My editor at the time was the best writer ever to put words in a motor-cycle magazine. So I listened to the man, even if he did have the sort of austere, Midwestern work ethic that kept him awake nights worrying that somewhere, someone was having fun.
When it came time to plan our 400-mile pilgrimage to Laguna Seca for the annual AMA Superbike National, the Editorial We were to forsake faster, more comfortable mounts and ride our testbikes du jour or forgo travel on the Editorial Nickel and ante up. My own nickel shortage made that choice for me.
It also put me on a Harley-Davidson 883 Sportster-your basic 54-cubic-inch Milwaukee hair shirt. In the office next door, Sports Editor Ken was saddled with a Kawasaki EL250 Eliminator-acutely humiliating when you're on a first-name basis with Ed Lawson and faster than everyone but the guys we were riding up to watch. At least riding up together would minimize painful public scrutiny. Maybe misery did love company. We would inflict as much mechanical misery as possible on the way, which revealed an interesting phenomenon.
As genuinely weird as they looked together in front of Denny's, the XL and EL were essentially equals on the road. The Harley was 140 pounds heavier. But coax the right gears together in sequence and it was at least a second quicker to 60 mph and 4 mph faster at the end of a quarter-mile. Ken was faster everywhere, but the EL ran out of steam a tick north of 100 mph. Given enough straight pavement, the 883 was good for 110. It and I also ripped a hole in the atmosphere big enough to ride a 250 Eliminator through.
250 EliminatorMay it rest...
250 EliminatorMay it rest in pieces
Breaking the draft was tricky, but Jay Springsteen would have been proud. Shaking the little aerodynamic parasite put a few hundred yards between us. At least until Ken pulled The Obligatory Late-Braking Maneuver and disappeared into the first set of corners. Braking might be a strong word for the Harley's erosion of forward motion, but we tried, praying for another long straightaway to reverse the order. And so it went until I came across a phenomenon only Kevin Cameron could have predicted.
I could keep the Eliminator in sight now. Ken still disappeared around right-hand bends, but I gained ground every time the road turned left. What gives? Cranked over at progressively impossible lean angles, Ken's boot was caught between the battered remains of the Kawasaki's left footpeg and a steel loop intended to keep the hot engine at a comfortable distance. Deciding whether the next left would blow his toenails clean off was finally too much. He backed it down.
833 SportsterFun or punis...
833 SportsterFun or punishment?
We needed gas anyway. The 883 fuel tap went on reserve after 50 hard miles. This time there was maybe a cup of unleaded left after 40. By the time we stumbled into the Last Chance gas station on one last combustible gasp, engine heat had been roasting the bottom of the fabled peanut fuel tank since breakfast. Before you could say "fill 'er up," there was a geyser of rapidly expanding unleaded in my crotch. Great gnashing of teeth turned to laughter and a profound gratitude that Ken's lighter and cigarettes were still in his pocket.
The good news was that the sounds coming from the Ninja's crankcase were louder and scarier than they were at the last gas stop. By the time it rolled into our hotel parking lot, the death rattle from the little twin's bottom end guaranteed it and my friend an air-conditioned ride home in the company van.
The Harley wasn't exactly running like a Swiss watch, but my Swiss watch wasn't running at all. A day on the Milwaukee paint-shaker had done something evil to the antique Rolex I'd inherited from my dad. Aside from that, I was in surprisingly good shape-though the prospect of another 400 miles on the thing meant I'd never have to worry about kidney stones.
There may not be anything as profound as a moral buried in all that. You only get so many chances to ride like a certifiable lunatic and live to tell about it. But time has a way of erasing sheer terror from the hard drive between my ears more readily than it does fond memory. May the latter always outnumber the former in your personal recollections. If not, I respectfully submit one last scrap of advice: Don't blame the bike.