Motorcycle Companies and Early Aviation

"When Motorcycle Companies Took To The Skies" was recently published in ThunderPress.  During the first decade or so of the 20th century the rapid technological advances for internal combustion engines allowed for the creation of a aeronautics industry.  Power-to-weight ratios were a consideration addressed by motorcycle manufacturers so it should come as no surprise that some of these companies would venture into this new industry.  Two motorcycle companies that were actively involved in developing engines for aircraft were Curtiss and Indian (Hendee Mfg. Co.).  Curtiss went on to change aviation history while that of Indian has been largely forgotten.

The full article can be read at www.thunderpress.net/MONTH_ARTICLE-pdfs/2009/1209/WhenMotorcycle/WhenMotorcycle.shtml

Montebello Land Rover Experience Driving School

 Learning To Love A Rocky Road: The Land Rover Experience Driving School in Montebello.

 --previously published on NaturalTraveler.com  

      The vehicle slides sideways as sand-encrusted tires seek purchase on naked rock.  Even more unnerving is the radical incline angle of the Range Rover that limits the driver’s view to treetops and sky. Yet all is as it should be: I’m attending the Land Rover Experience Driving School in Montebello, Quebec.

     This is not a training school for those planning on running in the Baja 1000.  In fact, there’s rarely an opportunity to shift the vehicle out of first gear while maneuvering around the obstacle course.  The focus of instruction is to build driver confidence, teach basic off-road skills, and train owners how to properly utilize these amazing machines. 

     Following instructions, I angle the wheels and maintain gentle pressure on the accelerator.  The Range Rover Discovery (LR3) regains traction and pulls us to the top.  Now for the next lesson: descending a steep rocky trail.  With the transmission in first gear, Simon encourages me to take my foot off the accelerator (no problem) and off the brake (are you crazy!?) to allow the ABS (anti-lock braking system) to take control.  With all-wheel drive and independent suspension, the computerized system coupled with high-compression engine braking does a better job descending the trail than I could manage manually.

     There are four Land Rover Experience Driving Schools in North America and each provides a unique experience in terms of terrain.  Each of these is located at a five-star resort of international acclaim: Equinox in Manchester, Vermont; Biltmore in Ashville, North Carolina; and Quail Lodge in Carmel Valley, California.  The first Land Rover Experience was established here, at Fairmount Le Château Montebello in Quebec.

       Located on the north bank of the Ottawa River about halfway between Montreal and Ottawa, Le Château Montebello is the retreat of world leaders and movie stars.  It’s the largest log building in the world and has hosted major historical conferences including a recent G8 Summit.  Although the office and headquarters of the school are located in the relatively smaller log structure of the Sports Complex adjacent to the Château, the courses and trails are in the nearby Fairmount Kenauk Preserve, a 100-square-mile expanse of forest and pristine lakes.

      My vehicle for the day turns out to be a LR3 with an optional winch.  Built to traverse the toughest off-road trails--whether through jungle, across savannah, over desert, or in the Northern Borel Forest—the interior of this hundred-thousand-dollar technical marvel makes my Jag look almost plebian.  Make no mistake about it:  although the vast majority of these vehicles in North America are owned by soccer moms and commuting business executives whose off-road experience is limited to jumping a curb or traffic island, this Range Rover will tackle anything in the world that’s seven-feet wide and claims to be a road.

        After a couple of hours of driving through trenches and ditches, over large rocks and outcroppings, along watercourses and deeply rutted roads I “graduate” to a real-world trail through the Kenauk.  

         The beavers have been busy expanding their territory and I’m forced to drive over their dam and through the shallows to continue on the road.  The Range Rover is not an amphibious craft and there’s a technique to driving through water that’s deep enough to reach the top of the tires.  However, this is the good portion of the trail.

          Sometimes teetering on three tires or scraping the skid plates of the undercarriage we slowly crawl along a trail of deep mud ruts interspersed with rocks.  On the street there’s nothing so annoying as a driver that “rides the brake.”  Off-road requires a bit of unlearning as the brake and accelerator are utilized simultaneously to minimize suspension compression and rebound.  My calf muscles are cramping as I apply this lesson to the real-world scenario.  Occasional bangs on the undercarriage indicate how well I’m doing.

          We stop at the foot of the hill and walk the trail to the crest.  A steep incline with both loose rock and small boulders this challenge is complicated by a tricky corner in the middle with a drop-off on one side.  Simon gets out to direct me, but this stretch of road has to be traversed by a combination of memory, “feel,” and the wheel position indicators on the LCD display console. 

            Slow, but constant acceleration and careful maneuvering gets me up the hill and around the corner, but I loose traction when climbing a series of large rocks.  Now I have to back down to the corner in order to make a second attempt.  The LR3 has an onboard camera that will provide a rear view, but I’m not about to take my hands off the steering wheel to seek the proper button!  Instead I carefully follow Simon’s instructions.  The incline prevents me from seeing any portion of the trail so trust in my instructor and the capabilities of the LR3 becomes of paramount importance at this stage. 

            This school is about more than learning off-road driving techniques. Besides individual instruction, Land Rover Experience offers corporate team-building activities.  Mission Impossible, Geo-Cache, Scavenger Hunt, and Off-Road Challenge develop trust and communication skills in addition to developing personal confidence.

             We cover about six kilometers (3.7 miles) during our two-hour drive.  Leaving the Kenauk Preserve, the single-lane gravel road feels like an open freeway in comparison. No, this is not the Baja 1000, but it’s the most fun I’ve had behind the wheel of a car in many years.

A Night at Quebec's Ice Hotel

 An Ice Time In Quebec -- previously published in ThunderPress and posted on sites by Quebec Tourism.   It's not for everyone, but those looking for a very different experience should consider spending a night at the Waldorf-Astoria of igloos, the famous Ice Hotel.

Quebec bikers are crazy and get a little out there during the depths of winter.  I was in Quebec City to attend the largest bike show in the province and make the contacts necessary to carry out my summer touring plans.  Determined to figure out what riders did when the snow was ass-deep for months at a time and temperatures dropped to negative double digits, I booked a room in the Waldorf-Astoria of igloos, the world-famous Hôtel de Glace (Ice Hotel) in nearby Duchesnay.

There’s only one ice hotel in North America and, being made entirely of ice and snow, it’s not a four-season resort.  Every December a new hotel is constructed and every April it melts away in a natural rhythm that has been inescapable since the last Ice Age.  With the wind blowing out of the northwest and the temperature at minus-19 degrees it seemed that another Ice Age was imminent. I stashed my gear in the heated Pavillon Talik and headed over to the hotel.

     

I was surprised at the relative warmth even as my breath rose hard and white on the still air.  In the lobby a delicate bouquet of ivory flowers and green leaves screams in sensory contrast.  Ahead stretches a reception hall in a style that I can only describe as Tolkienesque:  walls the color of the finest Carrara marble carved in bas-relief beneath a Gothic arched ceiling supported by crystal-clear pillars of ice.  In the center of the hall a massive ice chandelier infused with ever changing spectral hues glows in dim splendor. With my steps leaving waffled imprints on a floor raked with Zen precision, I advance, expecting at any moment to encounter an ice queen or perhaps the White Witch of Narnia.  Soon joined by my cohorts we set off to explore this fantasy world of ice and snow – and to find our rooms for the night. 

Detailed descriptions are useless—the hotel is built to a different design and the sculptural theme differs each year. Embedded LED lighting transforms 500 tons of carved ice and 15,000 tons of sculpted snow into surrealistic visions.  Animal skins cover chairs and benches carved from special ice that’s made in Montreal and trucked north. Foam mattresses grace crystalline beds.  One suite has a fireplace and a hot tub; my monastic room has a floor to ceiling pierced wall of ice as the footboard to the bed.  Others feature elaborately carved walls with fantasy designs, dragons, hockey players, and artifacts or photographs embedded in blocks of ice. 

It was time out for supper.  Since the ice hotel doesn’t boast a kitchen--they should open a sushi bar--we quickly walk to the government owned and operated Pavillon Horizon.  To our surprise and delight we discover an inexpensive five-star restaurant with impeccable service, a wine list to die for, and a menu so exquisite that it nearly results in paralysis of decision for six devoted foodies.  Such was simply not expected in a rustic outpost on the edge of the Canadian wilderness. 

In our absence the public spaces of the hotel have been transformed from a Nordic ice palace into an ultra-chic nightclub.  Music pulses in the acoustically flawless Ice Bar while colors sluice through ice and soak in walls of snow a meter thick. In one corner, imprisoned on four sides by thermal glass, a fire burns in heatless, décor-designed splendor while guests frantically sculpt ice on workbenches supplied for this purpose.  The bartender pours concoctions into the rocks--the results looking like a cliché 1960s B-grade sci-fi movie--while a demonic face looks over his shoulder.  I comment that my father had always admonished that I’d earn a one-way ticket to Hell.  Bill retorts that this couldn’t be Hell, because the Devil would only allow a single drink for all eternity and we were getting refills.  Point well taken.  Meanwhile the women have disappeared and there was only one place they can be.

In the courtyard hot tubs gurgle beneath a full moon so crisp it didn’t seem real.  Fighting against the Artic night none of the tubs can push the water temperature above 98 degrees.  All guests go through a briefing before being allowed to stay the night.  One of the admonishments was not to go to bed until your hair was completely dry or risk becoming literally frozen to the bed.  Likewise, don’t put eyeglasses on the side table: they’ll freeze into the ice.  Therefore the inevitable becomes an ad hoc experiment: how many nearly naked people, whom one is not on intimate terms with, can be packed into a 6 x 4 foot sauna (eleven is the correct answer).

Dressed in a bathrobe and hiking boots I contemplate what was learned while padding back to my room through snow tunnels.  The past couple of days had been spent snowshoeing, dog sledding, and watching teams of athletes competitively push and paddle special ice canoes across the treacherous pack ice and currents of the St. Lawrence River. I had checked out arcane machines designed for winter riders and watched thousands of people of all ages reveling in Winter Carnival activities in spite –or defiance-- of the frigid weather.  Snuggling deep into my Artic sleeping bag I come to understand that Quebec bikers aren’t crazy, but rather are infused with a spirit that our puritanical American culture seems to lack.  Up here they call it joie de vivre – the joy of living.  

Vintage Motorcycles At Owls Head Transportation Museum

Vintage Motorcycle Day At Owls Head -- previously published in ThunderPress.  Vintage Motorcycle Day is an annual event held at the Owls Head Transportation Museum (one of my favorite museums) and I highly recommend attending it during Labor Day.

The price at the pump is at an all-time high, but like a addict in need of a fix I’m blowing out carbon emissions fast enough to catch a little air when dropping into Dixfield Notch. I’m headed to the coast of Maine for the annual Vintage Motorcycle Day at the Owl’s Head Transportation Museum, one of the finer shrines to the internal combustion engine. With the price of fossil fuel climbing faster than global temperatures the quality of one’s ride becomes paramount and shouldn’t be treated lightly.

            Pulling into my host’s driveway, I see that Jeff has arrived home a mere hour ahead of me. We hadn’t spoken in two weeks and considering that he was riding in from Labrador City and me from Montreal this was no mean feat of coordination.

I arrive at the museum early in the morning. Early enough to switch on the lights to the engine room; early enough that my footsteps echo in the cavernous halls and I can poke my nose into workshops that will be securely shuttered before the crowd arrives. I arrive early enough to have unobstructed views in order to photograph a small part of this amazing collection. Today is a celebration of the motorcycle and there’s no place better to start than at the beginning.

Motorcycling began when Sylvester Roper built his first steam velocipede in 1868. He was the first motorcyclist and the museum has built an exact replica of his first design (the original is in the Smithsonian’s collection). For today’s demonstration the boiler won’t be fired up and compressed air will be used to duplicate steam pressure, but there it sits as if waiting for some brave soul to mount up and ride it away. Next to it sits an 1898 Leon Bolle Tri-car that’s ready to roll, and back inside next to the entrance doors sits an 1885 Benz. The engines that herald in the motorcycle—The Otto Cycle (“cycle refers to the four-stroke cycle, not a motorcycle) and a 1902 DeDion-Bouton (the licensing of this engine created the motorcycle industry) are displayed opposite a 90-tone Harris-Corliss steam power plant.

Wandering past a 1919 Harley-Davidson Model 19F that’s parked next to a 1929 Rolls-Royce Derby-bodied touring car that was once owned by Clara Bow, I cross the hall by the blue 1905 Panhard tourer to check out the showroom-condition motorcycles that are going up for auction later in the month. The famous Richard C. Paine collection is up for sale and these are among the items being placed on the block:  a 1910 Peugeot 660cc V-twin; a 1913 Yale; and a 1916 Model 16F Harley-Davidson. Dream on: the bargain-priced Peugeot has a pre-auction estimate of 30 to 35 grand! 

Back out in the sunshine riders have begun to arrive. Some of these registered for the road scoots are as cherry as those in the exhibition halls. Dewey Rice finished restoring his 1922 Model F Harley-Davidson this spring and has “ridden it all over the place,” but for everyday transportation he relies on a 1926 Model JD with sidecar. Not everyone is arriving by motorcycle: some fly in and others arrive in cages that any biker would desire. There’s a chocolate and cream-colored 1954 Bentley with a price tag of only $12,500 and while the less expensive 1949 Packard ambulance needs more extensive reswork, it’s a real biker’s car. Just beyond the Bentley is a trailer packed with vintage Indian and Harley motorcycles. They’re for sale, but I don’t ask whether you have to buy the entire trailer or get to pick-and-choose. Meanwhile, Carl has fired the seven-cylinder radial engine of the 1933 Waco for flight, but the wind is a bit stiff and so takes off in the WWII light bomber instead. As the parade continues to stream through the gates, the back lot of the museum assumes a festival atmosphere.

Despite its showroom sheen, the orange C-class Harley-Davidson-single racer that’s been trailered in is reputed to be ready for the final tech inspection. I spot my dream machine and with lust in my heart wander over to check out a pristine 750 XR. It looks brand new!  Others are more captivated with the 100% original Excelsior X that’s just rolled in and parked near the veteran Indian hill-climber. The Harley WLA is loaded for bear and I just have to take a peek. Yup, there’s a Thompson machine gun in the front scabbard—bet this is one bike that no one messes with. So many dream machines and these are just the America brands!

There are Beemers, Hondas, Italian stallions, and rows of Brit bikes to scrutinize. I discover an unfamiliar Moto Guzzi scooter and another of my dream machines, a Ducati 907ie. Meanwhile, Charlie keeps the banter flowing over the PA system as time for the Ingo competition draws near. The lines at the food vendor are dauntingly long and, ensconced in the shadowed maw of a maintenance hanger, I watch the kids playing with pedal-powered vehicles within their fenced-off patch of asphalt. The Leon Bolle putts around the yard. This last day of the summer is turning into the hottest one of the season as the crowd continues to grow.

One of my friends tells me to check out the front parking lot. Making my way around the main building I encounter a sea of motorcycles just beyond a tour-bus load of bewildered seniors who are wondering what they’ve run into. There are more bikes visible in this one parking lot than I’ve seen at most rallies this year, and they’re still rolling in.

The Ingo competition is underway and I get to witness what the ten volunteer contestants have gotten themselves into. The 1935 Ingo-Bike turns out to be a weird cross between a bicycle and a scooter. When the rider provides a rhythmic bouncing motion to the scooter platform frame the energy is transferred to the off-center hub of the rear wheel and causes forward motion. The principle is sound, but the contestants soon discover success requires more practice than theory.

Just as the crowd appears to reach critical mass, it begins to dissipate as if by an agreed upon plan. This is the coast of Maine and the day is just too fine not to be riding. By 2:30 it’s essentially over and I pack my gear. Home is 250 miles and two mountain ranges away. If I start now perhaps I can get through moose country before it gets dark.

Distilled fodder from a 300-million-year-old Carboniferous jungle feeds my metallic beast as I contemplate the brief history of the internal combustion engine on my long ride back. Owls Head is one of my favorite transportation museums, perhaps because everything has been restored to operational condition by a small army of devoted volunteers, acolytes of the arcane mechanical science of motive power.

Mount Washington Hotel

White Mountain Resort   -- previously published in ThunderPress magazine.  I am fortunate to have the opportunity to stay at many exceptional properties during my travels.  Most of these experiences have not been published or have received a brief mention or paragraph in my stories.  I will be posting more stories about these during 2010 in hopes that some readers will take advantage of the experience offered by staying or visiting these places.

One of the last grand hotels in the state and embodiment of luxury for generations of New Englanders, The Mount Washington Hotel (now called the Mount Washington Resort) in Bretton Woods is a cultural experience.  Built in 1902 its construction included cutting edge technology (a steel skeleton, fire sprinklers, a hydraulic elevator, electric lights installed by Thomas Edison) and old-world craftsmanship (two entire Italian villages and their craftsmen were brought to the White Mountains to build the hotel) combined with “cost-is-no-object” furnishings, fittings, and accoutrements.

            The sale of this venerable property to a consortium has resulted in millions of dollars being spent in the meticulous restoration (not renovation) of the hotel and the professional pride and expertise of its employees is evident in every little detail.  The grand dame of the White Mountains has returned to the splendor of her youth, and while she still has here own post office (and zip code) and retains her private telephone system, there are subtle updates such as the wi-fi computer connection.

            I used the original “auto entrance” to unload my gear, but, to their obvious disappointment, didn’t allow the valets to park my motorcycle.  I didn’t retreat to the once notorious speakeasy called the Cave Grill, but did relax with a snifter of Grand Marnier on the Grand Veranda.  I did borrow a jacket to have dinner in a room where light filtered through windows made by Louis Comfort Tiffany and where my table was set with more silverware than I have fingers on my hand, but in the morning opted for the quick self-service coffee table with Styrofoam cups.  Instead of relaxing in the conservatory or lounging in the palatial Grand Hall, I chose to sit at the table were the gold standard was signed into law and International Monetary Fund established in 1944. 

            The White Mountain Region has an abundance of hotels, motels, and campsites. There seems to be a place for almost every taste and budget.  However, The Mount Washington is something more than just a place to lay one’s head – despite the eleven pillows and exquisitely comfortable bed I experienced.  Staying here is like stepping back into the Gilded Age without sacrificing modern conveniences and, as an experience, few hotels in North America can compare.

Motorcycling Montreal

Motorcycling Montreal

by Ken Aiken

Leaning back against the gray-stone wall and soaking up heat from the spring sun, I savor my first cappuccino of the day as sibilant sounds of French and the clicking of stiletto heels on cobblestones reach my ears. Across the street the horizon is defined by the top deck and smokestacks of an ocean-going vessel and white seagulls that soar on motionless wings against a flawless blue sky. It’s early Saturday and with little traffic on Rue de la Commune I’m able to park my scoot directly in front of the café – something that will be nearly impossible in a couple of hours. It feels like I’m back in Europe, but in fact I’m just an hour’s ride from Vermont.

Montreal is the second largest French-speaking city in the world; only 18.5% of the slightly fewer than two million inhabitants consider English to be their primary language. Despite their diverse ethnic backgrounds, residents are fervently French in culture, but communication poses few problems since most have English as their second or third language.

This is an island city. Situated in the middle of the St. Lawrence River at the mouth of the Ottawa River, 994 miles from the Atlantic Ocean, Montreal became North America’s second-busiest port until the St. Lawrence Seaway opened in 1959 and is still the largest inland port in the world. Discovered in 1535 by Jacques Cartier while he searched for the elusive Northwest Passage, its strategic military and trade location caused it to play a pivotal role in the development of both Canada and the United States.

Vieux (Old) Montreal – with its narrow cobbled streets flanked by gray stone buildings housing restaurants, shops, and art galleries – has a distinctive European feel and the greatest concentration of 17^th, 18^th, and 19^th century buildings in North America. A promenade of a communal green and the King Edward and Alexandria piers lay between Rue de la Commune and the river. Reclaimed from their former roles as major international docking quays, they now support an IMAX theater, food vendors, and the city’s science center. It’s just one of the city’s many “green zones,” but definitely a choice one for people watching.

Riding over the low ridge that divides the tourist-oriented port from the modern city, I find a parking space on Boulevard Saint Laurent only half a block from the red-and-gold gate that leads into Chinatown. The narrow sidewalks are overflowing and small grocery stores packed as Asians come from all over the city to shop in this small, unique district. Distinctly foreign, I could be in any small Asian city once under the dominion of France.

I take time just to ride around the city, cruising through canyons of glass and steel and eventually winding up Mont-Royal between the Cemetery of Notre-Dame and the 500-acre park. Stopping at the only observation point accessible to vehicles I gaze at the expanse of the eastern part of the city. Sticking up like a sore thumb, the futuristic leaning tower of the “Big O” (Olympic Stadium and former home of the Montreal Expos) is an unmistakable landmark of Montreal Est (East) and I orient myself in relation to it.

Cruising down into The Plateau, the stadium is centered at the end of Avenue du Mont-Royal like the front sight on a rifle. Sidewalks are crowded as residents of this ethnically diverse area browse trendy shops and run Saturday errands at specialty stores. The ambiance reminds me of the Haight district of San Francisco in the 70s: head shops, music stores, and funky galleries intermingled with straight retail establishments. Once again the bike gets parked and I become a tourist on foot.

On Rue St. Denis, I ride by another of Montreal’s numerous tree-filled parks. Intrigued, I loop around and park in front of a row of townhouses in which each otherwise identical residence has its window frames and front door painted in a different vibrant color. The architecture on these streets is pure eye candy and judging from the plethora of turrets and parapets, 19th-century Montrealers took the expression “a man’s home is his castle” to heart.

From St. Louis Square (a park) it’s a short stroll down Côte Prince Arthur Est, a pedestrian-only avenue of ethnic restaurants where BYOB is the trendy norm, to Boulevard St. Laurent. On the northern edge of the Latin Quarter, this is the center of Montreal’s noted restaurant and nightclub district. This is a place where it’s easy to drop $300 for dinner, but dozens of restaurants offering midi (mid-day) la table d’hôte (complete meal specials) for) for less than ten bucks.

Quebec drivers are among the worst I’ve encountered in my travels and busy mid-day traffic means it’s now impossible to sightsee and ride safely. Parking places have become especially scarce, so I park illegally the next time, squeezing in alongside a Honda VFR in a space reserved for taxis across from Place Des Art on Rue St. Catherine Ouest (West). The smell of reefer is everywhere. This casual, but not blatant, openness on one of the city’s busiest streets surprises me. Strip clubs and tacky tourist shops blend with international clothing outlets, fine restaurants, books stores, offices, and performing arts theaters; it’s a heady mix for a country boy. After an enjoyable half an hour of people watching I return to my scoot. A police officer tries to explain in English and French that I’m parked in a reserved space. I answer in Italian and indicate that I’m leaving – it satisfies him and I escape without a ticket.

Aided by directions and a map of the city I find my way to Little Italy. My first impression is one of disappointment, but that changes once I begin to enter storefronts strung along upper St. Laurent. In a very small bottega (shop) that has large burlap bags of coffee beans stacked against the front windows and espresso machines awaiting repair lining shelves on the back wall, I discover a typical Italian bar. Ah, you don’t know coffee until you’ve had a real Italian espresso. A couple of businesses away there’s a supermarket and I end up dropping a hundred bucks on essential staples that will barely fit into my reorganized saddlebags. Best of all is the fact that I can now converse with shop owners and understand some of the conversations that swirl past me on the street.

I feel like I’ve spent a day in Europe, but with the orange glow of the setting sun reflecting from the city’s mirrored towers, I head back to the States on two wheels – which is better than a long plane ride!

Addendum

Written for a national magazine in 2002, this assignment left such an impression that I moved to the Plateau district in Montreal and have maintained a residence in the city ever since.