Peyote Dreams #173 2013-11
“Poor Mexico, so far from God, so close to the United States.” - Porifiro Diaz
If you want to make God laugh, tell her your plans.
I made reservations with Maggie Elmore of the Norton Group for a trailer space in our favorite spot at Barbers this October and was really looking forward to the event. I was planning to go to Indianapolis for a week for eye surgery , then fly to Atlanta, pick up a motor home, spend the weekend at Barbers, then fly home.
Know the old saying, "Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick?" Well, I found there's a whole lot of things better than a poke in the eye with a sharp object. The cornea graft didn't take, so I was close to blind in one eye when I told the Doc, "Look, I've had my eye poked about as much as I can stand for the time being. What about if I take the weekend off?"
He said "Okay," so then I had to find a way to get to Birmingham without flying because I had a bubble of air in my left eye that would not react well to the cabin pressure in an airliner. They didn't outline exactly what would happen if I decided to go against their advice but my imagination was enough to dissuade my trying it. An exploding eyeball at 30.000 feet didn’t sound out of the realm of possibility. Luckily, my friend Ron Lannen in Indy had introduced me to Craig Somers who was planning to go, had a neat old Airstream trailer, and needed a place to park it at the event. Not only that but he lives in a 50s Modern house, his daily rider is a '55 BMW, and he and his son race a 250 BSA at Bonneville and hold the record in their class. It was obviously a match made in motorcycle heaven and we had a lot to talk about on the 600 or so miles to the event.
For those few of you who don't know about Barbers, it's the creation of George Barber, a retired businessman from Birmingham and goes to show what one man can accomplish with just good taste and about forty-five million dollars. Google "Barber Motorsports Park" and you will find all you want to know and more. A modern, five story, purpose-built building housing over 1500 motorcycles, the world's largest collection of Lotus race cars, a collection of vintage outboard motors, a state of the art machining center and a vintage restoration center, surrounded by meticulously landscaped grounds and a world-class racetrack; it's a must-see destination for anyone who calls himself a “Motorcyclist.”
The event I enjoy most at Barbers is Vintage Days. In addition to racing, there's an auction of old and rare (and expensive) motorcycles, a swap meet that's more like swap meets used to be before the dealers took them over, a Wall of Death, all sorts of dealers booths, the pits are open and free, trolleys run continuously around the track so you don't have to walk. Really guys, everything in this place is first class. To give you an example, I was visiting the museum on Saturday and saw the man himself, Mr. Barber, chatting with another man. I waited until the other gentleman left and approached Mr. Barber and introduced myself. I said "Mr. Barber, on behalf of all motorcyclists, I want to thank you for creating this place."
He said, "Thank you Art. No matter how many times I hear that, I always enjoy hearing it. But, Art, tell me this. What can we do to make your experience better the next time you come?"
I had to think about it a few seconds but finally said something lame about I needed to recharge my camera and phone and it would be really nice if there were charging stations around like at the airports. He replied, "That's one I haven't heard before. We'll put it on the list."
To me, that sums up the place and the man. He's created one of the most unique motorsports venues in the world and all he wants is to make it better.
The weather was perfect, the racing good, the folks friendly, the bikes beautiful; it was about as perfect as life gets for an old gringo biker.
On the way back to Indy, Craig told me about a friend of his in Sheridan, IN, just north of Indy, who had a store full of old Norton stuff. Turns out he was talking about INOA member Jerry Ficklin, whom I met at one of the Colorado rallies years ago. Ron and I rode up for a visit. Jerry has a huge building full of Norton stuff, most of it for what he calls “the Real Nortons,” the singles. All the twins are referred to as “the Modern Stuff.” We had a great visit and I came away again impressed with what one person can accomplish. All those old racing bikes, all that knowledge; so many people I meet and enjoy have that single-mindedness about bikes. We’re all obsessives and should probably be locked away but I suppose whoever makes such decisions figures we’re all harmless enough or maybe that if anyone gets harmed it’ll probably be us and not the general public.
So here’s to obsessive people; the world would be a lackluster place indeed without them.
All in all a great trip. Getting to spend time with Ron and Cynthia, Craig and his GF Nancy, and hooking up with Jerry again after all these years are all experiences I wouldn’t have had if my eye surgery had gone as planned.
If you want to make God laugh, tell her your plans.
The docs fixed my eyes and I’m typing this without glasses. All the racing seasons are over (except ice racing) and it's time to think about winter. Not just Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years. For us folks that live in Mexico it means getting some bikes ready 'cause it seldom gets too cold to ride. Our weekly MotoClasico bike club meetings are starting to get bigger with all the snowbirds coming down. We need to plan our Christmas/New Years swimming party at the hot springs.
Think I'll take the CNW over to the shop, change the oil and filter, and ride over the mountains to Santa Rosa for a shot of mescal.
Ya'all come see me, hear.
*******
CJ found this while surfing the internet and sent it to me. Joey’s been gone for thirteen TTs but his memory is as fresh as ever in the minds of roadracing fans. I was fortunate to see him win his last three TTs in 2000 and it’s something I’ll always remember. The following is not only a beautiful tribute to Joey, but also a tribute to motorcyclists everywhere who love the sport.
(Originally taken from an Irish News Paper)
"An Irishman's Diary”
By Kevin Myers
There are many creeds in Northern Ireland, many sects, infused with
tribal animus and regional memory. They all have their heroes and their foes,
which they gather to revere or to curse in the strange covens of that
place. But there is a seldom-mentioned sect which cures those it
recruits of all sectarian taint. It blesses with the magic wand of enthusiasm
and personal loyalty, and it’s brotherhood are bound by rules which are
barely a century old.
Their church is the workshop, their communion host the carburettor, the
communion wine the cylinder oil in which they spend their days. They
might be illiterate in politics and history, and their vocabulary in
ordinary English less comprehensive than that of an average 10-year old
Swede. But what they know, they are experts in; and their understanding
of the dialect and liturgy of the internal combustion engine is as
exhaustive as the College of Cardinals' mastery of the complexities of
Thomism.
Enormous loyalty
Joey Dunlop was their pope, their moderator, their archbishop, their
pastor. Like all binding religions, this creed's hold on its adherents
is quite mystifying to outsiders; but as with all great religions,
outsiders could see and be impressed by the effect that it had on those who
worshipped within its rules. And those who gathered around the dismembered
engine parts of Norton’s, BMW’s, Kawasaki’s, BSA’s, were bound by an
enormous loyalty to one another, and to the secret Scripture of their
creed: the motorbike manual.
The internal combustion engine has a remarkably ecumenical effect on
those drawn to its influence, and its loyalties are curiously regional. Cork,
for some reason, is one such area where worship of the motorcar is very
powerful. Henry Ford's family were poor Protestants from Cork, and
Ireland's most distinguished car magnate, Sir Patrick Hennessy, was from
an equally poor Catholic background. You must go to the opposite corner
of Ireland to discover an internal combustion engine culture as strong:
to Antrim, and the tiny, hill-locked communities where the particular form
the worship takes is in an obsessive dedication to the species of beast
first created by Gottlieb Daimler 115 years ago.
North Antrim has a reputation for sectarianism, not least because it is
the heartland of Paisleyism. Yet the complexity of loyalty, the subtle
nuances of local tolerance and respect within a broader picture of what
to the outsider seems like intolerable bigotry, means that even the most
divided communities find an everyday modus vivendi. Differences are
concealed; strategies of language are invented to avoid points of
conflict. People agree to differ by not talking about their
differences.
Immune to conflict
But that is not how the brotherhood of the motorbike conceal their
differences. Simply, there are none. All those Herbies and Wilburs and
Wesleys, the Seanies and Seamies and Paddies, with their spanners and
their wrenches and their oil-saturated overalls and with fingernails
which haven't been clean in 10 years - they have found their grail of
commonality, and not merely are they not participants in the sectarian
conflict of the past 30 years, they are so absorbed in the mysteries of
the poppet valve and camshaft that they are barely aware of the
sectarian gale which has been howling outside their garage doors for so long.
Philip Allen and Damien Trainor, murdered in the Railway Bar in Co Down two
years ago, were fine examples of the carburettor innocence which has managed
to survive amid so much death. That was what made the local tributes to
Joey Dunlop so very striking. Normally, when such an eminent person dies,
testimonials refer to "both sides of the community". Not in Joey Dunlop's
case; there was only one community, which worshipped around engine block
and crankshaft: small town working class, highly skilled technically and
conservative in its ways. Its members have their dinner in the middle
of the day, they drink alcohol sparingly or little at all, and their few
non-motorbike conversations will probably be in conducted in a singular
and largely incomprehensible variant of Lallans.
They know their own community, and their own community knows them, and
they are content that it is so. That their heroes are the most technically skilled, physically courageous sportsmen in the world is beyond doubt. Their incomprehensible addiction to speed unites them as it eliminates all subsidiary difference. There is neither east nor west, border nor breed nor birth when motorcyclist meets motorcyclist, though they come from the ends of the earth.
Every TT racer knows of the certain annual cull in his profession, sudden
death or terrible, life-shattering injury. Were racers drawn from a higher
social bracket, as grand-prix drivers are, Joey Dunlop would long ago have
been Sir Joseph Dunlop, and he would not have owned a wee bar in a North
Antrim village but would have been a tax exile in Monte Carlo, with long-legged blondes simmering gently beside a blue swimming-pool.
World leader
But he was in fact Joey Dunlop, of Ballymoney, Co Antrim, the greatest
sportsman Ireland has ever produced, not merely five times world champion
in the most terrifying sport of them all, not merely world leader in his
sport for 30 years, not merely such a technical genius that he understood
the witchcraft of his motorcycles' carburetion better than Honda's experts, but a kindly gentleman of Olympian modesty.
Those who worship in the church that Joey Dunlop led will wipe a tear or
two away with oil-impregnated hands, say not a great deal, and will return
to their poppets and their cams. That was Joey Dunlop's way. It is their
way too.