Francis Meyrick

The Great Sidecar Experiment

Part Five: Solidarity

The horrible realization sank into me, that we were in big trouble.
Too late I remembered the rear brake pedal, that we never did get replaced. We had figured that the front brake was providing 70% of the stopping power anyway, and we’d find a replacement rear brake pedal “later”. Now, it was too late for “later”. Our speed was approaching ninety miles per hour, and the sidecar was almost airborne. All of a sudden, trees, lamp posts, brick walls and other solid objects were everywhere, surrounding us. Approaching routine objects on the road side, that normally would disappear harmlessly in the rear view mirror, now took on an ominous, sinister dimension. Rattling and bouncing at this crazy speed, we seemed barely under control. At any second we might depart the paved road, only to encounter any one of these solid, unmovable objects. I glanced back up at Deklan’s face, and his expression failed to inspire hope. He was trying to force a gear change down, to brake using the engine, but the old M21 was having none of it. Terminal grinding, squealing, whining noises testified to gearbox components being tortured, but refusing point blank to submit to frantic rider input. My mind was now grappling with an astonishing turn around in our fortunes. Gone was the exultation, the sense of utter triumph, the feeling of being on top of the world. In its place was dread, uncertainty, fear of the unknown, and a dark foreboding.

Where… is this charge going to end?

With the way the speeding Beast Combo was barely under control, the way it was almost ricocheting off every bump and ridge, I couldn’t imagine that we would actually make it all the way to the bottom of the hill. But even if we did, I knew full well things were going to get ugly at the bottom. Our downhill trajectory ran into a main road. We would be coming down the stem of an inverted “T” as it were, with a STOP sign, and a choice of a ninety degree turn right or left. There was no chance, zero hope, [i]nada[/i], no way, dream on, Hasta La Vista, good-bye… that we would ever make either of those sharp turns. I knew it, and I was sure Deklan knew it. Beyond the intersection, on the other side of the road -where we were probably going – lay about twenty yards of rough grass, and then another of those twelve foot stone walls. Built centuries before from rocks and boulders cleared from the land in readiness for plowing and cultivation. Totally solid, immutable, unyielding, inelastic, and coldly indifferent to our plight.
That wall was not going to budge.

We were now twenty seconds into hell, and my brain was flat lining. I was clean out of ideas. For some reason, I lay down flat in the sidecar cum coffin. It was long enough that I could lie flat on my back, brace my feet against the forward bulkhead, and wait for the impact. Now I was looking up at the clouds in the sky, wishing I was anywhere else but here. That repose lasted several milliseconds, before the uncontrollable urge to see where the hell I was going to crash, had me sitting bolt upright again. Now I could see ahead, and, wonder of wonders, there was a white-and-black car on the main road, traveling left to right. It looked like this vehicle would arrive at the junction at the exact same moment we would burst out like an unguided missile, straight through the red and white imperative STOP sign.

It was at this stage that I seriously debated making an exit. Just getting off. Or out, depending on your vernacular. Out of the coffin. Just… jump. But there was a mocking voice in my head.

Right. Yeah, right. You are gonna JUMP? That I gotta see…

At the speed we were going, serious injury was a racing certainty. I was well aware of the uncomfortable fact that even more serious injury might be awaiting me later. However, the trade of “no pain just yet” against “maybe a lot more pain in twenty seconds time” was a ‘no contest’. I stayed put.
The black and white car was now seconds away from getting a real surprise, and we were seconds away from furnishing it. I was vaguely aware that Deklan was making a funny noise. It wasn’t quite screaming, but it was rather high pitched. It was also loud. Oh, maybe it was screaming. What a wimp…

Just for solidarity, and to show how I really cared, I joined in…

(to be continued)

FOR THE FINALE FINAL PART – CLICK HERE (ARE YOU STILL HERE, YOU EEJIT????

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 6, 2015, 4:16 am

The Great Sidecar Experiment

Part Four: The Master Plan

Now the essence of The Master Plan was a two pronged attack on the problem.
A mechanical attack, and a psychological attack.

Firstly, I felt that we needed to do much more testing, before we launched recklessly off that steep hill. Duh. To this end, I suggested we use my old 60’s era Ford Cortina, which I had stolen for the ridiculously low price of one hundred Irish pounds. I had been helped by a very nice owner of a garage, who had found it for me. That same nice man had then only charged me another three hundred -and-fifty pounds to get the beast back to where it was remotely drivable. It was this vehicle I proposed should carefully tow the resurrected Beast and sidecar combo down the hill, to a nice level back road somewhere, on a week night, with no witnesses about. There we would carefully conduct a series of experiments, towing the Beast Combo at progressively higher and higher speeds, until we solved all the alignment and tracking problems.
But there was more.

Secondly… Seeing, I said, as everybody thought we were stone bonkers, out of our tiny little minds,why not just play along with them? Why not act the part? All of County Wicklow was dining out on stories about these crazy guys test driving a home built side car straight down a steep hill, and crashing spectacularly each time, well,so, how about just encouraging them? We’d put the word out in due course we were going to try again, for the third time, launching straight down the hill, without letting on we had been doing hundreds of dummy runs. Then, on the appointed day, we could totally dazzle the frickin’ bastards with a perfect ninety mile and hour blatter down the hill!
The team was exultant! Great idea! They bought me drinks all night.

From then on in, our small group of conspirators worked dementedly on the Master Plan.
First, we hacked and we sawed, we tweaked and we modded, we rebuilt and tested. We beefed everything up for strength. I had a big hand in the sidecar, which I strengthened with angle iron and screws. We changed the sidecar wheel (I think the one we used came off the front of an old tractor), and we massively strengthened the suspension. One quiet evening, we carefully dragged the Beast Combo down the hill behind my old Cortina, and, on a quiet back road, we set about testing, testing, re-engineering, and testing once more.

Secondly, publicly, we hammed the part of complete morons. Everybody we met wanted to know if we were going to try again. Oh, yes, we said. WHEN? That was always the immediate question. You could see the faces light up, and you knew full well that here was another two-faced lying skunk who was going to wish you the best to your face, and then run off to his mates, laughing his ass off.
It was easy to imagine the hilarity at our expense:

“Jayzus, Mary and Joseph! You know that bunch of crazies with the M21 and the sidecar? The ones that rammed the wall the first time, and then went into the river the second time? That lot? Well, they’re going to try it AGAIN! Can you believe it?”
We knew it was going on, but as we were already plotting our comeback, we could live with it. It did however have the effect of making us re-double our efforts.
In truth, our secret evening sessions on the back roads were teaching us a lot. There was no doubt that we were making rapid progress. We took it in turns driving, and slowly but surely, we all started to master the Art of handling a sidecar combo. We learned to get used to cornering, something which was entirely different from a normal motorcycle. We learned the effect of different tire pressures, and the results of different ways of mounting the side car wheel. Our speeds we were driving at also picked up.
We also learned how the side car passenger could make or break fast cornering, when the whole side car threatened to tip up. And finally, we made sure we ran up and down the steep hill back home, as often as it took to become perfectly comfortable with every rut and dip.
But whilst all this was going on, we still hammed the parts of gibbering idiots. To the oft repeated queries, as to how we were getting on, we would shrug our shoulders in apparent puzzlement, and say that we were “still trying to figure it out”. And, of course, no, we hadn’t driven it yet, but we were thinking about a third test ride sometime soon…

It was overwhelmingly obvious that every motorcyclist for miles around, was begging for an invite to the purported third test run, and privately we were now in hysterics. Our plot was proceeding beautifully, and we joked a lot about how many motorcycles would be turning up this time. The first time we had seen about twenty. The second trial had brought in fifty. We wondered if we could make it a hundred for the third test flight.
Soon enough, we had reached the confidence level at which we felt it was the right time to -casually- mention around town that we were “thinking” about another trial run (down the steep hill, of course) on the following Saturday afternoon. Soon the phone was ringing red hot. It seemed everybody was planning to come.
On the appointed day, hours before the scheduled time, motorcycles and riders started turning up. Luckily it was a pleasant, sunny day. We also got cars, minivans, several tipsy winos, and a dangerous looking Alpaca. It turned out the Alpaca was for sale, and the wino owner presumably was banking on a crowd to hopefully hawk his Alpaca.

Soon we counted over a hundred motorcycles, and still they flooded in. They were parked up and down the hill now, and spilling over into a farmer’s field. And still they came rolling in. The next thing we saw was a Hamburger van pull up, serving hot sausage dogs, cheeseburgers and a dubious looking concoction sold as ‘meatballs in gravy’. But we really knew we had arrived, and struck it big, when the Legion of Mary Jesus freaks turned up, with their signs and banners. We thought a crowd of rough old bikers was a strange venue to be looking for recruits, but as Deklan phrased it, so eloquently, “Ah, sure, all we need now is a topless stripper, and we could charge feckin’ admission…”

Of course, we were still hamming our alleged third test ride deception, and to the many queries, we assured everybody that we had not ridden her since the last crash. But NOW, we would say, NOW, we honestly believed we had solved the problem. Many onlookers had difficulty keeping their faces straight, and although we acted all gormless and stupid, we knew full well the unofficial betting for a crash was running heavily against us.

Finally, the appointed hour had come, and we had one more psychological refinement. Given the lack of enthusiasm and volunteers, on the previous occasion, for riding in the side car, Deklan had decided he would once again call for volunteers. Suspecting there would be none, the plan was then for an ally to call for me. I was then to act the part of the all sheepish, all nervous, all reluctant volunteer. In this manner we hoped to raise the doubts of a successful outcome even higher, given the fact that one of the builders didn’t even trust himself in it. Then the plan was to dazzle everybody with our prowess and engineering, and prove the whole damn lot of them dead wrong. We had even discussed flipping them all the bird on our triumphant return pass…

In the event, the first part didn’t quite go according to plan. Deklan stood up, and asked the hushed crowd for some volunteers to ride in the sidecar. One of the tipsy winos, sitting on the grass, on hearing that, appeared to assume he was going to get something for nothing, and maybe a drink out of it, and put his hand up. Luckily for us, he proceeded to then try standing up. In this attempt he failed miserably, falling flat on his face. Amidst the laughter from the crowd, our co-conspirator then called for me, and I got to ham the part of the reluctant side car passenger. At length, after a chorus of cat calls, jeers, and much clapping and laughter, I allowed myself to be “persuaded”, and climbed “nervously” into the side car cum coffin. Once again a whole mob of enthusiastic volunteers pushed us down the road to get us going, and when The Beast fired up, my ears were ringing from the loud cheering.
At this stage, our carefully rehearsed plan went beautifully into fruition. Straight as a die we tore down the hill, the healthy bellow from our steed reverberating across the countryside. Soon we were turning around at the bottom, and thundering back up the hill for a triumphant pass along the stunned crowd lines. We could see the looks of utter amazement on their faces, and it gave me great pleasure in “flipping them all the bird”, as we roared back past them all. Yet another trick was up our sleeve. Next we came roaring along once more, but now we were showing off a trick we had been practicing on our secret back road:
Deklan was now standing one-legged on the seat, head back, still holding onto the handle bars, the other leg stretched out above and behind him like a demented ballet dancer. I was flying the exact same pose. Both of us wore ridiculous expressions, as a purposefully planned mockery of all our erstwhile detractors.
The cheers still ringing in our ears, we were now flying down the hill for the second time, picking up speed once more. To say that we were exultant would be a total understatement. We were now laughing so much, the whole sidecar was shaking. Or perhaps it was the speed. Deklan was really gunning it, and we were going like the proverbial bullet. The wind was really whistling now, and amongst the many pleasant emotions I was savoring, I remember there was a mild surprise how quick we were going. Soon Deklan, beside himself with satisfaction, and highly triumphant, was shouting something. I didn’t quite understand it. It sounded like:
“Blay-Blong! BLAY-BLONG! BLAAAY-BLONGGGG!”

Cool!, I thought. Blay-Blong to you too! Wonderful. Life is good. That fixed the sons-of-bitches. Yes, Blay-Blong!

“Blay-Blong! BLAY-BLONG! BLAAAY-BLONGGGG!”

Absolutely, I thought. I know, you’re very happy. SO AM I.
We rounded a slight bend, faster than we had ever before, and I made sure I hung out carefully, to balance the sidecar. Deklan was really getting good at things, and we sure were flying… I bet the crowd up the hill was really impressed now…
“Blay-Blong! BLAY-BLONG! BLAAAY-BLONGGGG!”

With the wind really howling, and approaching record speed, I looked up from my position in the sidecar, low to the road, at the grim face of the rider above and beside me. Deklan, snatching a quick glance at me, for some reason looked different. What…??
“Blay-Blong! BLAY-BLONG! BLAAAY-BLONGGGG!”
What…??
BRAKES GONE! BRAKES GONE!!!!!!!!

(Oh, sh…ttt!!!!)

(to be continued) PART FIVE – CLICK HERE

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 6, 2015, 4:12 am

The Great Sidecar Experiment

Part Three: trench warfare

If “Deja Vue” was a movie, then what I was seeing was a surreal re-run. I already knew from personal, painful experience, that motorcycles do indeed crash occasionally. I also knew what it was like to find yourself unexpectedly suspended in mid air, wondering how, when, and exactly where you were going to meet planet Earth again. But this was the first time I was watching such a calamity unfold in front of my disbelieving eyes, in a full Technicolor repeat performance. I’m sure my eyes were bulging, and I remember looking at everybody else in amazement. The same hands were exercising some inbuilt small child reflex, and were covering mouths. The same arms were either waving around, or clasping shocked heads, lest they roll off the owner’s flabbergasted shoulders. The same strangulated human sounds could be heard from the onlookers. Then, as a mass, we ran down the road.

This time we were not merely picking up discarded pieces of M21 motorcycle, and expressing sympathy with the survivors of trench warfare. This time it was more of a rescue mission, given the fact that two of the four Matadors were lying face down under water, struggling and splashing violently. Another was trying to get out from under the sidecar cum coffin, and the last hapless member had straddled some barbed wire, and was uttering wailing noises. Deklan especially was in serious trouble, and it was afterwards established that he had been trying to claw his way back to breathable air by digging through the bottom of the ditch. All were breathless, soaked, covered in mud, mad as hell, and once again frantically massaging and rubbing all manner of painful body parts.

The sad cortege repeated itself back up the hill, in the rain, which was back to the cats and dogs stage. Hurt, limping, sore and bleeding survivors were once again supported by rescuers, and once again gave vent to feelings of frustration and bewilderment. The talk now was of a “speed wobble” and a “tank slapper”, and heated discussion already was taking place as to how such a “speed wobble” was due to alignment problems. In other words, somebody had screwed up calculating the Square Root of the Pythagoras Algorhythm.

But there was now also a new element present. Once it was established that nobody had actually died, and that, sore heads and limbs notwithstanding, basically everybody had survived yet again, the muffled hysterics were becoming increasingly un-muffled. After all the fine engineering talk, and the knowledgeable discourses on the finer points of side car alignment, it was obvious that some members of the crowd were planning to dine out on this story for weeks. The stage whispers and side comments were now becoming ribald, and just looking around you could see people valiantly trying to prevent themselves from bursting out laughing.

It was, admittedly, not our best performance. Two attempts, two failures. The first attempt had now resulted in a STAGE RIGHT crashing into a wall, and the second had resulted in a STAGE LEFT near drowning. And once again, the Beast was smashed. We watched the crowd of onlookers slowly disperse, in a seemingly raucous good mood. You could see by their bright eyes, and the looks, that most couldn’t wait to get back to their haunts and spend the next few nights laughing their socks off at our expense.

It was a small, disconsolate group that was left behind with the mangled remains. The sidecar had really suffered this time, and was likely a total loss. Indeed, Deklan, nursing multiple injuries, including a broken tooth, was all for abandoning the project there and then. Tim also had serious reservations about ever trying to align a sidecar again, and complained bitterly that he could never show his face at college again. For my part, I found myself puzzling about the root cause and sudden violence of the observed “speed wobble”. I had heard mention of the concepts of “toe-in” and “toe-out” as it relates to wheels, and although I did not understand the subtleties, I figured we needed to approach the problem in a more methodical fashion.

A few weeks went by, and it emerged that we were the talk of Counties Dublin AND Wicklow. There was so much hilarity at our expense, that it was generally thought it was just a matter of time before we were asked to appear on “The late, late Show”, which in those days was a Television show which guaranteed you eternal notoriety. We even watched it faithfully at boarding school.
Deklan and Tim were now finding themselves greeted in public with ribald wisecracks along the lines of:
“How’s the sidecar coming on then!!!!?” (Har-har-har…)
“When will you be going into production then…? (Har-har-har…)
I had even been hailed with: “Hey, Francis, is that right you chickened out of riding in the sidecar?”
(Har-har-bloody-Har-har…)
It was clear that if we gave up, we were fated to be forever associated with the Grand Sidecar Debacle.
Our reputations were now on the line, and we all knew it. After a week or two brooding about it, I kind of got an idea. The more I thought about it, the better an idea it seemed to me. It wasn’t too long, before I started filling in the tiny details in my feverish mind. Now it was becoming a brilliant idea. Eventually, overcome with excitement, I called a private meeting in the pub, and I explained the plot in detail to my fellow members of the sidecar engineering team.

I remember their faces lighting up. Excellent idea, they all said. Excellent. We all drank to that, and resolved to start engineering work the next weekend without delay…

(to be continued) PART FOUR – CLICK HERE

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 6, 2015, 4:10 am

The Great Sidecar Experiment

Part (2) Invocations to Divinities

One moment we were all cheering loudly. The next moment, there was a stunned pause amongst us, followed by peculiar, strangled sound effects. Hands shot up involuntarily and covered mouths. Arms were raised to the heavens, as if in devout supplication. Gasping, panting expressions were voiced. Somebody covered his face, and turned away. Two people held their heads firmly, as if these were about to fall unceremoniously off their shoulders.
F@#K!! Oh, F@#K!!!
Man! Oh, man! Oh, man…??!
SH…TTT!

It was indeed wrenching to watch. The machine reared up at the wall, bounced sickeningly, and then tipped shriekingly onto its side. It slithered along violently, with terminal mechanical noises emanating from the destruction. The occupants of the sidecar were flung out like so many rag dolls, and the two riders also spun ungracefully through the air. Arms and legs, heads and feet, seemed to be cavorting crazily in a cloud of dust, clods of earth, and unidentified pieces of motorcycle. As one, we all started running frantically down the road.

Arriving on the scene, carnage as a word is utterly inadequate to describe the mess. The six riders were all lying prone at unusual angles, groaning horribly, and making loud dying noises. Somebody asked “Deklan, Jayzus, are you all right?” To which the former test pilot momentarily ceased his death rattle, and replied, between gasps, that the questioner should go and F#$K!! himself. We all stood around, helplessly, and tried to render assistance. Somebody anxiously picked up the headlamp off the road, and another helpfully retrieved the tattered seat, side panels and front fender from where they had landed. Meanwhile our heroic matadors were slowly ceasing to die, and beginning to launch recriminations. It was Deklan who was getting the brunt of it, for mismanaging the critical ceremony known as “letting out the clutch “. An accusation which he angrily denied, between mighty groans, and lots of divine invocations to various entities. One by one the terminally dying were now getting up, and standing in the road, swaying dangerously, limping, and holding onto various body regions. Knees, arms, elbows and heads being counted, it appeared all were surprisingly still properly attached, To be sure, there were cuts, gashes, scrapes, dislocations, crunched ribs, black eyes, bloody noses, sore backs, even sorer heads, and a long list of tattered garments and shredded footwear. Amazingly however, given the force of the impact, not one broken limb was diagnosed, although the painful sprains made the slowly returning party resemble an exodus from World War One trench warfare. Everybody was limping, and being supported by one or two rescuers, as they slowly made their way back up the hill to Deklan and Tim’s house. We remaining members of the salvage team watched them go, listening to the slowly dwindling, wailing sounds of receding human misery. Mixed, with occasional decibel increases, with accusations of stupidity, and imbecile incompetence. The great Irish divinity “Jayzus” was frequently called upon to witness the truth of somebody’s opinion, but how this Great Figure viewed the strange procession below Him, we Mortals are never to understand.
The Beast had suffered mightily as well, with the silencer ripped clean off, seat, side panels, headlamp, front fender and the footrests no longer attached. The gas tank had a football sized dent in it, and the handle bars were hanging at a grotesque angle. The front forks were twisted to hell, and the primary drive cover looked like it had been raped with a cheese grater, and there were several cracked cylinder fins. We couldn’t even find the rear brake lever. There was broken glass lying on the road, and we also picked up a leather gauntlet, a motorcycle boot, a pair of spectacles, and a wicked looking, half used packet of English condoms. The latter being banned in Holy Catholic Ireland at that time, owing to the worrisome risk of Eternal Damnation, caused us to hotly debate ownership. If I recall, the owner never did fess up, so the evidence quietly disappeared into somebody else’s pocket. I’m sure with his soul’s resurrection devoutly on the mind of the new owner. Or another part’s erection, I’m not sure which.

We then struggled mightily to drag the stricken Beast back up the hill to the workshop. This was no mean feat, as we were forced to half carry the combo. The sidecar wheel had pretty well come off, and the rear wheel was locked up. Without the rear brake lever, we were unable to let the brake off. The sidecar itself, although recognizably intact, had suffered also, and it was evident that some serious regenerative carpentry would be required. We struggled and pushed, dragged and hauled, and equally invoked the said Irish Divinity many times. But in the end, the heroic BSA M21 thumper was returned to her stall. Whereupon we all retired to the local pub, for a thorough going engineering analysis. We also discussed and examined fluid theory, involving the excellent lubricative qualities of Irish Guinness.

Some weeks went by, during which The Beast was slowly restored. There were quite some volunteers for this feat, as word had spread of this noble quest. I myself had a small hand with the sidecar, being interested as I was in the craft of carpentry. I also used nails, with some misgivings, repeating to anybody who would listen, that screws might be better.
We toiled and we labored, and we bashed out the gas tank as best we could. A slight leak was repaired with some kind of pink putty. But this was quickly and esthetically touched up with a delicate application of more pea green paint. The missing glass from the headlamp was temporarily replaced with transparent plastic, and the bent front forks were laboriously clamped, heated, and belted straight with Jo O’Flaherty’s sledge hammer. A great problem was furnished by the destroyed silencer, which was burst quite beyond repair. The inside was rusted out, and it was clear that a replacement would have to be found. Or, failing that, manufactured. To the rescue rode a second year engineering student, who knew the basics of tack welding. He had not graduated in his classes yet to full scale, proper structural welding, but that did not stop him for creating a masterpiece. With the aid of some purloined sheet metal from the college workshops, he and others beat, cut, shaped and welded a very passable bazooka shaped exhaust pipe. It was made to fit with some degree of persuasion, and a stack of adjustable clamps, but once it was on and fitted, a wonderful bellow was heard when The Beast was fired up. We were all so hugely impressed, that we instantly retired to the pub, to further our understanding of Fluid Mechanics. The day of the second test flight was now rapidly approaching, and word was going out far and wide…

On the appointed Saturday, it was raining cats and dogs, as it most surely can in Holy Catholic Ireland. Nonetheless, the road outside Tim and Deklan’s house was now overflowing with more than fifty motorcycles, and his workshop was jam packed with pilgrims from all over County Wicklow. Well wishers and admirers, the curious and the inebriated, all flocked to admire the home built rocket exhaust pipe, and its architects stood proudly by to explain the finer points of engineering detail. The sidecar was meticulously examined, and serious discussion was extended on the subject of the Square Root of the Pythagoras Algorhythm, and all matters of side car alignment. Confidence was brimming, and knowledgeable heads were nodding wisely in the modest admission of their expertise and brilliance. It was going to be just fine this time.
No problem…

Some discussion was raised on the subject of the intense rainfall, which had now accelerated to the level of a tropical monsoon. The Beast and sidecar had already been pushed outside, and anxious eyes searched for a break in the clouds. A small river of water was flowing down the hill, and draining into the large ditch on the left side of the road, opposite the infamous wall. Normally dry as a bone, this drainage device had now swollen to a respectable flow, with muddy brown water rushing off the fine green fields of Ireland.
Several of the pilgrims had brought liquid offerings, and these were now ceremoniously offered in respect.

The hours clicked by, and still the lashing rain refused to ease off. The crowd was getting restless now, and calling for the Great Sidecar Experiment , version Two. At length the rain eased off at least a little, and, since the liquid offerings were now rapidly heading towards empty, it was decided that the great moment had arrived. Deklan, clad in bright yellow oilskins, climbed once again into the pilot’s seat, and Tim climbed on behind. It was noted, oddly, that there was not quite the same eager jostling taking place for a seat in the sidecar cum coffin. In fact, only two intrepid souls were finally ensconced, which was one less than the first time around. I was seriously thinking about it myself, honestly, but I was finishing the last dregs from a bottle of Harp Lager. By the time my Adams’s Apple had completed its mission, it was too late, and a hord of volunteers was already engaged in pushing The Beast and Sidecar down the hill. This part of the proceedings had a certain carnival atmosphere about it, with loud cheers, laughter, good humored banter, and shouted promises of visitors to the Emergency Room.

Down the hill they want, bravely and unflinchingly, and Deklan did a truly superb job this time round with the ceremony of “letting out the clutch “. He did it more gently, and started it earlier, and before the machine had reached twenty miles per hour, it was already breathing fire and brimstone. The bellowing was even louder this time, owing to the small fact that the designers of the exhaust pipe had dispensed with the pesky detail of internal baffles. It was just a straight through pipe now, and it sure sounded luvvely to us motorcycle addicts.
Faster and faster they went, straight as a die, until they had reached about forty five miles per hour. The cheers were now deafening. Deklan and his team had now almost reached the point where previous disaster had occurred, and they had collided so unfortunately with the old stone wall. They had just about gotten to maybe fifty miles per hour, when all of a sudden, for no apparent reason, the entire combo swung hard left. We all saw it. Then they swung right again. Corrected, and swung left. The cheers stopped instantly. The oscillations became wilder and wilder, with seemingly less time in between each dangerous excursion.

Left-right-left-right-LEFT-RIGHT…

It couldn’t last, and it didn’t. On the final deviation left, with Deklan fighting manfully for control, the side car wheel caught on the kerb. Instantly the swing left became unstoppable. There came an almighty fountain of dirty brown water, a loud splashing sound, then an all encompassing shower of spray. For a brief moment in time, through this spray you could see The Beast and its hapless occupants, still upright, careering through the stream. Doubtless Deklan was still fighting for control, but their fate was sealed.

The front wheel dug in, or hit a sunken boulder, and the rear of the Beast combo rose vertically straight up into the air…

(to be continued) PART THREE – CLICK HERE

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 6, 2015, 4:08 am

The Great Side Car Experiment

Part One: A Good idea

It seemed like a good idea.
The word spread like wildfire around the Dublin area motorcycle fraternity. You can build your own motorcycle side car. Deklan and Tim had it all worked out. They were doing it! Of course, in the those 1970’s days, before the age of Nintendo and X-box, a serious portion of our entertainment consisted of flocking to anything motorcycle. And soon I too, was one of the humble pilgrims that came to pay respects to this Galactic project on a rainy Saturday afternoon. I remember walking into their workshop, which was actually the back kitchen, and hearing Deklan’s Mum scolding him for some well used shop rags he had carelessly dumped in with the once-white washing. There was already a respectable gang of followers there. We all clustered around the awesome project.

Their chosen mount was an ancient vintage 1940’s era BSA M21 single-cylinder thumper. Hand painted in a supposedly military camouflage green. The mitt that had held the brush had not been too steady, undoubtedly as a result of over consumption of the juice of the barley, and thick traces of pea green remained attached to strange places, such as cylinder fins and tires. The M21 was a formidable beast, consisting in essence of just ONE humongous 600 cc side valve cylinder. The Japanese had long since given us two, three and four cylinder bikes, including the high revving two strokes. The M21 existed at the polar opposite end of the spectrum. It was in every aspect a bear of a machine. Or a wooly Mammoth. I knew it well, as I was one of many loyal devotees who had taken my turn at push starting it at various meets and bars. Indeed, coaxing that one gigantic cylinder into life, was something of an epic battle every time. There was no battery, no electric start. Instead, you had a kick starter, and a valve lifter. The theory being that you used the valve lifter to reduce the compression for starting. Then you swung up and down on the kick starter, like you knew what you were doing. The dangers were many. Typically, nothing would happen. You would swing with all your weight, with a grim expression. There would be a soft double

thud-plod-PHUT!

Followed by the screaming sound of silence from the engine. You would try again and again, with the exact same non-result. Only the sound of your increasingly labored breathing.

thud-plod-PHUT!
(pant, pant, gasp)
thud-plod-PHUT!
(pant, pant, gasp)

Then came real danger. You would get frustrated. Especially when all your buddies were ready to go, sitting on their bikes, revving and waiting. Looking at you. With that expression. You know.

Dude! Come-fuk’n ON!

I learned from personal experience with a BSA Victor 441 cc single, that at that stage, it was safest to get off, pack up and go home. Just leave it there. Hope somebody steals it. The reason being that you are now sitting on a time bomb. There is so much unburned fuel and vapor sitting around, it’s just waiting for a detonation. You would swing at it, frustrated, with perspiration trickling through your eyebrows, and nothing would happen on the fifty-third kick. So, impatiently, flustered, you would swing again. However, on the fifty-fourth kick, for no apparent reason, no logic, just random molecules deciding it was time to spontaneously combust, you would get the dreaded kick back. The kickstarter would violently slam back against your foot, with such force, that all manner of horrible things could -and did- happen. On one occasion, the force traveled up my leg to my unprepared knee, and I spent several excruciatingly painful minutes rolling around on the ground, clutching my knee cap, convinced I would never walk or make love again. On another occasion I watched Alan trying to kick start a BSA 650 A10 Road Rocket. And that was a twin. It kicked back also, and with such force that it helped Alan clean over the handle bars. He ended up lying flat on his back, winded, gasping, in front of his motorcycle. The BSA didn’t even fall over. He sold it in disgust to another sucker. Me. Yep, that’s another story.

Deklan and Tim had one luxury: they lived at the top of a hill. Their usual modus operandi therefore was to roll The Beast down the hill. Then, when some speed had built up, they would drop it into gear, and she would grumble a bit, backfire loudly once or twice, and then burst into song. After that it was plain sailing, provided they didn’t stop anywhere until they got home. I had driven The Beast a few times myself, and it was just kind of a surreal experience. As you pulled away from the stop lights, and the curious stares, there would be a shuddering bang. This propelled you forward at surprising velocity. There would be another bang when you passed the next lamp post, and, fifty yards down the road, a further bang would mark the next lamp post. For an engine that seemed to be doing hardly any work at all, the torque available was astounding. After a while, you kind of became addicted. It had a unique sound. A Presence. A sort of laid back, loud, mellow, comforting sound.

VRUD-DUD-DUD-DUD-(PHART!)-DUD-DUD-(PHUT!)-DUD-DUD-DUD…

I therefore understood Deklan and Tim’s enthusiasm, although I didn’t quite share their conviction that the sidecar was going to be a good idea.
To start with, it looked far too much like a coffin. I wasn’t the only one who had observed this, and some wag had already suggested painting crosses and lighted candles on the side. Much to Deklan’s displeasure.
For seconds, the sidecar wheel had been borrowed off a rusty old bicycle. It was too big, and stuck absurdly up above the side car top edge. To the point that a sidecar occupant who was careless with his finger placement could conceivably find himself digitally challenged. Painfully so.
And for thirds, the sidecar assembly method left something to be desired. They had gone for a mostly wood construction, plywood over battens, and had then relied on nails for structural strength. That the architects were proud of their accomplishment was evident, and it was perhaps for this reason that criticism was muted. There was a suggestion somewhere of screws being better, especially given the high vibration level present, but this lack of faith had fallen on deaf ears.
And lastly, there was the small matter of alignment. There were some who claimed, with some authority, that alignment was important. The sidecar had to track the same way as the Beast. Not so, said others. There was no way the sidecar, light as it was, could possibly detract from the trajectory of The Beast. The debate got heated, and then we all retired to the pub for further engineering analysis.
In this manner, it was the following Saturday before we all returned to the top of the hill, for the grand initial launch. I wasn’t too surprised to find a whole gaggle of bikes there. The word had spread, and, some twenty five or thirty curious visitors thronged around The Beast, and its magnificent sidecar. The coffin had received a fine coat of paint, camouflage pea green of course, and some distinctly green finger prints on the towel in the kitchen spoke volumes on the subject of the effort and industry that had been applied. It seemed likely that more volumes would be spoken when the owner of the kitchen discovered the evidence, but nothing could dampen the infectious enthusiasm. As the proceedings unfolded, Deklan gave us a little speech, and proudly informed us that they had been reading a book. The sidecar had apparently been professionally aligned by means of two long pieces of wood. These had been placed along the wheels, and by virtue of careful measurement and adjustment, and taking the square root of the Pythagoras algorhythm, the engineers had assured themselves that both the two motorcycle wheels and the sidecar bicycle wheel were, in fact, in perfect parallel alignment. The impact of Deklan’s powerful words, aswith his supremely confident air, was immediately felt. Amongst the murmurs of approval, some voices were heard clamoring for a place in the sidecar. To this request, the engineers, Deklan and Tim, gave kind consideration. It was soon decided that the extra weight would help propel the Beast and Sidecar down the hill, and also give greater stability to the combo. A few minutes later, the rest of us cheered loudly, as The Beast was confidently rolled out. Deklan climbed into the driver’s seat, Tim hopped on behind, and no less than four intrepid adventurers seated themselves – not without some difficulty – sequentially in the sidecar-coffin. There was some strange creaking, and the rusty bicycle wheel seemed to strain inwards a little, but the fine engineering work proved its worth, and it all looked well within the designed structural limits.
The rest of us volunteered to do the initial pushing. There were enough of us left to give the Beast and the sidecar a hefty initial launch, and soon the entire cortege was thundering down the hill at ever increasing speed. It was now up to Deklan to carefully let the clutch out, and engage the engine. The massive single cylinder would then commence turning, and fuel and air would be sucked in. There would then be the usual explosion, combustion, and lift off. Bets had been placed as to how fast the venerable M21 would go down the hill, with the benefit of added weight from six occupants. A speed of eighty five to ninety five miles per hour was anticipated, which, in those days, was remarkably quick.
Faster and faster they went, down the hill, and then Deklan let the clutch out. Exactly what happened at that point, was to be a source of some confusion, and heated argument, for weeks to come. Some said Deklan let the clutch out too quickly, and locked up the rear wheel. Others maintained it had nothing to do with the clutch. All I can say, from my vantage point at the top of the hill, was that all seemed very well, up to a certain point. The certain point was marked by a large explosion, and a large six foot flame followed by black smoke erupting from the exhaust pipe. Some kind of violent jerking rippled through the motorcycle frame, and all of a sudden, The Beast, with its head down, was heading off at a wonk. Now the road down Deklan and Tim’s hill was unremarkable, I suppose, but for the fact that it was rather steep. There was also a stone wall on the right side of the road, set back a few feet from the edge. It was for this wall that The Beast was now heading, like a bull, lacking only fire snorting from flared nostrils, to complete a tableau of a Spanish bull fight. The matadors, all six of them, lacking any appreciation for dramatic opportunity, were unfortunately not quite living up to the expectation of brave manhood, unflinchingly facing overwhelming odds.

They were far too busy screaming.

We witnesses at the top of the hill, could only watch in dumbfounded horror, as the Beast cum sidecar creation, traveling at over fifty miles per hour, careened madly out of control. The front wheel hit the grassy embankment, and this had the unfortunate effect of jerking the handle bars further to the right. From then on in, no purple cape was going to save these bull fighters.

Armageddon was unavoidable…

(to be ctd) PART 2, CLICK HERE

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 6, 2015, 4:04 am

Diary Entry

Wednesday, July 27, 2011 “The Norwegian Massacre “

Just surfing the news of our little planet, and I find myself falling back on some of my core, basic beliefs. That have sustained me, kept me going, and keep me… sharp.

The Norwegian massacre, with a lone gunman bombing and killing his way to everlasting notoriety, brings back memories of the bombs and the sectarian assassinations in Northern Ireland. I nearly lost my life there, as a young man, and how much Life I would have missed. I found myself thinking back to the fierce political arguments we had, fists slamming the table, and the hate filled eyes of the fanatics. The smoke filled bars, with danger lurking in the shadows.

I’m fascinated with the rush to describe the gunman as a “madman”. Many are perhaps more comfortable with that. The thought that a fellow human being could consciously plummet such depths of hatred, is disturbing for us. That a fellow traveler on our small planet could clinically kill, with no shred of compassion evident, is something we would rather not face. It is consoling to dismiss him as a crank. But the photo of that smiling face, looking out of the Police vehicle after his arrest, seemingly enjoying the buzz and attention, makes me suspect a different truth.

We little, short-lived humans, traveling, just for a while, on our small, insignificant planet, ARE capable of great kindness and compassion on the one hand, and extraordinary bigotry and cruelty, on the other. So often we see people collectively going to extraordinary lengths to help others. People dedicate their whole lives to careers in caring, teaching, nursing, tutoring, raising, supporting, and simply honoring their fellow pilgrims. If I had not seen evidence of that, over and over again, I would be an embittered alcoholic somewhere, playing mind warping, violent computer games, endlessly spinning the chambers of a loaded Magnum 357, enjoying the suggestive, ratcheting hiss of a well oiled mechanism, whispering crazily to me inches from my ear.

And I have not merely observed such goodness, but I have actively received warmth and support from surprising sources, even total strangers, at hard and difficult times of my little life, when despair or bitterness were viable options, tugging convincingly at my sleeve. I have tasted bitterness, the sense of deep injustice, and I have been angry to a dangerous point. But always there were good people, wise people, patient people. To whom I could vent my fears, my anger, my seething frustrations. Together, as fellow humans, we would spread the evil on the table, pour it out, look at it, analyze it, and come to terms with it. And always, I soon could see there were some things I could change, and some things I could seemingly not, ever, influence, affect, or prevent.

He is no madman. He is a calculating, cunning, methodical, intelligent, killer. He planned it, carefully, and now he is proud of what he did. He will spend the rest of his life without remorse for what he did.
In his small cell, he will occasionally stare into the mirror, and grin at himself. If they remove the mirror, he will simply find a reflective surface. He will draw himself up to his full height, study his profile, and reflect on the satisfying fact that the last thing they, the unworthy ones, ever saw in Life, was his resolute expression. He will half snicker to himself, and think:

“I showed ’em…”

He is not alone in his mindset, and for that we need only to remind ourselves of Hitler’s gas chambers and his widespread terror apparatus. Pol Pot and the Kmer Rouge. Without the catalyst of Mein Kampf and Nazi Socialist indoctrination, it is unlikely that tens of thousands of German youths would have become sadistic thugs. But the potential was always there, waiting for a Hitler. Without Pol Pot, it is unlikely that rural Cambodians would have turned so remorselessly on their city dwelling countrymen. But the potential was always there. Is… always there.

Today, in our troubled world, there are many weak ones. Waiting for a seemingly convincing message, a seemingly worthwhile cause. All that stands between them and a new Adolf Hitler, a new Pol Pot, is the force of you and I.
Writers Harbor, as an organized outlet for creativity, as a harbor for gentleness and compassion, as well as a resolute bastion against inhumanity and humbug, seems an insignificant obstacle in the path of killers and psychopaths, false prophets and selfish politicians.

But appearances are deceiving.
It is precisely the force of ten thousand Writers Harbors, with hundreds of thousands of thinking, feeling, thoughtful, caring, compassionate, industrious types, that DOES stand in the way of an inexorable slide into the abyss.

So dust off your Artistic, creative, feeling side. Get writing.

There is good work to be done.

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 27, 2011, 4:22 pm