Defending the Crown

Defending the Crown

Sunday morning, 8:20, and time. Time to span the decades, time for Her Ma jesty's iron to gather. By the time the Triumph 500and I heed the call and ride into the Rose Bowl parking lot, there already are more than 100 machinesmuch more than 100parked under the morning sun of a clear day.

Today, firmly plopped in the 1980s, is somehow timeless. Today is the ’60s, the '50s, the '40s, and even earlier. Off to one side is an immaculate ’27 Velocette. It is the age of Amal, of Dunlop, of Lucas, of Smiths, of Avon.

It is the golden age of Britain’s motorcycles.

Now, I’m no British bike expert. I just know what I like. I like my '68 T100C. I liked my other five British bikes. Today, here, there’s a lot of what I like.

A simple walk around the parking lot reveals that. Whoever first talked about the Universal British Bike (two cylinders, parallel), was wrong. Sure, there’re a lot of those parked here, but there's also much more. Long-stroke Singles, Triples, Fours, V-Twins. The configurations are as varied as the minds of the great men who designed them.

As a rider, I think I would have liked knowing any one of them. Probably, we would have gotten along just fine. Why? Their designs. External pushrod tubes. Magnetos out in the open, where you can work on them. Oil pump, under this cover; cam, under that one. No need to unbolt the engine to get at something.

Drawbacks? Not that I can think of. Looking about, a thought occurs. No one built the variety of machines that the British did on their tiny island. Machines, I said. Not transports, modes, transportation, modules. Machines, pure, simple, bold. When they ran, they boomed, hissed, clattered, thrashed, rumbled, shook. That’s what machines are supposed to do.

Oil leaks? you say. Rubbish. Let’s you know you have oil can’t leak oil if you don't have any. Besides, that’s what handrags are for.

Hmm. What? Oh, sightseeing’s over and it’s time to ride. Maps, a rider's meeting and then boom, hiss, clatter, thrash, rumble, shake. Bikes are started and the riders head out in twos and threes. Just listening is exciting. The ride will be a bonus.

A short jog out of Pasadena on the freeway, and then it's up into the curving roads of the Los Angeles National Forest. Climbing, twisting. I growl past a 650. In a moment, a Velocette shoves past me. Riders pull up, pass, drop back. Every few minutes, you find you’re riding with someone new.

Once a year the British bikes come out of hiding and force the calendar into retreat.

Bob Anderson

We stop at a convenience store. No one seems to know where we are. Except that we’re here. Riders dismount, stretch and move from bike to bike, commenting, complimenting, questioning. Whatever motorcycle someone is on, someone else had, or has, or wants, or will have.

I’ve been riding behind a ’68 Triumph 650, which, as it turns out, is being ridden by a pretty, young woman. Loves the bike, she says. Her boyfriend’s on a ’71 650, but he says he likes her ’68 better. So much better, he says, that he’s getting ready to restore a basket case ’68.

The throng begins to thin out, so I step back onto the 500 and ramble off to run the next stretch of mountain road on the route map.

A pleasant ride again, passing, being

passed, riding group, riding solo. A good while later, the road spills us into a service station. The town’s called Saugus. This time, we know where we are. We’re here, we’re in Saugus. I visit a bit with a Gold Star rider. The visit ends when his traveling companion, a woman, cranks up her bike and sits, waiting for him to get the Gold Star going. Turns out she’ll have a real wait. Two backfires, and he’s getting ready to kick again. I start my 500, one Kick, and ride off, leaving him astride the BSA, panting. My last words to him could be summed up as this: Get a Triumph.

Back over the mountains again, the run finishes at the Hansen Dam Recreation area. There are drawings, prizes, hot dogs and finisher pins. All free. All because a handful of people still believe in Her Majesty’s iron. In the magic.

A couple of hours will bring dark, so riders begin going their ways. I join them, steering the Triumph toward the freeway, toward home. I pass a couple of Triumphs; three waves are exchanged. After 10 more miles, a Vincent eases up beside me. Thumbs up to the rider, who flashes a grin and disappears up the freeway, leaving behind only a rumble. Pavement slides by below me. Two Nortons pull up and this time, I get the thumbs up. A trio, we’re together for a bit, enjoying the company. It’s not the company of strangers, but rather the company of fellow soldiers.

But eventually, they pull off onto a side ramp, and I’m alone. It’s just me and the Sunday night commuters, navigating the L.A. freeway. In the twinkling of an eye, 200, maybe more, of the best of the British have vanished.

They’re off to do battle.

Her Majesty’s gathering is an annual event, every November. For information on the 1983 British Bike Roadride, contact Triumph Motorcycles, P.O. Box 1060, Placentia, Calif., 92670. Include a self-addressed, stamped envelope. Come November, bring your British bike and your handrag. And prepare to do battle for the empire.