Harry's Tale
HARRY'S TALE
JACK WOODS
I FIRST MET HARRY at a race meeting in the North of England way back in 1938. We both were competing in the 500-cc event on machines bought more with an eye on price than performance.
Harry was riding an old Rudge he had resurrected, and I had a Sunbeam long past its prime, but fettled up to attain speeds it was never designed for. Wringing extra power from an old engine usually tells on its reliability, and mechanical failures were the common lot of those who raced on a shoestring, such as Harry and I. But there was little we could do about it on the lean wage packets of those days, and it was to save money that I joined forces with Harry with the intention to purchase and share a good truck for our racing transport, instead of each running worn-out and unreliable vehicles.
We planned this merger in a cornfield at that 1938 meeting, when, after dicing with each other for several laps in the 500-cc race, Harry's overstressed motor seized as he was accelerating out of a bend with "Yours Truly" glued on his tail. Anticipating some mechanical trouble, Harry had been riding with his left hand wrapped around the clutch lever which he yanked home the instant it occurred, to prevent the rear wheel from breaking away as it locked, only to find himself forced, willy-nilly, off the track and into an adjoining cornfield by what might be aptly termed "pressure of circumstances" in the shape of my front wheel.
After making a fairly soft landing, we exchanged wisecracks amid the cornstalks, sat watching the remainder of the field howl by, and discussed ways and means to obtain more potent raceware, and eventually agreed that by sharing our transport we could save money toward this end. It turned out to be a good arrangement. The following season we both were able to obtain better bikes; Harry part-exchanged his Rudge for a Velocette, and I got a Norton, retaining the Sunbeam partly out of sentiment and partly because nobody else would have it.
With more experience behind us, and better mounts under us, our racing started to improve and, instead of limping home at the back of the field, we began to secure 3rd and 4th places. Harry on one occasion actually managed to win a race, and we fitted the truck with new tires on the strength of the prize money. We had become rather fond of this truck. It had cost us plenty to buy, but had amply repaid us with utter reliability, something we appreciated after our previous experience with clapped-out transport. We especially enjoyed the luxury of arriving at a meeting on time and without breakdowns en route.
There was, however, one occasion when the truck did let us down and therein lies a tale — Harry's tale. We had arranged to meet after work on a Friday night and, after loading the bikes on the truck, to be on our way by 7 p.m. to a race meeting over 100 miles distant. We intended to arrive about 10 p.m. and have a good night's sleep before the early morning practice session. Everything went as planned until, having covered about 60 miles of the journey, the engine suddenly died, and we coasted to a standstill alongside a freshly fertilized field. The aroma from such fields always is extra potent in the cool evening air, and the atmosphere literally hummed as we climbed out of the cab to examine the engine. Harry blew his nose and expressed the opinion that the farmer had evidently plowed up a decomposed dinosaur and that the stench had probably upset the carburetion, a joke we were almost inclined to treat seriously after we had worked on the engine for several hours without result. We tried everything we knew to revive that engine. We checked and rechecked fuel and ignition systems, and found them perfect. Then, as far as was possible with the tools at our disposal, we probed all possible other causes of the breakdown and tried all the tricks of the trade still without success. For some reason best known to itself, that engine refused to budge from a state of complete inertia. Somewhat exasperated by its behavior, Harry resorted to giving it a good old-fashioned cussing and, having relieved his feelings by this, he jabbed the starter button more in despair than anger.
Now exactly how and why that engine started is a puzzle, but after slowly heaving itself over on the dregs of the battery, it astonished us by bursting into life and settling down to a contented tick-over. Harry chortled that the cussing had done the trick, but I thought it more likely that some sort of obscure and self-rectifying ignition weakness had been at the root of the trouble. Although Harry admitted this possibility, he said he would stick to his cussing theory as he rather liked the idea of mind being able to browbeat matter. Furthermore, he could support this theory with a tale about a similar incident in his life, and as we drove off through the night, he told me about Betty Cameron and the Cotton.
Betty Cameron was the girl-next-door. She and Harry had grown up together. By the time she was 16, and he a year older, they were going steady. It was assumed they eventually would marry, assumed by everyone else, that is. It may have worked out that way except for Harry's sudden interest in motorcycles. Apparently someone had taken him for a ride on one, and after this first taste of motorcycling, he just couldn't rest until he had tried his hand at it. As luck would have it, an insurance policy matured on his 18th birthday, and he collected $200 to spend as he wished. This enabled him to buy a brand new Cotton motorcycle and still have a few dollars left over. Betty probably sensed she had a rvial in the Cotton as soon as he got it home, and she refused to take any interest in the machine. She also refused to go motorcycling with him, which was probably sensible of her in view of Harry's inexperienced and erratic riding at the time. Faced with the problem of humoring a female, and pursuing his new pastime, Harry tried to compromise by spending alternate evenings with each. Betty soon put her foot down and rebelled against such an arrangement. Harry suddenly found himself cornered, forced to choose between them. He was fond of Betty, and tried to reason with her, but she would have none of it, insisting that if they were to go steady, it had to be done without a motorcycle in the way. She was not prepared to share Harry's affections with a noisy lump of metal and rubber.
This made Harry angry. He told her that she was both illogical and possessive and that he was not going to quit doing something he enjoyed in order to please her. He also added that he was glad he had taken up motorcycling as it had enabled him to see her true colors before it was too late.
Upon hearing this, Betty explosively vented her feelings. Not being able to cope with such an outburst of feminine fireworks, Harry escaped from the room before the crockery began to fly, although he stayed long enough to hear Betty's furious opinion of both him and his motorcycle. On the latter she declared a bane for causing their breakup, and vehemently hoped it would never start again.
That was the end of the affair as far as Harry was concerned. He had almost forgotten about it by the next evening, but was immediately reminded of it when the Cotton refused to start.
The Cotton had been a most reliable starter, and he found himself wondering whether Betty's words could have really affected it in any way. Then he dismissed the idea as being ridiculous and went to seek help from his father, who knew a lot more about motorcycles than Harry did at the time. His father checked the spark and fuel supply and kicked over the motor until he was red in the face without producing as much as a cough from it. He then telephoned the dealer and arranged for the machine to be taken back to the shop the next day for examination. The Cotton was duly collected and later returned with a note to the effect that there had been very little wrong with it, and it was being returned in perfect running order.
But when Harry attempted to start it, nothing came of his effort. After recovering his breath, he rushed back to the dealer and rebuked him for saying that the bike was running perfectly when it wasn't. The dealer happened to be a patient man, and he promised to visit Harry's house and examine the machine himself, being somewhat intrigued by an engine he knew for a fact had behaved itself in his workshop. When he arrived and tried to get the Cotton running, he eventually was forced to admit defeat. He asked his mechanic to come along for a second opinion. The mechanic was no fool, but after a lengthy examination of the Cotton's power unit he was equally mystified by the enigma of an engine apparently in perfect working order, yet which refused to start or, rather, which refused to start in the vicinity of Harry's home, a phenomenon which the mechanic speculated might be due to some sort of electrical interference, although exactly how this operated was beyond him.
It seems a bit crazy, but at the time this took place, science fiction writers had caught the public's imagination with stories of both the death ray and various other forms of rays, including those able to stop an engine running. Nobody scoffed when the mechanic queried if there was anyone in the vicinity who was experimenting with such a gadget.
As it happened, there was a radio ham who lived directly opposite Harry's home. It was common knowledge in the neighborhood that, in addition to his interest in radio, he also dabbled in electrical inventions. So they all trooped across the road and asked Mr. Radio Ham if he were pursuing experiments of a nature likely to interfere with the running of a motorcycle engine, a query which he amiably settled by taking them into his workshop and introducing his latest brainchild, a prototype automatic electric toaster. Rather sadly he told them that, although the toaster was at present capable of destroying bread, he did not think its range of destruction extended beyond this. He illustrated his words by popping a slice of bread into the toaster, from which it soon was ejected high in the air, where, black and smoking, it smashed against the ceiling and rained fragments on their heads.
Reassured by this demonstration of innocence, they all returned to Harry's house where, after talking the matter over, they decided the most sensible move would be to contact the manufacturer to ascertain if any similar trouble had been experienced with the model. However, the following evening, Harry found that it was not necessary to do this, for when he went to the bike and gave the engine a prod, it astounded him by instantly firing and revving in a very healthy manner as he blipped the throttle and subsequently gave no additional trouble.
The entire business appeared inexplicable, unless, as Harry said, one was prepared to accept the possibility that Betty Cameron had been psychically associated with it. As for Betty herself, both she and her family have long ago moved from the district and out of Harry's life although he could recall the day they went quite clearly. He had good reason to.
It was the day the Cotton restarted. H
