Vital Mission

the secret ride of a motorcycle enthusiast

Motorcycles. Do their images evoke subliminal illusions? Spitfire dreams? Like those illustrious WWII aircraft? Perhaps. A secret life begins as a private emotion washing over me when I swing my leg over the seat of my Suzuki 1100 Katana. The rush as the engine catches takes the gray out of my hair, erases the creases from my tired countenance and dispels the lethargy from my limbs.

A foot twitch, a snick into first gear and I’m taking off on a two wheeled time machine. Age has thundered by and I am now a man with a worn face and worn leathers wearing a red bandana and a steel knuckle attitude. Worn but not worn out. Yet I can be a courageous young pilot climbing into a perilous sky, venturing into a hidden, fantasy realm.

Twist my wrist. Department of Acceleration - Ministry of Speed. Churning horsepower. Leave my heart in a little tray at the starting line, come back for a gulp of blood in five seconds - back in ten for a pint of nerve. I simply have to sit there to clear out my cholesterol. Triple bypass in steel.

Motorcycles crammed into showrooms are like impatient packs of hunting hounds to me. Ready to go, anxious to run. Cry Havoc! and let slip the dogs of war - and Shakespeare never laid eyes on a motorcycle. The sleek Katana attracted me the moment I saw it crouching amid those other glinty-eyed mechanical beasts, vents and scoops expressing the Science of Swift. Superb paint; a slippery black glinting of blue in angled light like a scintillation of midnight sky.

The electric windscreen can be thumbed up and down like a Star Wars deflector shield. ‘Use the force, Luke.’ The Whirling Dervish wheels are doing ninety at standstill, the drill pattern in the discs like a power saw blade, slicing into the wind, cutting down the miles. This is the Samarai long sword with which to slay the gray dragon of dreariness. Steal his fire and stoke my furnace.

This bike has ABS, an Anti Boredom System. Who needs to stop? Just go. Down the road, over the hills, playing the Sea to Sky highway, singing across the Tyrol or whispering through the hush of the Dordogne Valley into Lifetime. I know where oblivion is and I can hide there.

The game is afoot. You’ll catch a glimpse of me slashing across the pavement, a stab of sunlight and I’m gone, chasing my vanished youth if you like. But now I am a young rider, alert, aggressive, pitched forward with deliberate intent - from a line of William Aytoun; Like a tempest down the ridges, swept the hurricane of steel. I am a Royal Knight plunging fearlessly into the dark den of danger, reigning my black champing steed, brandishing a flashing Excalibur.

A dauntless paladin in the lists who gives no quarter and asks none. Vanquishing the chimera of languor. No need for fear because I’m loyal to the Order. And I can liquidly morph right there before your eyes. Become a floating osprey, free on the thick morning air, drifting, knowing a capricious wind, plummeting out of a sapphire sky as a swift aerial predator raking the water surface with talons of carbon steel.

My Katana is a lunging black panther. It has STEALTH too. I can sneak up on some non-dreamer and suck his soul into the air scoops, ram it through the engine and waft it out in misty patches of white fog to hang over the highway as a hot, acrid scent. Such is the fate of the left-brained. There’s no other sign that I have passed this way. But do I need a bike that goes fast enough to project me into space? A flaming firebrand that will sling me around the sun in elliptical orbit? Can I pour in a slick verve with the fresh oil? Fill the tank with high octane courage? I am quiet strength with potential potency. Fury lurks beneath my steady gaze. Do I need to answer questions?

I slide alongside the pearlescent white of a long frothing beach - throbbing engine, rumbling surf, motocross waves, frosty spray - then sweep skyward as a spiraling eagle until my clarion exhaust howl calls forth angels, six-winged seraphim standing sentry over a sacred place. Michael, my guardian angel, allows me safety amid his pillared heavens. I touch his cool stainless sword.  I am sunlight glinting through storm clouds. My machinery is black and purple and silver against a teal and ultramarine sky. Mauve streaks of cloud reflect on the faring and free-form silhouettes are shadowed against the polish. Artistic distortion. There are a hundred stunning abstracts in those murky reflections, flowing colour, melting fusing images. Inspiration.

Work of art? For sure. Art in motorcycles? Yes. They are in the Guggenheim. Good design breeds functional art. The Admiralty issue long-barreled Luger has it. A Mont Blanc ‘Meisterstück’ fountain pen has it - the 1970s Maserati Ghibli. The Suzuki Nuda is Museum of Modern Art material, as is the Harley Davidson Softtail Springer, and my friend’s Vincent Black Shadow if he still has it. What of Lawrence of Arabia’s Brough Superior? Nortons? Ducatis? Indians? Of course they are art. So are the graceful Supermarine Spitfires in powdered skies.

And the images of mystique summoned by motorcycle names! Black Prince, Ninja, Fat Boy, Manx, Vulcan, Royal Enfield.

Two Velocettes have been on my mind for years after seeing them one squall-threatened, darkening night at a deserted Canadian border crossing. One had burnished gold accents over its black and the other had writing on the front fender - ‘Venom Thruxton.’  The leathered riders attended to their business with an aura of mystery as I watched their small tail-lights fade into the mottled moonscape.

I have a sepia photograph of my father, taken on his 1928 Harley and my son has the Suzuki Intruder. They look heroic on their bikes. And my daughter rides a Harley like a blonde valkyrie, forcing the beast to obey her capricious whims. And yes, I too, am drawn to these image enhancers, accomplices who will aid me in my furtive fight against time, those who’ll lie to me with sweet-orange breath and sibilant whispers.

But I don’t see myself as a knee-down, spark-spurting racer. I am too old for that. Pain and torture are not my thing. Yet I don’t mind being stung a little. Challenged. Maybe I’m a goggled dispatch rider carrying a secret message, aware of my imperative purpose, codes hidden in my head - steganography - concealing the very existence of a cryptic cipher. Invisible inks swiftly melting into the fabric countryside. Sound absorbed by the tall grasses. Now I’m gone.

No, it’s not all machismo. I don’t think of any motorcycle as a subjected woman. A paramour. There’s no conquest here. I’m a simple dreamer, thinking of a bike more as a fine chestnut horse who can be my trusted friend, waits patiently for my call and understands when I can’t make it. Always likes me. Perhaps I am the mythological Rinaldo on Bayard.

Now there’s silence. No soundtrack. I’m remote viewing myself as though filming from a helicopter. I’m alone down there on the road. It’s early evening, amber sunlight slants over the landscape. The cliff-edge grass is liquid topaz, undulating waves in rhythm with a hammered gold sea. Pungent aromas linger as invisible vapors above the pavement. I glide through them, smelling, sampling, tasting. The wanton wind whispers lascivious suggestions in my ears. I’m pressed into the seat, dangerously close to sensory overload, dangerously close to disappearing forever into the galactic mists.

Punch it on this straight, feel the surge, don’t slow too much for the curve. Do I look good? Twilight spreads a cobalt sky. Not to hurry. I like country roads at night on a bike. Navigating by starlight. I rely on Orion to protect me and Polaris to guide me home. The salubrious air is heavy with the smell of harvest hay and horses and there’s something comforting in the vision of lonely yellow lights swaying beside dark barn shapes and the bel canto sounds of barking farm dogs. I vanish into the dusk as a silent, hunting owl. Rara avis. Stardust settles on the landscape.

Do you understand? There is a secret, tantalizing seduction going on here and I don’t want to diminish it. A typhoon of fantasy spills over me when I ride, transporting me noiselessly into the liquescence of another dimension, blissfully far from reality yet rapturously close to the very core of life, contemplating its tints and shades. The fragrance of clover, the pungency of summer grass, the bite of the wind. I’m experiencing every nuance of sensory perception. An irrepressible feeling bubbles out of old bones like a slow leak in a wet inner tube. Oozing. Hissing if I listen close enough.

Whatever revelations come sweeping out of the crevices of my mind, harsh and dried like a desert sirocco or as a blustery winter tempest, I will be ready for. I’m adhering to that mystic, esoteric religion of free spirit. The effect of my actions determining my destiny - Karma. It’s been said you can die from riding a motorcycle - You can die from being alive - and I’m a devoted disciple perfecting the Art of Dying. Going around THIS time. To paraphrase Arthur Stanley; I claim no throne, I only ask to share, the common liberty, of earth and air.

LAND

© 1998 by R.C. Westerholm

to 4 wheels

The sweetest little Bimmer this side of München 1969 BMW 1600 ti.   A car that descended through all the males of the family.  Ordered by my Dad from Munich in 1969 ... sold to my brother in the 70s ... sold to me in the 80s, sold to my son in the 90s ... sadly no longer with us. But a great little car with oodles of poop! The 1600 ti was classic in German blue and grey and a thrill to wind through the gears while listening to the twin Solexes suck in the air and the Abarth exhaust spewing it out as power at the other end. Only 1200 made. The first car with suspension designed specifically for the characteristics of radial tires.   I have had the unique experience of buying a BMW for European delivery and picking it up at the factory in Munich. A thrill to see your own Bavaria freshly minted. We drove about 60,000 miles in Europe going as far north as Kronoby in Finland near the Arctic Circle, and south to North Africa from Spain. we criss-crossed Europe for a year and visited almost every country in Western Europe. The Bavaria was comfortable, roomy and safe for a family of four intrepid adventurers.       The 3.0 BMW Bavaria was big and fast but I miss the 1600 ti most.       My 700 Coupe race car from Nürburgring never got going here.

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My 1974 Bavaria in Spain	Der German export Zee-plate

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Some of us got hooked on cars right from the get go, like as soon as we felt that gear shift knob in our hand. My first car was sporty and the headlights worked from a battery and It steered too. It was kind of light green and yellow, like lemon-lime sherbet. You could put a red sock over that spot light and pretend you were a cop! Scare all those Lover's Lane people in their back seats. Well, I didn't, but could have. And it went as fast as your chubby legs could make it go. They got the white-walls wrong though, they're supposed to be on the SIDE wall of the tire, not the tread.  They were fuel efficient too, a peanut butter sangy and you were gone. I think the gas companies conspired to get these beauties off the road, or maybe Mercedes-Benz because they knew the Smart Car was coming. There was only room for one, but Manuel Fangio never had passengers at Nürburgring either, driving was alone and a personal challenge in those days. It was zen before we even imported zen.   I might have cried when this car went, and it wasn't the last time either. Wish I had that hat today, I could become a chick magnet all over again. Cute lil Robbie in his Vvvrrooooooooom machine! If anyone can identify the car, let me know, please.     My '58 Buick Special.  Really A very strong car, great for the time. AAA         My 1950 Ford convertible - about the coolest car a teenager could have, you usually kept the top up because you didn't want your Brylcreem leaking. Skirts on the car, a skirt in the front seat, summertime sun - what more could a guy ask?   First car - the  '46 Ford business coupe - lots of monkey business went on in there - glass-pack mufflers and everything.    1987 Toyota Celica GTS - Sunroof, fast, black and furious - what else?         1956 Mercedes-Benz  300 SL coupe. The Gullwing is often considered the most desirable sports car ever. In the early fifties, Alfred Neubauer  wanted to return Mercedes to racing and as it was told to me, was limited in the cost of such a venture at the time. The factory had a war surplus of aluminum aircraft tubing and hence the first monocoque car frame was born, which weighed about 160 lbs. The tubing was designed to allow only push-pull stress and no bending stress at all, making it very strong. However the SL (sport leicht) Gullwing is an engineer's delight, creating a new problem while solving the last one. In order to make the frame strong the tubing rails ran high along the side of the car, necessitating the high sills and door cutouts resulting in the upward swinging doors. It was a wonderfully easy design, using only two springs to help raise it and it's own weight came into play as it was lowered to about two-thirds down. The shape of the door had to follow the curve of the bodywork so the windows couldn't roll down. You had to undo latches inside and take them right out. There was a leather case to slide them into place behind the seats.  The complete underbody was sealed with three belly pans for airflow. The first 300 SLs won almost everything they entered but were not related to the SLRs or the 300 sedans. They were very aerodynamic with the straight 6 engine slanted 50 degrees for low frontal area and center of gravity.   The SL coupes weighed about 2800 lbs as the hood, doors, trunk and rocker panels were aluminum. (A modern Corvette weighs about 3200 lbs) Some all aluminum cars were built in 1955. About 1400 300SLs in total, 311 in 1956. And it was probably the first case where the street car that succeeded the racing car was faster and more powerful as it was to be the new race car for 1954 but the factory quit racing after a horrific crash at Le Mans. The 3 liter straight six engine had Bosch mechanical fuel injection, (which sensed altitude so the car didn't lose power in mountains) and produced about 240 horsepower at the rear wheels and ran about 160 -175 miles per hour as a street car.  A remote oil tank holding 16 quarts kept it lubricated and a 35 gallon gas tank kept you going and filled the entire trunk with only enough room for the second fuel pump and the spare tire. The 2nd fuel pump could be activated from inside the car for additional  pressure during spirited driving and the ignition could be advanced or retarded from a switch on the dash also. Many factory mechanics suggest that no two 300SLs are alike as they made so many enhancements throughout the production run. It handled like a truck at low speeds, came on the cam at about 3700 RPM and then felt like you were in a catapult. Thrilling you all the way into the high fourth gear and filling your ears with a delightful threatening snarl. It was a strong pull but required some degree of skill and confidence to drive fast. The interior in mine was all red leather, with a Becker-Mexico signal-seeking radio. Separate heat controls for passenger and driver. A rail behind the seats followed the curve at the rear window and two custom leather suitcases nestled into the space, strapped down and secure.  The coupes were from 1954 - 1957 - the roadsters were from 1958.     very rare sight - 4 Gullwings together - mine is far left   The primary aim was to cut aerodynamic drag to a minimum. The result was a streamlined low form with few adornments, a car which adhered faithfully to its design brief and which has retained its freshness and allure to the present day.  The 300 SL Gullwing coupe was totally reliable and a pleasure to own and drive but did attract a lot of unwanted attention.

300SL

The oldies and a goodie

Mom in her first car, a 1930 Chev, waiting for Clyde who just went into the bank to make a cash withdrawal		The 1938 Ford picture in sepia looks worn and torn, but the memories are not.
Genetics again - My Father's Jaguar  XK 120  roadster - do you recall the Ralph Meeker version of the movie - Kiss Me Deadly? - I think the British call this a 'drop head' coupe. but then a truck is a 'lorry' too.		My Italian Supercar disguised as a 1973 Alfa Romeo Berlina 1750 sedan. The coolest little highway 'Q-ship' you could ever get to tease the domestic Chris-Craft highway floaters.
My 1976 Fiat 131s. Tony, leave it alone   Veloce bellissimo!		Forgot I had one of these too! Practical little gas squeezer. Pre Alex Issigonis Mini 850.

	The 1967 MGB roadster in which I won the BC slalom championship in the Large Sports class. Competing in about 36 motorsport events that year, including slaloms, (gymkhanas) rallys, and hillclimbs, including Knox Mountain in Kelowna. I joined the Royal City Sports Car Club and have lifelong friends from participating in motorsports events A club membership for motorcycle or sports car enthusiasts is a great and safe way to learn about and enjoy your interest. There is always someone who knows how to do it and will help you! Don't be shy to join, you'll be one of the group in no time. I designed my own hoop roll bar which ended up saving my life in a roll over. And did small tuning adjustments when I could. I changed the front grill and installed all Cibié driving lights, cool, huh? Like daylight in the dark. The removable hardtop made it cozy in winter and aerodynamic for racing. The soft top with rails came in a package in the trunk. Assembled in minutes.    Pirellis were the competition tire of choice for my kind of events and they couldn't be the English Pirellis, they had to be Italian! Shhh! Tire pressures for competing were secret! I painted my wire wheels about once a week!  And waxed the car almost as often!  The B was a guilty pleasure.      MGBs were safe, reliable, fun and forgiving.
at the Knox Mountain Hill Climb, Kelowna, BC

 

MGBs were the perfect sports car!

La Bomba

There is the Mini Cooper S of today and then there are the REAL Mini Coopers -  this one would get over 125 mph and scare the daylights out of an uninformed passenger.  Minis were the original muscle cars, and at the hands of drivers like Timo Makinen and Paddy Hopkirk, won the Monte Carlo rally three years in a row through the Alps in Winter until the French disqualified them the fourth year for wrong driving lights! Mine was the 1275 cc full racing Cooper S specs and total fun to play in. People who didn't know them were amazed at the performance. You could just put your foot down and steer! On a tight windy road, and there was that time when the cops .... er ... oh never mind. A guy named Wray Nixon appeared at Westwood Mountain High race track one year and wowed the spectators AND his competitors by being clocked on the back straight at 147 miles per hour in his Mini Cooper S! The black 777 car was fast.    I have been lucky enough to own seven Minis over the years. Mostly practical little bricks for whatever use, but some, like the Orange La Bomba, seemed to grin at you from the driveway, knowing you couldn't resist taking him out.  And when you did, he said, "See what fun you were missing?" and you grinned back with inner pleasure, sharing your secret with the little Morris that Eclestone mounted racing slicks on a street car were illegal but oh what fun to just go.   Long live the real Mini!

	the Cooper S at Westwood

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Classic Mini Racing

Minis came in Austin or Morris versions, basically the same car. Over the years I have owned them, each had a different personality. The best were the early cars, 60s, with the rounded grill, the simple slide-open windows, outside door hinges, and teeny tail-lights. Inside the gear shift was a great long wand on the floor, and the door pulls were a wire cord! Visibility and interior room were excellent and the handling terrific. You could run for weeks on the same tank of 'petrol' and the 4 banger sideways mounted engines were easy to work on yourself. The trunk lid opened down and was held open with another wire cord which enabled us as a family of four, to lash our huge yellow rubber raft to the roof, tie our oversize cooler to the open trunk lid, and head up to the lake for a picnic!  Even the first 850 cc cars were fun to drive and the 1275 cc Cooper S, like my orange la Bomba could literally be called outrageous to the uninitiated. Minis WERE the very first Muscle cars! The trick to driving at speed was never taking your foot off the gas pedal. Rain, shine, snow or off track!  Some of the BMC works rally cars in the 60s got 140 horsepower! And Mini races were frantic, entertaining affairs! Who knew Minis could be that much fun!

 

"They are more like little people ..."

And if you really want to know why Minis are so loved   -   -   -   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2PS7IhbLMqU&feature=youtu.be

 

 

 

 

	Special message to two auto dealerships - if you see me on TV as a winner of the lotto of millions, consider my appearance as an instruction to prepare my cars for delivery - The Aston in dark grey with natural leather as pictured. Make sure the gas is full. And no dealer stickers on it either!  No offense to Daniel Craig, but I expect to be shaken AND stirred.  - - - The Maserati in the four-door as one needs a family car too, would be good in silver if dark blue is out of stock, with the dark brown Italian glove leather interior of course. Benzina full too please. And make sure there's picnic luggage in the trunk with cold chicken in Tour d'Argent sauce and Auntie Jane's potato salad and two bottles of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo too.  - - - You'll recognize me by the Harpo Marx curly wig, the Groucho mustache and the Jack Nicholson shades.  Ignore it when I say I am going to keep my job and buy the wife a new hat, that's just to throw off the feeders. I have no job and she don't like hats. Just get the cars ready by 6 am, I want a good start getting out of the city before the police get their radar positioned.
Aston Martin Vantage V8	Thanks. Ciao amici.	Maserati Quatroporte Dinamica

 

 

The '63 Chevy Impala Super Sport  was cool	Mazda 626 V6 sedan ...Oh, how we change.	Hyundai Sonata 2.0 T - turbocharged bells and whistles!