The Prize

THE PRIZE

BOB C. MILLER

RON LEFT EARLY while the air was cool and beads of dew still glistened from the grassy countryside. The pleasant tastes of breakfast lingered as he maintained a moderate pace along the country road. The restraint paid off as he topped a rise and had to swing abruptly around a slowmoving tractor on its way to a hot and dusty day’s work. Soon the blacktop ended at a two lane highway. He turned south and wound the Norton out through the gears. It felt good, and the smooth acceleration verified that the Commando’s engine was running strong and clean.

“Well it should run well,” he mused, as he thought back on the long but satisfying hours he had spent on the engine. Soon after he had bought the Norton he and a friend had decided to

tear the engine down for a slight uprating. His friend was a mechanic whose first love was hillclimbing. He had a modified BSA Thumper that could really lay a track up the side of a hill. They had decided not to make any changes that would affect reliability. A pair of 36mm Amals and a lot of careful polishing around the ports had improved breathing. The cam had been left stock but the compression ratio had been bumped slightly. A Dunstall exhaust system had been installed. The remainder of the effort had been a careful rebuild with a lot of attention given to fits and finishes. The resulting engine was slightly stronger than the stock version, which needed little improvement. The exercise had also given him the satisfying familiarity with the machine that makes touring a carefree experience.

Traffic was light, so he covered many

miles before a near empty gas tank forced him to look for a station. A faded sign announced “Fletcher’s Service—3 miles.” Fletcher’s turned out to be a long-abandoned stucco cubicle with broken windows, and grass growing through cracks in the concrete apron. Fortunately, he found a small truckstop about a mile further on. He parked the bike in front of the restaurant, and since he needed a pit stop worse than the bike, he followed the “Gents” sign around to the back of the building. The door to the john was missing a panel where someone had kicked it in, and the peeling plaster on the inside was decorated with gifts from the local poet.

Relieved, Ron walked back around to the restaurant and sat at the end of the U-shaped counter. The only other customer was a trucker on his third cup of coffee. A few scattered tables stood mute testimony to a slow afternoon. He scanned the menu and pondered the value of the “Truck Driver’s SpecialRib Eye Steak, Two Eggs (any style), and Hashbrowns or Grits—$ 1.45,” and then ordered a couple of hamburgers and coffee.

The coffee was as bad as he had expected; a special blend of too much water poured through too few coffee grounds in a dirty urn. As he waited for the cook to slowly burn his hamburgers, the door behind him swung open and four assorted characters in their early 20s noisily entered and sprawled at a nearby table.

The waitress looked annoyed and yelled, “Now you all just get on out of here; don’t want no trouble like the last time!” She brought Ron his hamburgers and said in a low voice, “They came in here the other night and started a fight with a customer; had to call the Sheriff to throw ‘em out.”

The tall slender one said, “Now don’t get excited Reba, all we want is a beer. Besides, we just come in here to see the best lookin’ waitress in Collier County.” Ron ate quietly as the waitress finally took their order, carefully standing out of reach of an errant hand. After the table was served four cold bottles of beer, overflowing with foam, the tall one took a long swallow, swung around in Ron’s direction and said rather loudly, “Sure wish I had me one of them purty motorcycles, they shore must be fast.” The rest of the group grinned.

“Yessiree, if I had me one of them faaast motorcycles, I could make me some big money drag racing.”

A fat kid in faded dungarees said, “Yeah you could probably turn the quarter in 25 or 30 seconds, maybe even outdrag a Toyota.” More grins.

The slim one turned to his heavier

companion and said in mock seriousness, “Whatt‘sa matter with you, don’t you know them bikes are fast?”

Slim turned to Ron and said, “Ain’t that right? What will that bike turn in the quarter?”

Ron lay dowm his hamburger, straightened up and said, “Don’t know, never timed it.”

“Well I bet you could blow the doors off my oT Ford out there, right?”

Ron replied, “Probably,” and continued to eat.

Slim grinned to his companions, got up and sat on the stool next to Ron. He continued in a confidential tone, “You know we got this little drag strip just outside of town, might be fun to try, that is if we could get a little side bet goin’, you know, just something to make it interesting.”

Ron paused and then said, “I’ll think about it, now I would like to finish my lunch.”

Slim retired to his table and carried on a hushed conversation with his companions that was punctuated with laughter.

The waitress served Ron a piece of apple pie and said, “Them boys is gonna kill somebody with that car, been rippin’ around here for ‘most a year. Ran old Bill Tompkins and his wife off the road the other night. The Sheriff has been trying to catch ‘em, but they always outrun him. I swear, they are gonna kill somebody yet!”

Ron finished the pie, left a half cup of coffee, and paid the check. As he left the restaurant, the group trooped out after him. Parked outside was a scruffy ‘71 Torino. The rear end was hiked up with oversize tires, and blanked off headers showed from the underside. A fresh air scoop had been grafted to the hood, which was painted a flat black. The rest of the car was an iridescent orange that had seen better days. Ron walked around the car and tapped the body, there was no fiberglass, so it didn’t appear that the car had been appreciably lightened. He turned to Slim and asked, “What does the engine look like?”

“Oh pretty much stock,” Slim replied.

“Well let’s have a look,” Ron said.

The raised hood revealed a 429 engine with a huge Holley four-barrel. The engine was dirty and smelled of gasoline. It didn’t look like it had had much attention lately.

“What do you want to drag for?” Ron asked.

“Make it easy on yourself,” Slim replied.

“You own this car?”

“Yeah, I own it.”

“Okay, I’ll put up my bike against your car.”

“You mean for pink slips?” Slim replied, somewhat perplexed.

“Yep, winner take all, quarter-mile drag, you still want to race?”

Slim glanced nervously around at his companions, thought for a moment and said, “You got a bet.”

Ron followed the quartet down the road for a few miles and then dropped back to avoid the dust when they turned off on a graveled road. A sign at the turnoff read: “Collier County Dragways—1/2 mile.” The graveled road ended in a parking area. Ron followed the Ford off the road and around the chained-up entrance to the strip. The Ford stopped at the starting line, but Ron continued slowly on down the strip, checking the surface condition and stopping occasionally to kick off a loose stone or a drink can. He made a short acceleration run to test the traction.

As he unloaded his camping gear, the group was busy taking off the header covers and checking the Ford’s engine. Ron sloshed the tank to check his fuel level and concluded that he had about a half gallon. He rolled the bike up to the starting line and conferred with Slim on the starting signal. It was agreed that the fat kid would give it.

Slim fired up the Ford and it idled unevenly. Ron cranked the bike and slid down into a crouched position to get as much weight as he could on the rear tire. Both revved up their engines as the fat kid held out his arm. As he let his arm fall, Slim dropped the clutch on the Ford and was away in a wheel-spinning start. Ron had made a smoother start, but was getting some front wheel lift. By the time he had shifted out of second, he was even with the Ford. When he was through third, he was

about 15 feet ahead; as he shifted into fourth the Ford was closing the gap. Ron could hear the “429” screaming above his engine’s muted roar. Crouching farther down, he crossed the finish line only about 10 feet ahead, as the Ford finished strongly. Ron glanced at the tach and noted it was slightly above 7 200 rpm and the speedometer bounced around 1 10.

Ron backed off the throttle and let the bike coast down, he made a slow turn and headed back to the starting line at a moderate pace. Slim had had some trouble getting the Ford slowed down and roared past him, geared down, and slid to a stop in front of the timing tower to confer with his friends. Ron rolled up to the side of the car where Slim was nervously revving the engine and said, “Just park it over there, off the strip,” and then rode over to where he had left his camping gear.

Slim drove the car off the strip, revved the engine a few times, and then cut the ignition. The group gathered around the engine compartment for a few moments, slammed the hood shut and then retreated to the timing tower to watch Ron load his bike. When the camping roll was securely fastened, Ron walked over to the group and said, “You ready with that title?”

Slim shoved his hands in his pocket and said with great concern, “Couldn't find it, thought it was in the glove compartment.”

Ron stared at him silently.

Slim offered, “You just leave me your address, and I’ll send it as soon as I get another copy. Uh, the keys are in the car.”

Ron smiled, shook his head and

walked over to the car. He opened the door and looked inside. The interior had been done in imitation zebra skin, and a dirty white shag rug covered the floor. The interior smelled of sweat and stale beer. He slid behind the steering wheel and turned the key. The engine turned over, but didn't catch. After a second try Ron got out of the car and looked over at the group. “She’s hard to start sometimes,” Slim shouted. The rest of the group grinned.

Ron raised the hood, checked the coil wire and found it in place. He flipped loose the distributor hold-down clips and removed the cap. The rotor was missing. He lowered the hood and stared at the prize thoughtfully for a moment. Then he walked back to his bike and rummaged in his toolkit for a few moments and returned to the car. He slid under the rear end and after a short time slid back out and leaned against the car, facing the group. A trickle of gasoline ran out from underneath the car from a loosened fitting. He removed a dark sun cured panatella from his jacket pocket, removed the wrapper and put it in his mouth. “Well, it looks like I’ll have to get someone to tow the car in,” Ron said to no one in particular.

“Yeah, you might try Fletcher’s,” Fats offered with a grin.

“I might just do that,” Ron said as he held a match to the end of the cigar.

“In the meantime, you guys had better stay away from the car, it looks like I have developed a gas leak, wouldn’t want anyone smoking around it.”

The group strained and saw the puddle slowly spreading.

With a curse from Slim, the group started toward the car. Ron took two steps away and dropped the match. The puddle flashed. Amidst curses and a frantic effort to smother the flames with dirt and gravel scooped up and thrown under the car, Ron walked back to his bike. There wasn't much gas left in the tank when it blew, so it only lifted the rear of the car about a foot off the ground, sending the unsuccessful firefighters sprawling.

The flames soon spread to the interior, and when the rear tires blew, all of the rest of the group gave up trying to save the car, except Slim, who tried profanely to urge on his companions.

Ron mounted his bike and rode up close to the scene. He viewed the singed, sooty group and said, “Thanks for trying to save my car, I’ll run on into town and see if I can get some help, probably stop by Fletcher’s.”

Ron ducked to avoid an egg-sized rock thrown by Fats, and accelerated safely out of range. When he reached the main highway he slowed to a leisurely pace to enjoy his cigar and the warm afternoon sun. 0