Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
pedestrians? No, you don't, but then staying in town makes the lame swing arm more accept-
able, since it won't likely fold up on a left turn yield into Whole Foods.
But I digress; back then Harley Davidson was for greasers. Even then they cost twice as
much and were out of our range.
The motorcycle of choice for first-wave baby boomers on the tail end of adolescence and
wanting to cross nations on two wheels was British. Royal Enfield was old, obscure and de-
manding but not demanded. Norton was very fast, nimble, exotic, dependable and in demand
but not as popular or readily available as Triumph and BSA. Triumph was on top, first with
a single carb Tiger but ultimately with the twin-carb Bonneville. Looking back, they seem
simple, small and quaintly classic. Then they looked perfectly big. BSA followed suit with a
single carb Thunderbolt and a twin-carb Lightning Rocket. These models all went 650 cubic
centimeters and ran eight hundred fifty bucks brand new for the twin carb. Seasoned veter-
ans of all ages recall that generation of British bikes for speed—one sixty to one seventy-five
mph was attainable right out of the box for the truly crazy. Those were the days of fanciful
engineering. The Triumph had double downtubes in front of the engine, while the Beezer had
a single downtube. Both frames were hollow and were rumored to be part of the oil circula-
tion system in an early, primitive approach to oil cooling as a means of reducing engine heat. I
don't know if that was true. I saw a wreck once with a frame mangled in pooling oil but didn't
have the nerve to go in close, to see if it was oozing out the bones.
The Beezer was renowned for vibration, and a day of cruising at sixty could shake your
brains looser still. But it could get up and go faster than anyone should go. Back then, BSA
made a one cylinder model, the 441 Victor, with a panache all its own. No motorcycles had
electric starters; all required a kick-start. And the 441 Victor's one big jug could catch on the
compression stroke and not only kick you back; it could throw the unwary over the handle-
bars. Then again, taking the handlebar vault on a 441 kickback was the mark of experience.
I took the dive and came up laughing about it and still laugh at the utter hazard and unne-
cessary risk of the thing. But then unnecessary risk was the risk most valued. The 441 Victor
came only in yellow, and actually owning a 441 was a yellow badge of machismo—a pogo stick
with incredible low-end torque.
We rode long hours with no windshields in those days, camping out and waking up in dew
soaked bags on the stone cold ground, mustering the umph to rise to the frigid morning for
a whiz, then firing up the camp burner for coffee, stoking a chunk of hash, blending into the
mists and knowing the day ahead for what it would be worth, which was everything it could
be. But I get ahead.
As if serendipitously parked in my path there on our walk of discovery into
Pride & Clark,
Dealers of Fine Motors
gleamed a BSA Lightning Rocket hardly two years old—used but look-
ing brand new. And what did the price tag say? Five big ones on the button. That kind of
money would have seemed as insurmountable as a twenty-foot wall with barbwire on top, yet
