Tent Revival
Tent revival
LEANINGS
Peter Egan
LAST WEEK, MY TRIUMPH-RIDING friend Daniel Swadener called and said he was going to a big weekend party thrown by the British Bike Cooperative, a Midwestern organization dedicated to the preservation, enjoyment and well-deserved worship of bikes from the Scepter'd Isle.
"It's held at a campground near Elkhart Lake," Daniel said. "They'll have music, camping, a chicken bar becue and free beer."
ouncieu n~e a great idea to me. tie sides being fun, it would force me to fix one of my two British bikes.
Both were running, but the Triumph had a taillight out. There was no sign of voltage at the rear wires, which dis appeared into the 25-year-old cloth covered wiring harness like a couple of drain pipes into the sewers of Istanbul.
Where was all that unused electricity going? Certainly not into the headlight. Perhaps it was radiating a Lucas force field, energizing the farm dog that al ways chases me on Country Trunk B. In any case, I hate electrical work, so I turned my attention to the Norton.
The Norton needed fork seals, bush ings and tubes. It was drooling oil all over the front disc, a condition that actually caused the bike to speed up whenever the front brake was applied, as if the lever was injecting a shot of nitro into the combustion chamber while simultaneously dumping half a pound of melted butter onto the disc. The BBC party was just the incentive I needed to fix this problem at last.
So I studied my olticial Norton shop manual and then called my friend and Norton guru Brian Slark in St. Louis to see if there were hidden tricks or special tools required. "Noth ing special needed," Brian said. "Just get the forks out and do it in a vice with soft jaws. Use the axle to turn the slider and unscrew the seal retainer'
Good. I jumped into my car on Fri day afternoon and sped off to the nearest Norton shop, 75 miles away in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Sunset Motors, home of the World's Fastest Norton, the double-engined Hogslayer, and T.C. Christenson, its famous master. T.C. had everything I needed in stock, so I turned right around and raced home, radar detector humming.
When I got back to my shop, the fork went together without a hitch. I added 150cc of 30-weight fork oil to each tube, installed new front-brake pads, then cleaned, polished and ad justed everything on the bike.
I strapped on my tankbag, sleeping bag and 20-year-old Eureka Timber line tent, and at 3 in the morning all was in readiness. I celebrated with a Guinness, then headed for bed just before sunrise.
On my way from the garage to the house, it started to rain. Large, cold drops. By the time I got to the house, it was pouring.
I awoke to my early alarm, rain beating on the roof, and called Dan. It's one thing to get caught in a hard rain, I suggested, but another thing to purposely leave while it's storming. Dan agreed we should watch the weather and wait.
It rained hard all morning, and I sud denly realized how tired I was. It had been a long week, and staying up all night hadn't helped. Maybe I should forget the ride, stick around the house. Make some coffee, clean my desk, read the paper, take a nap. Relax.
By noon, it was still dark, but bare ly drizzling. The mood to go riding had vanished, but Dan called and talked me into giving it a try. -
So in the early afternoon, Dan and I hooked up with our mutual friend Chris Beebe and headed out on 140 miles of backroads through the beau tiful Kettle Moraine hills and lakes of eastern Wisconsin.
Chris rode his new Honda GB500, which is cheating. but at least it looks British. His Norton, of course, is in the basement with charging-system problems. He hates wiring, too.
It misted lightly on the way over, but by the time we rode through the gates of the campground, it had turned into a beautiful, warm summer evening, the soft air filled with the scent of chicken over charcoal.
Nice campground. The new-mown fields and hills had a Woodstock look about them, an effect no doubt en hanced by the sight and sound of Six ties British Iron, mostly Triumphs and Nortons, and the music. A rock band called 9-Volt Jubilee played in an open-air tent. One of the best bands I'd ever heard.
Nice group, this BBC, and an inter esting bunch, too. A curious mixture of biker types with Norton, Triumph or BSA instead of Harley patches; guys in bib overalls and pony tails, long-lost brothers of Jerry Garcia or Duane Ailman; and of course the usual batch of unremarkable British bike-loving riffraff who look about like me. The kind of group in which you quickly feel a pleasant sense of immersion and relaxation.
On the other hand, maybe I just drank too much free beer from the huge free beer truck. Whatever it was, I had an awfully good time.
Before we packed up the tent and left the next day, a very nice woman named Naomi signed me up as a BBC member, so I could get news of future events. The spell had been cast.
On the way home, the Norton ran better than I ever remember it run ning. Smooth and fast, as though I'd accidentally gotten a tank of high-oc tane racing fuel. Flawless.
But then the whole trip was flaw less. Backroad summer motorcycle camping weekends, I decided, are like Nortons. When they work right, there is absolutely nothing that is any better for the soul.
And to think that I had almost missed it all because of gloomy skies, a hard week and a general sense of laziness and fatigue.
On those last few miles home, I re membered a pact that the famous au thor F. Scott Fitzgerald had made with his wife Zelda when they were living in Paris during the Twenties: Never be too tired to do anything.
