The Saga of the Silver B
The Saga of the Silver B
J. R. BEALL
IT SEEMS THAT nearly everyone can count among his ancestors, some relative whose almost legendary quality causes stories of his life and deeds to be handed down through following generations. I myself have not been underprivileged in this department, as many a frosty eve has been spent by me before the cheery hearth, listening to my aged relatives repeating the exploits of my Great Uncle Clyde. It is with the hope that you too will be entertained and astonished at the inventive genius and skill of Great Uncle Clyde, that I set down here an account of some of his activities and their unusual culmination.
Great Uncle Clyde, having been born rich, intelligent and handsome, as have all male members of our family, found himself at the age of fifty-seven; a world traveler, sportsman, bon vivant and raconteur of considerable note. He was, nevertheless, in spite of his many skills and achievements, still searching for a way to leave his mark upon the world. Racing, in various forms, had presented itself to him as an easy ladder to fame. He had won many important international events, not the least of which were the Latvian SixDay Bicycle Races and The Muncie, Indiana Horseless Carriage Grand Prix. Still he was dissatisfied with the meagre speeds he had been able to attain and speed was Uncle’s preoccupation. Indeed, I have even heard Uncle Clyde referred to by women, who normally know little of these things, as a very fast man. In his day, the steam engine was a widely used and refined stationary power plant, but it had given way to the new, undependable, benzine burner for mobile applications. Uncle Clyde thought this to be a serious mistake and set out to prove it. His idea was to build a steam vehicle, both small and light and with the ability to move.
Assembling a staff of the best steam fitters, boiler makers, smiths and cabinet makers, Uncle started to work on what was to be the world’s first steam powered motorcycle.
Nearly a year of intensive research and development passed before the wonderful prototype began to emerge. Another year was gone and finally this gem of early American craftsmanship was completed. It can hardly be imagined with what feelings of pride and achievement Uncle Clyde viewed his, at last, materialized dream. I wish I could call him back from that great race track in the sky to describe for you his marvelous invention; but that of course is impossible, so I will do the best I can to paint the picture of this marvelous machine.
The frame of the Silver B was constructed mostly of seasoned iron wood. It was of the single strong-back and trussrod type with dove-tailed joints secured by rosewood pegs. The front suspension was by leading link (now known as Earles)
forks incorporating semi-circles of finest tempered buggy springs and pivoted on a lignum vital pin in ivory bushings. The rear suspension was by swing arm and sprung in much the same way as the front. (See illustration.) The front wheel rim was of curly maple and the Hepplewhite spokes of inlaid cherry. The front tire (100x25) was made of pure India rubber incased in a hand-tooled tube of finest calfskin and sewn to the rim. The tooling on the tire made up the tread and rolling along in soft earth it spelled out Mother in upper case Gothic script. The rear wheel (1200x40) was iron with steel cleats and polished brass spokes of Vi in. diameter.
The engine was a 7.2 hp, 1 cycle, 1 cylinder reciprocating steam type with a displacement of 232 sq. inches. It developed the same torque at 0 mph as at 100 mph, which was 2000 ft. lbs. No gearing was necessary and the drive was by connecting rod. through cross head, to rear wheel. There was some difficulty in starting, but only at top or bottom dead center. The steam chest and cylinder were constructed of hand-rubbed ebony, bound with German silver and containing aluminum sleeves for lightness. The boiler featured an automatic pop-valve, a whistle (with an intown mute) and an excellent red brick chimney with a fluted wrought iron top. The fuel was contained in a charred white oak keg. This was necessary since the fuel used was 100p Kentucky bourbon whiskey. Uncle hit upon distilled spirits as fuel because it was attainable nearly everywhere and provided an excellent medication for chills, fever and snake bite. Fuel consumption ran about 100 KPK (Kilometers per Keg) unless traveling through snake bite country, in which case, economy was disregarded.
An ingenious method for increasing fire temperature and at the same time smoothing out the ride, was achieved by mounting a large blacksmith bellows beneath the seat. The up and down motion of the rider operated the bellows, forcing oxygen into the fire.
At last, the morning of the first road test dawned bright and sunny and crisp with the color of autumn. Great Uncle Clyde himself was at the controls and the Silver B sat silently poised with little fingers of shimmering heat dancing off the polished brightness of her silver and brass boiler. Great Uncle gave a toot of her whistle and slowly opened her throttle. Almost imperceptible at first and then with an ever-increasing motion, the oiled tulip wood connecting rod transferred the great positive torque of the engine to the rear wheel. With only a barely audible whisper of escaping steam and the crunch of steel cleats on gravel, the beautiful bike gained momentum and almost instantly was breezing along at an unheard of 40 mph. Uncle Clyde was jubilant. Only two notches of his throttle had given him more speed than he had ever before experienced. He opened her another notch and the speedometer needle jumped to 50. “I wonder just how fast she’ll go,” he thought. “Well, there’s one way to find out.” Notch by notch, Uncle Clyde hauled back on the lever. The beautiful Ohio countryside was a blur of autumn brown and gold. Suddenly the speedometer shattered. Pieces of crystal and brass watch gears sailed past Uncle’s head. The speedometer had been built to register 90 mph. Still the speed increased. The moving parts of the machine were a blinding whirl of glistening wood and metal. Uncle leaned forward to adjust the mixture of alcohol into the now violently hissing boiler. The fine gold watch chain of Uncle’s vest caught on the throttle lever and as he straightened up, the throttle was jerked violently open and the bike leaped forward. Suddenly a curve in the road ahead, a huge oak tree at the edge of the curve, a terrific crash, an explosion, the sound of pieces of shrapnel potting through the leaves as they fell to earth — and then silence. Great Uncle Clyde was gone The gleaming, polished, powerful life of the Silver B had ended. A great man and a great machine had gone out together.
As for the Silver B, she lay as she had come to rest, for nearly ten years, until two small boys from neighboring farms began to collect and assemble what remained of her. They labored long and hard with the jig-saw puzzle of the wreck and then one day emerged a motorcycle. Not such a motorcycle as the Silver B, but a motorcycle just the same. A bit bulky, a little noisy perhaps, slow and sluggish, but the forerunner of all the motorcycles of today. The boys’ names were Harley and Davidson. •
