A SMALL RIDE OUT OF YESTERDAY

A SMALL RIDE OUT OF YESTERDAY

The Author was in Indiana between Christmas and New Years. He had the opportunity to ride a Whizzer, a modern recreation of a 1940s and 50s motorized bicycle. When my father was a kid of that era, Whizzers were the hot ride, the things of kid dreams and schemes. Whizzers are being manufactured again and my father bought one. A few years delayed, but not late.

The Whizzer is a balloon-tire bicycle with a two-horsepower motor. A picture of a Whizzer is posted below. It has a belt drive with a pulley clutch. The bike is started by pedaling, building up speed, and releasing the clutch and the compression release. After getting the choking procedure down to accommodate a 38-degree December day, the bike popped right off. And ran and ran.

Fast? No. About 28 mph downhill, 25 against the gravity. Fun. Absolutely. It was that kid-time rush of the downhill sled, the rope swing or the first ride on that rattling, jingling mini-bike or go-kart. And upon further consideration, a ride back to the first days of motorcycles.

FROM ROMAN CANDLES TO SPACE SHUTTLES

The first motorcycles were hybrid contraptions, with new things called internal combustion engines slapped onto the dependable bicycle frame. These first motorcycles were slow, wobbly, undependable. But new. And not for the feint of heart.

What “ruin” must have been heralded when those first misfiring machines shot around the wagons and buggies? Which side roads to perdition must have been cut by those enterprising fellows? When they stopped to fix them, curse them, or both, could they not wait to get them going again?

What fun, artistry and human fulfillment did these first motorcycles foretell? And oh, if you could have been there!

IN A NEW DUCATI JACKET AND AN OLD FLANNEL SHIRT

Indiana winters are bone-knockers. Windy and creaky, the joints of everything heaving and sighing from earlier encounters. Cloudy and cold or sunny and colder. Snow and ice or slush and water. A place of rawboned kids throwing ice balls. And resigned adults side-stepping potholes.

And the Author, bones chilled as raw as his younger kin and aches soon forgotten in the gray-day ride. On a machine and riding down a country road. Yet with a little grit and a couple of horsepower, miles and years of old trails can be covered. Speeds never dreamed of again can be achieved. And on that day there was world and time enough.

Cast back into a Good, Small Ride out of Yesterday.

A MACHINE AND A DAY TO RIDE IT IN THE DESERT OF THE REAL!