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.
No comments:
Post a Comment