Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
the bills lay neatly folded in my pocket as if ordained, or at least given by Old Mom, which
was kind of the same thing. And yes, the elegant paper price tag dangling from the handlebar
was in dollars; such was the rush of American boomers in rebellion, taking to the roads of
Europe on two wheels—taking over those roads to show the locals how truly liberated anarch-
ists could take the money their parents had given them and tear up the countryside as only
free-wheeling Yanks could do. We were loved, because we had the credentials, the money and
a war in Vietnam as the basis for Revolution.
I did take a minute or two for practical calculation on the savings available with a motor-
cycle. It was mostly on transportation, doing away with the need for train tickets or wasting
time hitchhiking. I also factored a rare chance in life: before me sat a dream come true, so I
woke up and lived it.
That Lightning Rocket was a glowing opportunity easily realized. I would ride it five thou-
sand miles and know it intimately. Plagued with vibration, it could go as fast as I could ima-
gine with a half inch of throttle remaining. Two carburetors, chrome fenders and a bulbous
tank that was chrome on top and red on the sides identified the Lightning Rocket. Gold star-
bursts on red backfields on either side of the tank shot lightning bolts forward and back. Gold
flames blew out the pipes, or so it seemed. I would drive it one-forty once, somewhere near
seven grand—that's miles per hour at seven thousand rpm—before a curve came on quick as
Earth in freefall at maximum velocity plus twenty. Increasing G-forces measured the sensa-
tion of speed and limitless acceleration to ninety or a hundred. Urgency to reach top end was
driven by fear of running out of straightaway. Near a hundred came certainty that helmets
would be incidental to starbursts and flesh melted over bent steel. The lumpy fondue imagery
was satisfying, a notch up for an aspiring young daredevil.
Rising rpm whines to inaudible ranges over five grand in fourth gear, where things go per-
versely quieter. Back then, fourth gear was it. Over a hundred miles per hour the word be-
comes Om in a searing vibration around six thousand rpm, and the din becomes eerily calm.
A rider must crouch into the tank or become a scoop for an instant before the wind scoops
him off. Cheeks and wattles flop like crazy at seventy, but over a hundred the breeze can take
your face off, so you stay low.
At one-twenty the air tingles. God speaks at one-forty with a question:
You wanna die,
boy?
Deceleration takes as much focus as getting top end—on the way down one-ten seemed
eminently controllable, except that one-ten is holy screaming Jesus fast enough to end in a
blink.
So the future began at
Pride & Clark
in a similar blink, in hardly the time it took for a wild
boy to forget everything his poor mother ever taught him about horse-trading. I counted out
the five big ones and never looked back. I scanned the horizon out front and felt the urgency
to catch up with the motorcycle wave breaking over Europe. David and I rode back to Rus-
sell Square, wobbly here and there but keeping things rolling. I parked and stared at my new
