The Dream Machine

THE DREAM MACHINE

A ride on a legend

NOW'S MY CHANCE: I'M GOING TO RIDE SID Biberman's Black Shadow, the model which most completely sums up the Vincent mystique, the Vincent my buddies and I used to talk about when we were kids.

The 1000cc V-Twin lopes at idle in front of Big Sid’s Classic Motorcycles, as I remind myself to brake on the left, shift on the right, and above all, remember that first gear is up. Sid smiles, but fails to hide his concern.

The clutch pulls easily, and I engage first gear, then carefully thread the Vincent into traffic. Once into second gear, I roll on the throttle, and each power stroke becomes an event in itself. Though muffled, the engine’s combustion sounds are like mortar rounds leaving their tubes.

I want to experiment with the power and handling, but traffic and the expense of Vincent spares keep me cool. Biberman claims the Black Shadow will deliver a comfortable touring speed of 100 miles per hour, and the bike gives me no reason to doubt him.

I weave around as much as circumstance allows, and can detect that the bike resists turning quickly. It feels heavy, and takes a decided effort to change direction, especially at low speeds. The gyro effect of a 21-inch front wheel explains part of this, but the real bugaboos are the massive Girdraulic fork and short handlebar. The Vincent needs to be leaned more than steered, but not leaned too far, as sticky, moderncompound tires aren’t available in the Vincent’s sizes.

The overall ride is supple for a bike this old; still, it gives me double-vision over a ripply section in the road. Doubtless at least some of this stiffness comes from the bike being set up for Sid, who stands more than 6 feet tall and is almost twice my weight.

An intersection catches my attention. I look at the speedometer: 60 miles an hour, no sweat. As the light gets closer, I notice it’s been green for a long time. I pass the “slow-down-like-a-gentleman” point. Still green . . . and then the light goes yellow. I’m well into the idiot zone before dropping anchor. Brakes on gently for feel, then quickly progressing to full squeeze as confidence is fed back through my fingers. The back end dances a little, but holds straight and sure, as I come to a halt, a frightening 6 feet into the intersection. Not bad for street-going drum brakes, but discs they ain’t.

The ride is over before I’m ready. Too soon, it’s time to restore the bike to its worried owner; time to begin reviewing this once-in-a-lifetime ride, one I have dreamed about—and will remember—for years.

—Chip Furlong