little cola. Okay--here you go!

You're in a cotton jump suit (you can't afford leathers and, besides, they weigh too much), boots and helmet with goggles--no gloves--they slip on throttle control. Jim sets the Beauty on it's stand with the rear fender flap up, then we move the Beast on it's drop-off stand to where we are solid tire to tire. You climb on and make sure that it's securely in third gear while Jim starts the Beauty. You pull in the clutch (no compression release) look back, and nod that you're ready. Jim is in second and revs the engine slightly while releasing his clutch. As soon as you feel a solid spinning of the rear tire, you drop your clutch--the engine fires! The staccato is deafening as you crack the throttle back and forth slightly, attempting keep the engine around three thousand RPM. You pull in the clutch, and with both feet, push her forward ‘til she drops off the stand. Then, with a combination of pushing with both feet and a touch of clutch, you arrive at the starting line. Now to get situated. Right foot solid on the rear peg (which is aft of the axle), feel the shift lever with your toe, push your rear hard up against the pad on the steel rear fender, get your chest hard down on the chest pad, bury your chin into the front of the pad, and you'll be looking around the tacometer Now, with one eye on the flagman (no fancy starting lights back then), and the other on the tac keeping it between three and four thousand, you wait for the flag to drop. When it does, you release the clutch and immediately get your left foot onto the other footpeg. You need to lock your legs and push on the footpegs to hold you against the "G" force! This is where the control problem comes in. The acceleration causes you to pull on the handlebar which, in turn, causes you to accidentally open the throttle too much. This, you don't want! The fishtailing will go out of control! You have to force yourself to roll forward on the throttle in order to keep the fishtailing down to a max of thirty degrees--not easy to do! You use your body weight to stay in your lane while feeding in throttle as the fishtailing settles down. The deafening noise of the engine seems to subside--in fact, it seems actually quiet--just a monstrous vibration as a blur of a white needle comes up into a blur of a red mark on the tac. when the white blur passes the red one, you "stomp" the shift and pray! The white blur has dropped to about an inch below the red one and is coming back up. The fishtailing, now slight, is still there and you concentrate on keeping her in the lane while you wait for the end of run markers to flash past. When they do, you snap off the throttle and attempt to sit up. If you do this correctly, the deceleration of the bike will match the force of the wind blast on you and, you and the bike will stay together. You now grab a little front brake (the only one you've got) and lean into the tight right turn to feed you into the return strip You coast down the return strip, pull in the clutch and shut off the throttle. The engine dies of it's own accord and you coast to the pit. Jim and a couple of others grab the bike while you climb off. You're still shaking--from a combination of the vibration and nerves--your knees are week, and you can hardly stand. Somebody hands you a Coke and you start to take a drink, but your hand is shaking so badly that you just know you will only j?st pour it all over your face, so, instead of taking a drink, you talk about the run and find someplace to sit down. Now you find out the announcer had broadcast that you had just set a new track record--145 in 8.9 seconds. This was your run--a day in your life that you will never forget! Well, maybe it was my run, but I enjoy sharing it with you. Now, let's go back to Houston and talk about the guy who had somewhere to go.

Jim and I only made a couple of trips to Houston to drag race. It was just too far to go and with no money given to the winners, we just couldn't afford to make more trips. On one of those trips, we met a young man who had a class "A" fuel burning dragster (auto). He seemed to be having a lot of trouble getting the carbs adjusted. _His best times were only around 135, and with the big supercharged Chrysler V-8 engine, he thought he should be doing a lot better. He had something like four or six carb barrels feeding that supercharger, and Jim felt that they just weren't "in sync". Jim offered his help, and they played with adjustments. Adjust, crank it up--shut it down--adjust--crank up--shut down--adjust--then he went. 170 plus! Boy, was he happy! Afterwards, while he and Jim were talking, Jim told him to get that engine behind him in his next design. He warned him that if that supercharger blew he would have fire right in his face. He asked, "How are you going to do that? without the engine weight up front, it will just try to flip over backwards." "I don't know," Jim answered, "Maybe you can just extend the front end and add some weight or something. Anyway," Jim continued, "Get out from behind that engine or you'll be eating fire someday." A few years later, Jim's prediction came true and that young man got some pretty bad burns. He and a few other guys got together and designed the now famous "rail" dragster with the engine behind the driver. I don't know if Jim's suggestion had anything to do with this or not. I like to think so--but, I'll bet that he forgot all about Jim--he was too busy going somewhere. Yes, I remember his name. It was Don. I believe you now call him "Big Daddy" Don Garlits. No, the Beast never ran against Don. I don't remember why not. But, we only met him that one time and maybe it was because he was playing with the engine instead of racing that day. Those were the good times. But, along with the good times, we also had some sad moments.

One was the night Charlie Kilgore was heading into town on Broadway street on his red "74". He was going a little too fast--the street turned, and Charlie didn't. We buried him that weekend. Then there was Donny Cracknell, a young, handsome, quiet boy. Donny was into quarter mile dirt track racihg and rode a BSA single for Bill wolters's BSA shop. One night in a race, somebody took a spill coming out of the north turn and most of the pack went down. The reason I remember this so well is that Jim and I were there that night. When the dust cleared, Donny was dead. Such a shame, as he had so much to live for. There was one other young man who passed away on us--another Vincent rider in fact.

Pete Molinar lived in Houston, Texas and owned a Black Lightning (I'm told today that it was actually a converted Shadow). Jim and I found out about him through Harry Bellvill up in Ohio. Harry had made some kind of deal with the Indian Company and became the major supplier of Vincent parts back then. He also told us that Pete was preparing his bike for an attempt at the speed record at Bonneville. Well, we just had to go to Houston to meet Pete and see his bike. We had never seen a Black Lightning before. I got a picture of his machine and we wished him luck. when he got back from Bonneville, he called us. He was very dejected. He had missed the record by less than five miles per hour! He had made it to a little over 155 but the record was a tad over 160 held by Rollie Free. He said, "well, at least it's held by another Vincent." He also said that he had started feeling bad while he was out there, and that it just seemed to be getting worse. when we didn't hear from him in the next few months, Jim called to check on him. His mom answered the phone. She said Pete was in the M.D. Anderson Hospital and that he was dying from cancer. She also said they told her that he would probably not make it through the night. This is where Jim and I did what has to be the most stupid thing anyone could do on a pair of Vincents.

You young folks who are accustomed to freeways may buy this story without question. But, you old codgers (like Marty Dickerson) who lived over here back then may accept it with tongue in cheek at best. But, honest! It's true. I timed it. When Jim hung up the phone and told me the situation, I said, "I guess we'll never see him again." Jim just said, "why do you think we bought Vincents? Let's go." We gassed up and hit the road for Houston. They called it Highway 90 back then. It was 202 miles of basically straight two lane road with only a couple of small towns on it. when we passed the city limits of San Antonio, Jim set the needle on 110. We made it to Houston in one hour and fifty nine minutes! we had passed a couple of cops on the way, but they didn't even bother coming after us. I still shudder when I think back to that trip! We did make it in time to visit Pete before he died, but he was just a shadow of the person we once knew. After the funeral, we lost track of his mom--and his Vincent. If that bike is still around somewhere, I have a photo of it in it's "Bonneville clothes" for the present owner.

Well, I guess that this just about wraps up my tales of old. I've enjoyed writing them for you as it's forced me to really re-live those years--it's been fun! But, thinking about Bonneville reminds me of just one more story, and that is the one about Dad's plans for a bike that would break the 200 mile per hour mark.

As I mentioned in Beauty and the Beast part one, we had chased off all motorcycle drag racing in Texas by 1960. The nitro burner was sitting quietly in the shop with the front end off. By the way, I think I mentioned that the "shop" was a machine shop and foundry that Dad and Jim operated, I helped out part time. Anyway, Jim and I didn't feel like re-configuring the Beast as we were fairly well burned out with riding bikes and dodging cars in the ever increasing traffic.. We did ride the Beauty every once in a while, but not much. She usually just sat there alongside the Beast. Dad had another idea however. He felt it was a real shame just to let them sit there and do nothing, so he started making plans, real plans, on the drawing board! He had the actual shape, exact measurements and, in some cases, life size drawings of the parts he had designed.

Jim and I hadn't paid too much attention to Dad's project as, I wasn't there too much (usually off flying with the Guard) and Jim was busy with other shop work. But, he did get our attention one day when he sat us down and briefed us on what he had designed. It was his design for a machine that would someday hold the worlds unlimited class motorcycle record. Oh yes, he got our attention then! Jim and I looked at each other, and I know that we were thinking the same thing--and that was, just which one of us was going to ride this thing? It was twenty three feet long and pointed at both ends. A note here. Dad had told us years before that whoever invented streamlining was totally wrong with the concept of the bulbous nose and the pointed tail. He said they had it backwards. The point should be in front, and that the only true streamlined shape was a needle. The teardrop idea, he said, came from some guy a couple of hundred years ago who dropped molten lead off a building and studied the shape of it after it cooled during the fall. Dad said this guy was totally correct in his discussion of wind resistance--with the exception that he had the words "most" and "least" reversed. Looking at today's racing cars with all their expensive engineering and wind tunnel testing, I can't help but feel very proud of Dad--he was right again! But, was he correct now, with the plans he was showing us?

The needle like body had a vertical tail fin on the rear and two sets of small horizontal fins--one set just forward of the front wheel, and the other set just aft of the rear wheel. The windshield was just a piece of curved plastic about ten inches wide and over four feet long that formed the front upper part of the body. The interior frame was basic Vincent but extended to make room for the supercharger. I believe the phrase "GMC 651" was used here. Dad said we would be burning alcohol as anything more sophisticated would blow the engine on the long runs at Bonneville. I was beginning to wonder about this "we" bit, and quietly asked, "What are the two sets of fins for?" Dad said, "Well Malcolm, that's where you come in." "I knew it! I just knew it!" I thought, as Jim breathed a sigh of relief. Dad continued, "With your knowledge of aerodynamics and flying experience, I've chosen you to ride it." I think I muttered something like, "Uh-hu," as Dad was explaining the gages to us. There were four. The manifold pressure and RPM gages were for engine power and shifting, and were mounted just in front of the stubby handlebar. The other two were mounted on the streamlined body frame. Dad was saying these measured the amount of extension of the front and rear wheels respectively, and that the levers on either side of the gages moved the airfoils (Dad called these fins "airfoils") in order to control the weight on the wheels. He said, "If you don't keep the needles close to the center, you will end up flying, and probably will flip end over end." I felt sick, and asked, "If I'm using both hands to adjust the levers, just who is steering and handling the throttle?" "That's simple" Dad said, "Just use your body weight the same way you have been doing, and the throttle friction will hold it at full throttle. Besides," he continued, "You won't be touching the airfoil controls until you're in top gear at full throttle. They will be in the full down position to give you max weight on the wheels until then. The point here is to be in fourth gear at max power way before you enter the measured mile. This will give you time to adjust the airfoils in order to keep some weight on the tires while reducing the drag to a minimum. Do this right, and you'll get the best performance--too much airfoil and, well, let's just say that you'll be in trouble." I felt even sicker! Jim just looked at me and smiled. "Well," Dad said, "We have a lot of work to do to build Vindication and, as soon as we get some extra money, we'll get started." "My God", I thought, "He's already got a name for this thing!"

Well, a couple of years passed, and we still hadn't started building "Vindication". We just didn't have the money. Then, a small, mysterious fire occurred in the back of the shop. All of Dad's plans went up in smoke! Dad wasn't too upset as, by now, he realized that we would never really be able to afford to build it anyway. Dad just said "Well, it was a good idea while it lasted," and added "She would have made it to at least 215." I know that it would have too--because Dad was never wrong! Remember the phrase, "We never questioned"!

Anyway, even without Dad's plans, maybe some of you young guys out there can take Dad's idea and "run with it". If you do, please do me a favor--name it "Vindication" in honor of Dad's memory. He would like that.

By the way--that small fire--I just know what you are thinking! But, honest, cross my heart, I didn't do it!

Post script: My mentor and leader for all those years, PD Straw, was killed in an aircraft accident while flying an antique aircraft over San Antonio this past summer (1994). He is now buried only a few hundred feet from my Father at Fort Sam. Someday, I will join both of them at Fort Sam, and we can talk about the old times. Until then, I will miss them.