In the Beginning
IN THE BEGINNING
a satire on how it all began...
DAVE EVANS
IN the beginning, there was my Grandfather, who was Police Chief of Chicago. His name was Chief Evans. Having been re-elected to his office for five consecutive terms, many men felt that it was impossible to beat him in an election ... except for a young man named Rigors Tetzlaff.
Rigors, 60 full years before our latest brace of "father image" and "son image" Presidents, knew all about "image building". He reasoned that Chief Evans cduld be characterized as "stodgy", and himself, Rigors, as "young and vigorous". And that was his plan for winning the election. With natty dress and youthful step (plus a few well chosen rumors about "patronage in public offices") he soon gained quite a following among the voters. Qrandfather never paid much at tention, however, until one day his campaign manager (Grandmother) came running into the office, shouting "Chief, you've had it!"
Grandfather twirled his elegant handlebar mustache and laughed. "What do you mean?" he said.
“Come down to Michigan Boulevard, and I’ll show you,” she said. So they went down to Michigan Boulevard, Chicago’s plushest street . . . where Grandfather got the shock of his life. There, riding back and forth in front of a huge crowd, was Rigors Tetzlaff ... on a motorcycle! Now, even though it was 1897, there were some motorcycles in Chicago . . . but none quite like the one Rigors so proudly paraded up and down the three blocks of Michigan Boulevard (the only paved blocks, at that time).
Dissatisfied with the motorcycles available at that time, Rigors went to England, and asked the famous team of British engineers, the Advanced Racing Society of England, to build him a bike. Believe me, they outdid themselves. The bike had a non-classic tubular frame with huge, artillery wheels. The suspension was by chassis-flex ... hit a bump and the chassis would bend. The engine was a true work of art. It was a V-16 of 700 cc’s capacity. Its 16 tiny cylinders put out an astounding 147 bhp at 20,000 rpm, with a maximum of 9 lbs./ft. of torque at 19,770 rpm. Needless to say, the power curve was narrow . . . but when the power came on: ZONK!! There was only one way to ride the bike, called the A.R.S.E. for short: slip the clutch until the power took hold . . . then shift for dear life until up to speed. With 15 speeds forward, life for shifting was dear, indeed! The machine was painted a gorgeous British Racing Green and put out an ear-splitting note from its 16 German-silver-plated exhaust pipes.
Grandfather, as I said, was bowled over. He saw, instantly, how much support Rigors was winning by his actions. He decided to fight fire with fire, and left immediately for Italy, home of the immortal Zino Zagato, the greatest designer of all time. In 25 short days, Grandfather was in conference with Zagato, himself, at the Fabricazzione Ultrarapid de Zino Zagato, the great man’s factory. In five even shorter days, the bike was designed and built.
Zagato had chosen a completely opposite solution to the design problem. He designed a big, single-cylindered bike. A real big cylinder . . . 13,000 cc’s big! The engine was so big that it had to be mounted horizontally. A large, steel plate served as a mounting point for the suspension, engine, gas tank and rider.
The power curve of this engine, as you might expect, was completely different. It put out a miniscule 18 bhp at 7 rpm . . . but a whopping big 940 lbs./ft. of torque at 2 rpm! There was no gearshift . . . just a simple, inand-out dog-type clutch. “Full chat” (as the British say), was more like “full whoomph”. The bike, once “in gear”, proceeded ahead by enormous leaps and bounds, traveling a full 50 feet with every engine revolution. Although the bike was a dangerous handful to ride (he had to time his corners so that they came either at top-dead-center or bottom-dead-center, otherwise he would be turning at full speed), Grandfather set off for Chicago immediately.
It seemed as though Rigors Tetzlaff would be elected by a landslide, if one were to judge by the size of the crowds that gathered daily to see him ride. But then, just two weeks before election, Grandfather put his “image re-building” plan into action. He took the gigantic bike (now nicknamed the F.U.Z.Z., for short) down to Michigan Boulevard, and with a small cordon of police to open a way through the crowd ... he “whoomphed” and prounced his way up the avenue. The effect was shattering. Rigors turned a bright red and almost fell off the A.R.S.E. The crowd broke into wild cheering.
Qujckly, Rigors recovered his composure and commenced Lis riding once more. Round and round the two men rode, until the crowd began to yell, “Race! Race!” Neither man was brave enough to turn down the challenge ... so they lined up side-by-side at the foot of Michigan Boulevard and agreed to race around a square course, three blocks to a side: up Michigan to Ohio, left on Ohio to Clark, left on Clark to Hubbard (which ran along the Chicago River), then back onto Michigan.
The race was a winner-take-all event, with the loser to withdraw from the political race. And, get this, enduro fans . . . the winner was to be the last man running! At the start, the F.U.Z.Z. charged into an immediate lead. Grandfather knew that he had to get in the lead, and stay in the lead, if he wanted to regain the respect of the voters. After Rigors finally got the A.R.S.E. up to speed, he gradually caught up with Chief Evans. Lap after lap, at 24 leaps to the lap for the F.U.Z.Z. and 24 gear shifts for the A.R.S.E., the two men raced. Rigors was unable to pass, mainly because the F.U.Z.Z. had such magnificent torque as it came out of the corners. Hour after hour, the race went on. The sun fell lower and lower in the sky, and both men were tiring rapidly. Grandfather’s mustache was now limp and beating against his ears ... all the wax gone out of it. Rigors’ strong right arm was swollen and sore from shifting.
Finally, as they came up to the corner from Ohio onto Clark . . . Rigors missed a shift. The handle broke off in his hand as he struggled to get back into a gear. But he could not do it. He could not continue with the race. He coasted up Ohio Street . . . and out of sight ... as his rooters in the crowd cheered for him to put the bike back in gear and win the race.
Meanwhile, not knowing that he already had won the race, Grandfather misjudged his lunges up to the corner at Hubbard Street. With a look of horror, he drove straight ahead, plunging through the screaming crowd and into the river where the F.U.Z.Z. exploded in a cloud of steam. Then, after the steam had settled, the people fished him out of the water and carried him on their shoulders through the streets . . . triumphant! He had won the race!
And that is how motorcycle racing began in America. If you don’t believe it, just come on out to Chicago sometime. As any truck driver overtakes slower traffic on Michigan Boulevard, you’ll hear him cry out the same words that Rigors heard as he coasted up Ohio St. . . . “GET YOUR A.R.S.E. IN GEAR!” And, wherever groups of young men gather to have fun together, you’ll find the Chicago Police coming to investigate. You’ll hear those young men shout the same warning that Chief Evans heard as he plunged into the Chicago River . . . “LOOK OUT! HERE COMES THE F.U.Z.Z!” •
