Old Bikes and Industrial Geekiousness!

Putting the old stuff on hold again, we recently had a great meeting of the yayhoos at the Barber Vintage Festival. This has always been one of our favorite events because its got pretty much everything; an incredible museum, huge swap meet, trials, Cross Country, road racing, and is kinda central so a pretty wide swath of our group come to play. This year there were contingents from North Carolina, Indianapolis, Texas, Philly, Tennessee, and of course us Florida Folk. It made for a pretty chaotic campsite, mostly fueled by beer and grilled meats. However, it was the first outing for the new van, Shark 10 (no real story there, it was on the windshield when we got it and we kinda decided that was a cool name, so it stayed) and that made it feel a bit more like a real race camp.

But I can't even get to the racing yet! Oh no! This year I was permitted to put Sloss Furnaces on the agenda, so on the Friday before the race Jay, George, Max and I loaded up in my Dad's vehicle to be chauffeured in style to a nerd paradise. Sloss is a relic of Birmingham's industrial past, an almost completely intact iron works that is on the National Register of Historic Places. Effectively they just shut down the cupolas one day then opened it for visitors. Truly incredible. Here's my Pops and Jay, wondering if their tetanus shots are up to date.

Max, getting a proper overview

I prolly coulda spent most of the weekend wandering around this place. Its just cool, cool, cool.
But enough of that! This is a blog about old bikes, for crissakes! And we had a pretty good bunch of us out there. NC was represented by Brian, on the venerable Field Pig who sadly threw his chain just yards into the first lap, Chad on one 'a them BSA single thingies, and Alex, on another BSA single thingie. Here's Chad (3c) and Alex (652) on the line. Chad was in Classic Intermediate and Alex was with me in Premier Intermediate.

Max was up front in Classic Expert and after a loooong break since we last raced (way back at Diamond Dons in the spring) was really ready to be back out on a course. He may have been a little nervous, too, having not really run in anger for months.

You'll notice the other two Florida goons in the background.

George was on his Tr5t, and I was on the Mongrel 20, which was continuing to improve. I'd just had to repair the seat (read: weld the hell out of it), which was a replica item and not up to the job of supporting my capacious arse.

George's bike had given him a bit of a scare, developing a case of Mystery Lack of Any Power Whatsoever, but luckily it had just been a near complete fouling of the 400 supertrapp discs with mud a crud. A quick dip in gas and a disc scrubbing and it was ready to go.
Indy was represented by Sean "I gotta two stroke and don't even care about the other two strokes" Guthrie, on a rather shiny Penton. He was in Novice for his first race, so got to start with us Vintage Coots.

Here's Max, off the line and on to a flying race on a a really good course.

It was about 3 miles long, lots of tight woods, some ups a downs, though nothing nasty except for one short scrabbly bit with a bear of a rock outcrop on top. A lot of fun, but I may have kinda flubbed it a time or two...sad to say (with apologies to any riders stuck behind me). I wasn't alone, though, so I don't feel too bad.
Some decent racing shots, starting with Max, who was really movin'

He was in a duel with Tim Grow and the two of them were cookin'. They came by me and I just stopped and watched them race off through the trees. Good stuff. Far above my pay grade. Next is Alex, your general purpose Flying Bratwurst and my arch-rival in Premier Intermediate.

 Here's Chad, The Attack Brisket, proving there's no weight limit on a little BSA.

He would go on to win Classic Int after the aforementioned Field Pig de-chaining put Brian out, and George tagged his foot, leading to his retirement with a lap in the bag. But not before we got some pics of 'im!

And finally, a couple of me. I had a decent race, but as usual its still a work in progress, so there's things to tweak, mainly clutch longevity and a bit of funky geometry in the bespoke oil tank that causes most of its contents to be pumped out the overflow tube.

I should have another couple shots soon, including some more of Max, who really had a good day. He may have finished 3rd in his class, but he finished 4th overall in the race, proving two things: that's one helluva class, and dude can ride a big ol' Triumph through the woods.

Tennessee! Land of Hypothermia!

I can't comment too much on this one for one simple reason...I wasn't there! Not that I didn't want to be, but I was home with a Frankenleg,

And though I was tempted to go along and spectate for a whole 0.5 seconds or so, oddly I decided to stay home and watch TV instead. That left George and Max to go rampage all over Tennesse as a duo, undaunted by crummy sounding weather reports and the good likelihood of getting soaked in the woods. This was for another Ahrma ISDT, meaning it was another fancy two day jobby with all the fun timed sections and controls. Luckily, they were able to find a substitute fat, hairy guy, so the social dynamic was preserved.

That's Larry in the middle. He lives kinda down the road from Westpoint in Memphis, and brought the boys some BBQ and got to play on George's bike after he tagged his foot on a tree and bowed out (at this point if you looked crosseyed at his foot it swelled up and the doc had to cut chunks off...no, really). From here, I'll let Max's old race report tell the tale.
"The event was a lot of fun, it was tight and sloppy and somewhat reminiscent of South Carolina.  Day one started off with a bit of rain for the riders meeting then cleared up for the race.

We started on the 21st minute again...

...so by the time we got into the woods there had already been about 60 bikes through there rutting it up.

We had two special tests before lunch then two tests after lunch and a single lap around the grass track. All the connecting trails were nice and the town of Westpoint welcomed us with open arms.

George had a great ride the first day and after completing 3 special tests he decided that he had had enough fun for one day and passed on the responsibility of representing the big twins to me.

I didn't do much better than merely finishing the first day and ended up placing third with a silver medal. The second day I talked Larry into riding with me and we had three special tests (the same three from the day before except even slimier and more shitted up) before a 10 lap grass motocross track (where Larry kicked my ass) Larry took to the woods like a champ and despite never having run George's bike before did great and I think he had a fun ride on some of the trails. It took everything I had (and a little of what I didn't have) to keep going on the second day. I finally reached a point where I decided that it was not within the realm of possibility for my ass to hurt any more than it already did so I decided I might as well keep going. (there was also a really cute girl checking times in the woods that kept my morale up) After we finished the three special tests in the woods we rested for a minute then lined up for the ten lap grass track.

 The grass track was a live engine start and we all flung plenty of sod on the take off. I took the first corner a bit too fast and just about lost it and Larry passed me. In an effort to catch him I believe I pushed my poor little motor scooter too far. I heard a bit of a click and smoke started pouring out of my left exhaust pipe and primary breather, so I pushed it harder of course and then my throttle cable broke and Chicago Jerry helped me push my bike across the finish line. BY THE WAY VOTE FOR CHICAGO JERRY FOR BOARD OF TRUSTEES. On the second day I managed a second place due to drop outs and got a silver medal. It was all in all a great weekend. Thanks to George for all of the team support (and for lettin me eat the rest of the ribs)"

When Hardrock Bites Your Ass, You Tend To Remember The Experience

Most plans that end up going completely wrong tend to start out simply. This is a fact of life. Perhaps it is better to never make plans, thereby ensuring they can never turn turtle on you. This story starts simple enough: an old man needs a pile of bike to sink his money into. My Dad was the old man. A few years back, with retirement looming, I got him a pile of C-15 to waste his time. He learned too well that as soon as a bike begins looking like a vaguely finished-ish thing you are required to begin looking for the next project. This ended up being a rather tasty pile of longstroke BSA A-7 sourced from our friendly friends in North Carolina. Here's where the plan got clever. Jay would bring the pile down and we'd meet up with my Pops at a location halfway between St. Augustine and his home in Tampa: Hardrock! It would be awesome all around!

But oddly enough, things almost immediately started going cattywhumpus. First lap of the harescramble course I broke my rear brake rod. No prob, I just stole the one off the A-7, Dad didn't need it yet anyway. Max had brought the Rickman, and it was acting up

It was oddly down on power and was even having trouble getting up the climb to get into the Roller Coaster. Which was odd, because the Stomper was also down on power, being able to get in the Roller Coaster, but really struggling on some of the climbs. On one it blubbered to a halt just shy of the top, sending me tumbling all the way back to the bottom. That's bad when you're a meaty dude, because at a certain gravity induced tumble speed the world becomes your cheese grater

The writing was getting clearer on the wall, so we planned to do one more lap of the harescramble course and head to some beer serving place. As a bright spot, when we got back we were greeted by my Dad who had brought us back food to cheer our spirits. As a not bright spot, Jay was nowhere to be seen. I headed off to find him and let him know there was tasty vittles back at the truck. He was just a few hundred yards on the course where he'd hit a puddle that completely killed the bike and was finishing putting the carb back together when I pulled up. We shoulda just turned around and headed back to fountain drinks, but we decided to finish the loop instead. I came over a small rise I'd already been over 4 times that day, dozens in the past few months, and the bike washed out in a teeny little patch of mud. At one point I was on the bike, the next I felt like I was standing, then bike and rider collapsed. It was immediately apparent my leg was broken, flopping about in a rather sickening way, but the only thing on my mind was the sound of Jay getting closer. I guess the mind prioritizes things pretty quick at a time like that, because all I could think about was that he wouldn't be able to see me on the other side of the drop and I needed to move, quick. Some spirited elbow work and I was safe from adding the insult of being run over to the injury. Which left me with nothing to do but freak out a bit trying to hold my leg steady. Luckily, with Jay's help we splinted up the leg with a belt, some zip ties and two sticks, which allowed me to calm down until he and Max could get some help. Also luckily, I was right near the edge of the woods, so the poor EMT's that had to pall-bear my fat ass outta there only had to go a short distance, though I think they billed me for the costs of a couple hernias. Worth every penny.

Why do I look so happy here? Because I'd just been informed surgery was scheduled for the next day, which meant I could Eat! Priorities, people. The ER was fun. I was so scraped up from the earlier tumbles they thought all the damage was from the one wreck, so they thought it had been worse than it was, and insisted on X-raying everything. Moral: try for only one wreck a day, kiddies. I was apparently infested with spiders from laying on the forest floor, which led to me being whacked in the crotch by Jay and a nurse to "kill" the "spider"...allegedly. And finally, I needed to be transferred to a different hospital for the surgery, so a fancier splint needed putting on than the comfy blue EMT one seen here. Jay somehow drew a short straw and got to hold up the...erm...disconnected leg part as the new splint was slid on and wrapped. The next morning I was under the knife for some expensive screws and pieces

And I got to spend a quiet weekend at the hospital with the wife in sunny Ocala.

And that was the end of my riding year, leaving Max and George to get rained on at races without me till Gatorback in the Spring. Good times.

Mr. George Goes to Hardrock

"But you just did a post about Hardrock, and George was there" I hear you say. Well, that's why time travel would never work...its just too damned confusing. Well, for me anyway. This is about a different time George went to Hardrock...his first, acksherly. Decent-ish pics on this one, so I'll keep the words short. So without further adieu, George meets the Bottom.

Fun, eh? I love me some swampy hell, which earned us a nice break.

It also earned us a trip through the Rock Garden, Max pulling a "hey man, watch this" that sadly went undocumented involving a large throttle opening and some roots, and then an escape to the Roller Coaster for some zippy higher speed fun. Like here, with George gittin' it

Or me, zipping about like a zipping thing

Though I do tend to cheat a bit by lubricating the air around me to make myself go faster,

And Max, as usual completely unable to lay up at any time

As mentioned in a previous post, the Roller Coaster has recently been taken away from us low rent bike peasants and has been deeded to the fancy pants Baja Buggy folks (whose pants are truly fancier than our double front Dickies). This was sad news, because it really is a lot of fun. Booooo. But it was there for George when we went, so it was a good day.