Leanings

LEANINGS

Grand Opening

Peter Egan

I HATE TO COMPLAIN, BUT THIS PAST WINter was the worst in the history of the world. It snowed about every other day here in Wisconsin, breaking all records, with brutally cold temperatures between the storms. The whole winter was like one long Everest expedition, but without the pleasant view.

Luckily, all things must pass, and last weekend spring descended on us with the suddenness of a ceasefire in Bastogne. The warm calm and silence were deafening.

I walked into my workshop and realized that it was colder inside than out, so I removed the duct tape from around the garage doors and threw them open. A tide of warm spring air flooded in.

Just then the phone rang. It was my friend Lew. “It’s supposed to be 64 degrees today and I just picked up my brandnew Triumph Bonneville. You want to go for a ride?”

Did I want to go for a ride?

Did our dogs want to roll on that decomposed gopher in the front yard?

I'd been staring for nearly three months at my “new” 1961 Velocette Venom, wondering what the thing would be like to ride. It had arrived by refrigerated truck from California and I’d snow-blown a path to the workshop so I could put it away. Meanwhile, I’d polished, adjusted and fettled the thing until I was about nuts, even starting it up twice inside the workshop, saturating my clothes with the rich smell of old muffler soot.

But I had never ridden this Venom-or any other. I’d bought it on the advice of wise friends who swore these bikes were “sweet-running.” So, with Lew on the way, I put on my motorcycle boots, got out my brand-new Barbour jacket (Barb accidentally shrank my venerable Belstaff jacket in the dryer, so now our cat is wearing it) and returned to the garage.

I thought it would be a good idea to try starting the Velocette before Lew got there. British Singles, like great opera, need rehearsing before you open at the Met. I turned on the petcock, tickled the Amal, retarded the magneto, pulled in the compression release to bring it over top dead center and.. .and... it started on the third kick. Perfect idle, like an Indian war drum in a John Ford western.

Advance magneto, snick into gear, release the famously light clutch and we’re off. Slightly awkward shift lever positionyou have to lift your foot like a trained elephant-but surprisingly quick acceleration. Tall gearing, with a fourth gear that’s quite relaxed at 65 mph, unlike the busier 500cc Triumph Twins I’ve owned.

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In the curves on Old Stage Road the steering was intuitive and dead-neutral, effortless as a Schwinn. A narrow, light bike with a perfect riding position. Delightful motorcycle. My friends were right: It was sweet-running.

Just then I saw Lew coming toward me on his new black-and-red T100 Bonneville and stopped. “Let’s ride to New Glarus for lunch,” I said. Lew nodded and we were off. First ride of spring.

We took the sweeping backroads to the picturesque Swiss settlement of New Glams and pulled up in front of Puempel’s Bar, a great old joint with high ceilings and dark woodwork. It was warm enough to sit outdoors on the front porch. Naturally, I ordered their famous Limburgerand-onion sandwich.

Limburger is considered toxic by many people, but I love the stuff. There’s only one Limburger factory left in North America, and it’s about 20 miles from New Glarus. Puempel’s keeps it in ajar inside another jar, wrapped in foil, as if they were dealing with nuclear waste.

In a celebratory mood, I also ordered a beer instead of the usual Diet Coke (oh Lord, here come the letters), a glass of “Spotted Cow,” which is brewed about 100 yards from the bar.

Eat and drink fresh stuff made locally, I always say-even if you buy a bike made 47 years ago in England.

“It took me a while to get the foam off your beer,” the bartender said. “We just opened a new keg.”

Perfect. New first everything.

Lew and I sat on the porch admiring our two bikes parked at the curb. “Funny,” Lew said, “how the new Bonneville and the old Venom still have some of the same basic characteristics that made people like British bikes in the first placeperfect size, good riding position and easy, natural steering on a winding country road...”

“Also simple and uncluttered, with great looks,” I added, by way of mutual self-congratulations.

We rode back to my place through the balmy spring afternoon, and when we got home Barb came out to the workshop and said, “Butch Chase called while you were gone. He got your old Harley Cafe Racer out of the garage and is ready to come over and trade it for the one you have.” Butch and I had been trying to make this swap for exactly six months, but our garages had been snowed in.

So Butch soon came roaring up the driveway with my old 1977 XLCR. We traded titles, and I swapped him straight across for the nearly identical ’77 I bought in Chicago last fall. Both bikes were in equally good condition, but I'd had my heart set, irrationally, on getting my original bike back. Psychiatrists probably have a term...

Butch and Lew and I went for a ride, and it was great to be riding my first XLCR again. It was a little looser than the one I traded with Butch, and had 4000 more miles on the clock, but it had some indefinable magic for me, like a wellbroken-in guitar that suits you and nobody else. The guitar you should never have sold because you can’t really describe why it feels so good to play.

When I got home, I parked the Harley next to the Velo and pulled up a lawn chair just outside the open garage doors, alternately looking at bikes and watching the sun go down behind the trees. As the sky darkened, the garage got brighter, like a lighted baseball diamond at dusk.

Meanwhile, up in the driveway next to the house, Barb was pulling the dusty cover off our charcoal grill.

I believe this is called being back in business. □