Leanings

LEANINGS

Curse of the Druids

PETER EGAN

IT WAS WITH A DEEP SENSE OF SHAME and trepidation that I awoke early last Saturday and rode out into the warm summer morning on my Buell Ulysses. Nice day to ride, but I was headed for a rally of the BBC (British Biker Cooperative) at a place called Eagle Cave Natural Campground along the Wisconsin River. I'd been invited there by an acquaintance and BBC member named A1 Smith, who often shows up at our weekly motorcycle gang meetings at the Blue Moon Bar.

Sounds like fun, you say. So why the shame and trepidation?

Well, I was going to a British bike meet at one of those rare times in life when I don't have a running British bike. The only motorcycle of English extraction in my garage right now is a 1969 BS A Victor 441 I recently bought and put aside as a winter restoration project. It needs an exhaust system and has virtually no compression. My BSA-Singlesexpert pal Rob says the rings are probably just stuck and all it needs is a good oil soak and a few start-ups and heat cycles to free them. We'll see.

In the meantime, the Victor is a long way from doing a 200-mile weekend trek to a rally celebrating its own Anglo-Saxon (not to mention ancient Druidic) heritage, so I was riding my Buell, a bike manufactured about 50 miles from my Wisconsin home rather than in Birmingham, England.

Luckily, a couple of my companions on this trip were not Limey-mounted, either. Four of us met up at a Shell station, where Charlie Mussey appeared on his Ducati Monster and Stu Evans showed up on his BMW R1150R. Only Lew Terpstra was properly attired, riding his modern T100 Bonneville, a nice-looking red-and-black version that has become his favorite motorcycle.

A couple of years ago, Lew rode this bike to Colorado and back with me and our mutual friend Mike Mosiman. Mike and I were on Harley Road Kings, quite happy to be chuffing effortlessly across the Great Plains behind our big old windshields, but we envied Lew his maneuverability and general lightness of being. Especially when we got to the Rockies, where we felt like a couple of Clydesdales trying to chase a cat around the house.

Anyway, despite our motley collection of motorcycle nationalities, the BBC guys welcomed us to the rally without so much as flinching, and we had a great afternoon. I'd never been to Eagle Cave Campground before, but it was an ideal spot for the gathering, situated deep in the greenwood at the end of a winding road on a shady ridge not far from the river. Perfect for the worship of oak trees and the crafting of longbows from the noble yew tree. Not to mention camping and drinking fine ales and stouts around camp fires. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to explore the cave, as we needed all our time to walk around and look at British bikes.

I can't tell you, precisely, what it is about British motorcycles that makes some pleasure center in my brain hum with contentment, but I never get tired of looking at them. It's been that way since the late Fifties, when I first became aware that there were bikes made in England. It was Triumph Twins that first caught my eye, and they became my entrée into the world of serious motorcycle fixation, much as the Rolling Stones were my introduction to Chicago Blues. Without Triumphs and the Rolling Stones, my interest in motorcycles and the Blues might never have taken off and become the debilitating financial drains they are today.

Think of the thousands of dollars I could have saved on Dunlop K81s, Muddy Waters albums, Castrol oil and Vox amplifiers alone. Never mind the bikes themselves. I could be retired on the French Riviera now, lighting cigars with hundred-dollar bills. But no.

So I imprinted on British bikes at an early age, and the BBC rally had plenty of them to look at. Lots of modern Hinckley Triumphs of all stripes and even more old ones, plus a nicely restored Victor 441 to inspire my own project. There was also a good contingent of Nortons, mostly Commandos, with a couple of P11 Scramblers thrown in. Even a rare Norton Hi-Rider, the seldom-seen chopper model. On my garage wall, I have an old Norton-VilliersTriumph advertising poster of Lady Godiva, hiding behind her long blonde hair and sitting on one of these bikes. It makes sensitive people nervous.

Late in the afternoon, the four of us had to head for home. We left right behind four Nortons that were going for a ride—the two Pll Scamblers and a couple of Commandos. The exhaust and hot oil smell they left in their wake was as unmistakably British as Winston Churchill. Maybe that's a bad example, as Churchill was half American. Anyway, you can imagine the fine aroma.

We stopped at a bar for a bite on the way home, and Lew said, "I think I'm going to join the BBC. Nice bunch of guys, they go on interesting rides and you get to hang out around British bikes. What could be better than that?"

I couldn't think of any good answer to that question. Still can't.

When I got home that night, I called Mike Mosiman in Ft. Collins, Colorado. Frequent readers of this column will recognize Mike as my spiritual advisor on preordained bike purchases {i.e., fellow nutcase) and computer guru who can find anything on Craigslist or eBay in about 30 seconds.

"I've been thinking I need another modern Bonneville," I told him, "to share the garage with that BSA. I'd like to find a T100 version in Claret and Aluminum Silver with gold trim, like the one I sold to pay for my Buell a few years ago so Barb and I could do some long-distance touring. Or something. Anyway, I miss that Triumph and have tried to buy it back from its present owner in Minnesota a few times. Unfortunately, he really likes it."

Mike called back about 15 minutes later and said, "Okay: There's an '08 in Claret and Silver at Erico Motorsports, the Triumph/Ducati/Guzzi shop in Denver. Like new, only 1400 miles on it. Do you want me to go down there and have a look at it? I could leave a deposit if it's a good one."

Barb and I have to fly out to Denver for a wedding next month, and it looks like I'll be riding home. It'll be early autumn by then, and probably a little cooler. Belstaff jacket weather.