Peyote Dreams
By
Art Bone
"Poor Mexico; so far from God, so close to the United States." Porfirio Diaz
I'm about nine, riding in the back seat of my dad's 51 Chevy in a driving rainstorm, when a guy passed us on a motorcycle. Mom said, "Oh, that poor man on that motorcycle. He's soaked to the bone. I feel so sorry for him."
My dad said, "Hell, I don't feel sorry for him. He knew he was on a motorcycle when he left home."
And there you have it. Anything you do in life, it comes with a price; its own set of problems. You need to accept them, as the guy on the bike was, and expect no sympathy, as daddy was not offering.
I had occasion to think of that when I looked at the physical remnants of Burt Munro's life in a hardware store in Invercargill, New Zealand. A couple of old home-made motorcycles, some props from the movie about his life, The World's Fastest Indian, and a bank of shelves from his shop filled with burned pistons, broken engine cases, and twisted rods, labeled "Offerings to the God of Speed."
I love obsessive people and Burt was an obsessive's obsessive. He dedicated his life to making a couple of obsolete motorcycles go much faster than they were ever meant to go. And, he did it in Invercargill, New Zealand; about as far away from any motorcycling engineering expertise as it was possible to get and still stay on planet Earth.
I first became aware of Burt through Hot Rod magazine in the sixties. In their coverage of Bonneville they would have the occasional mention of this guy, Burt Munro, from New Zealand, with his streamliner based on a 1920 Indian Scout motorcycle. At the time, this intrigued me: Why a 1920 Indian? What was he, an eccentric millionaire? Where is New Zealand?
Then I forgot about him until the late eighties. I was walking through the pits at Daytona and there sat the bike, all restored. I spoke to Dean Hensley, who owned and restored it. He was displaying the bike with the left side of the fairing removed and, to my admittedly uneducated eye, it looked like the real thing. He regaled me with stories of Burt making his own pistons by recasting old truck pistons and modifying cams with a flat bastard file. I later contacted Dean about writing a book on Burt's life and he was very nice and offered me any information he had but before this could come to fruition I heard that Dean had passed away and, in those pre-internet days, I had no other source of information. Then, in 2003, on a tour of New Zealand, I bought a copy of Burt Munro, Indian Legend of Speed, written by Burt's friend George Begg and filled with all sorts of personal memories and old pictures of Burt that I wouldn't have had access to. His book was much better than anything I could have come up with.
It was around this time I started hearing about the controversy, the owners of the New Zealand bike claiming their bike was the "real" Burt Munro bike and the Los Angeles owners claiming that their's is the bike he actually set the records on. It seems that Burt, a very practical man, left the frame and body in the United States and would take just the engine back to New Zealand. So the frame and bodywork in the US were the actual parts that went 188 mph but the engine and frame in New Zealand were the test bed (or "mule") that he used to develop the power plant. Since he had several identical engines, no one seems to know which engine is the one that set the record. Whatever the true story, both bikes are interesting to look at and show some inspired engineering to take a motorcycle that, stock, had a top speed of about 60 mph and make it go 188 mph. That took work, intelligence, and dedication. Or some would call it obsession.
Fast forward to January 2017. Once again, CJ and I find ourselves in New Zealand. In the planning stages I find that the New Zealand Norton Owners are having their annual rally in Dunedin, just 120 miles from Invercargill.
I love it when a plan comes together.
Go see the Burt Munro stuff, visit the wonderful new museum in Invercargill, and go the the NZ Norton Owners Rally while riding through some of the most beautiful country on earth in the company of CJ and two of my favorite bike riders and their lovely ladies.
I know somewhere down the road I'm going to have to pay for having this much fun but I can't worry about that now.
The hardware store where Burt's stuff is displayed is also interesting. Like most most mechanics, I love a good hardware store and E. Hayes & Sons is one of the best I've ever visited. They have a nice selection of stainless nuts and bolts, quite a few machine tools for lathes and milling machines, and some interesting displays of antique machine tools besides the Burt Munro stuff. The staff are friendly and helpful whether you are buying something or just asking for information.
The actual Burt Munro display is rather small, consisting of the Indian without a fairing, his Velocette, several props from the movie, and the bank of shelves labeled "Offerings to the God of Speed."
From there it was only a few blocks over to the new Classic Motorcycle Mecca Museum. This place has only been here two years but it's one of the best small museums I've seen. They have a very nice restaurant and bar, Meccaspresso, in front, including some rare motorcycles then two stories of really nice stuff including six Brough-Superiors, nine Vincents including some rare Comets and Gray Flashes, and many Nortons, mostly Manx, Internationals, and ES2s. They are all restored to a very high standard with some a bit over-restored. My favorite was a red, 1938, 500CC Peugeot with Art Deco styling. The cast aluminum mufflers knocked me out.
They also had on display two Britten motorcycles, one in pink and blue livery as raced at Daytona, the other the first complete bike Britten built. It was lacking some covers, etc., but was really interesting, showing the progression from that to the finished product.
Also on display were three female mannequins with rather fanciful "motoring garb." One model wore a leather coat decorated with real US car license plates, one wore a top made of three front motorcycle tires, and one had a hat made of bicycle sprockets and a skirt made of a tire rim attached to her waist by bicycle chains. Trust me, they were all quite fetching.
From Invercargill we rode up to Wanaka, a beautiful town just south of two parallel finger lakes, Lake Wanaka and Lake Hawea. We took a wonderful ride along the western shore of Lake Hewea, then crossed a little mountain pass and we were going north on the eastern shore of Lake Wanaka. Both lakes are absolutely pristine; no houses, marinas, boats, power lines, or advertising; just miles of beauty. It's one of those places you can just point a camera and push the button and get a great picture. If it's true living in a beautiful place makes you happier, the folks around there must be some of the happiest in the world.
The next morning CJ and I were separating from our group and heading off to Dunedin to the New Zealand Norton Owners annual rally. We said our goodbyes after breakfast and set off.
In about three blocks CJ said, "Look, there's a Norton!"
I glanced over and sure enough, not one Norton but about ten Nortons, plus four or five other bikes were parked in front of a restaurant. We pulled in, dismounted and walked up to the group. Mark McLannan stood up from one of the tables and said, "There's Art Bone."
I keep running into this guy. The Belfast docks, the Isle of Man, and now Wanaka, New Zealand.
We sat around and had another cup of coffee while the group finished up then we all set off south toward Dunedin. I fell in line last so CJ could get some shots of all the bikes strung out ahead of us and I think she got some good ones.
The New Zealand NOA rally is different from ours. It's shorter, for one thing, being only three days. We arrived on Friday and had dinner at the Vintage Car Club of Invercargill. The next day everyone gathered for breakfast and afterwards we set off on a group ride that was to take most of the day. We followed the harbor road around Dunedin harbor, then up through some hills that offered a wonderful view of the city and harbor, then north along the coast to the little town of Goodwood where we visited a gentleman who opened his home and shop to show us his "Stuff" and I must admit, he had some interesting "Stuff."
Out in the yard he had two old trucks, one a Chrysler with wooden spoked wheels, the other an Essex Super Six. I soon realized that these were not stock trucks. He had built them both by cutting off the back half of touring cars (four door convertibles) and fashioning pickup beds. They were both nicely done and, if you didn't look too close, you would think they were original.
Of course, with a man like this, there were motorcycles everywhere. He had a Famous James just inside the front door and, up on a balcony, a garden-gate Norton Manx or perhaps it was an International. In the next room there was a twenties Harley Davidson surrounded by old tube type radios. He said he had bought the house, originally a cheese factory built in 1910 and abandoned for forty years, in 2000 and got it far enough along to move in five years ago. He's obviously an industrious guy.
Next we rode over to a gold mine at Macreas Flats to view the mine and take a few pictures. The mine was an open pit God only knows how deep. The huge earth movers at the bottom looked like toys from where we were and the people down there were dots. While we were there one of the ride's organizers told us about our next stop.
"Bill (or whatever his name is) is different. Well, we're all a bit different but Bill is really different."
There was no hyperbole in that statement. The first thing he wanted to show us was his collection of WWII German buzz bomb parts. Near the end of the war the Nazis fired these things from the coast of France, pointed at England. They were unguided missiles that flew until they ran out of fuel, then dropped on whatever was below and exploded. They didn't do much damage but were more of a footnote to the last few months of the war. It seems somewhere ol' Bill found a picture and description of a buzz bomb with a cockpit and controls so a (very brave or very suicidal) pilot could fly it and he was determined to build and fly one. No one seemed to know what was supposed to happened when the little device ran out of fuel.
You can see the problem. With its short, stubby wings it would glide like a brick and even if it did glide to a place to land, it doesn't have any landing gear. Yet Bill seemed convinced if he could just find a few more bits and bobs he would soon be soaring through the New Zealand skies. And you think finding Norton parts is a problem? Where do you find buzz bomb parts in south New Zealand?
Then you looked around his "shop" and realized he is in no danger whatsoever. The fifty-foot square building is filled with thirty or forty projects that will never be finished in his lifetime. Not a one. He's got Harleys and Indians. He's got Nortons and Triumphs. He's got a JAP V twin and an Arial.
Ever hear of a Montgomery? He's got two of them.
He's trying to replicate Burt Munro's overhead valve setup and he's had the heads cast and machined to fit but they're sitting there with what looks like several years worth of dust on them.
Each of his projects is sitting there, nuts and bolts in boxes and bags, parts laid out, many looking as if they had been there for decades.
Still, it was an interesting place to visit and an interesting man to meet.
Looking out the next morning to a leaden sky and a cold drizzle, CJ and I decide to miss the Rally breakfast, don our rain gear, and head to our last stop on the tour, the beautiful little town of Akora. It rained every centimeter of the 410 kilometers and, as we crossed the mountain range surrounding Akora, the weather changed to a gale; rain coming horizontal, wind howling, slick wet leaves coating every curve, and no place to pull off for miles.
I thought of Daddy's remark, "He knew he was on a motorcycle when he left home."
And he was absolutely right. We all knew the risks when we started out riding years ago and we know them even better now, but that hasn't discouraged us from riding. If we let the risks of riding in the rain keep us from exploring the wonderful, quirky world of these smart, interesting, and obsessive people called bikers, we would be a poorer men for it.