Beach Walker – Chapter 12

Superior by Far

I read Leonard’s text.

Come outside. Gotta surprise for ya.

I sighed. Leonard and his surprises. I straightened my clothes, slipped sandals on my feet and opened the front door.

Nobody. Nothing. Just the quiet, empty street, drowsing in the afternoon sun. What the hell, Leonard?

The roar of a powerful engine, and a notably long and large motorcycle rounded the corner, its rider in an upright, straight-backed position. Leonard, of course, wearing an ancient leather jacket and black, open-face helmet. He drew his metal steed up at the kerb, engine idling.

The bike looked distinctly odd – and old. It had a boxy frame, no curvy cowling or fairing. Below a very wide, chrome tank, intricate machinery was on full display. A big V-twin.

The boys all had dirt bikes, so I’m not unfamiliar with two-wheeled vehicles, in principle. I was even known to make a sedate circuit of the town on one myself, in my younger and sillier days.

This motorcycle didn’t resemble any I’d seen, though, much less ridden. Starting with the sound: it had a polite bass roar quite unlike the nervy scream of a high-revving modern sport bike or the smug, look-at-me chug of a Harley. It reminded me of the ‘tock’ of a grandfather clock – sped up a thousand times. It spoke of old-fashioned mechanical precision.

I said something to this effect to Leonard, raising my voice to be heard. He laughed, turned a lever and the beautiful sound died, leaving a gap in the warm air of the summer afternoon. There was an aroma of hot oil, surprisingly pleasant.

‘Don’t be fooled, Grace. She ain’t as sedate as she sounds. This here is a Brough Superior SS100 – fastest racing road bike of her time.’ His voice trembled with pride.

‘Oh.’

‘Know what the “one hundred” stands for?’

‘No idea.’

‘Miles per hour. Guaranteed to do that out of the factory. Hundred-and-sixty ks, Grace! That was in 1924. A hundred years ago! She’ll still break the speed limit today.’

‘Impressive. Looks like it needs a degree in engineering just to ride it.’ I waved at the array of levers and valves.

‘Has her quirks, that’s for sure. Runs beautifully though, when you know how. They called this the Rolls Royce of motorcycles, back in the day. That was Rolls talking themselves up, ha!’

‘So how did you come by this beautiful piece of engineering, then?’

‘Uncle Jimmy’s bad luck – my good fortune. The Brough was his. Copped some damage in a grass fire on the farm while I was in jail, ’parently. The old girl was unrideable and Jimmy just stuck her in the back of the barn. Forgot all about her. Otherwise she’d probably have been sold like his other bikes, when he was strapped for cash.’

‘Amazing.’

‘I know! So I come along after the old bloke’s dead, start pulling down the barn – before the roof falls on someone’s head. Find this ’un under a tarp. Remembered her vaguely from back when I was a kid. Thought she was long gone.’

So this, obviously, was what my friend had been fussing over in his garage for months. Years, no doubt.

‘Must have been a lot of work to get it back on the road?’

‘You’re not wrong. In a right old state! Bent front axle and fender. Twisted frame. Cables shot, of course. So I made new cables, got the frame straightened and welded. Lucky the engine was in reasonable nick, considering. Just needed stripping down and cleaning. Flushed the fuel tank …’

Leonard was positively chatty. This was the most I’d ever heard him say on any topic other than seaweed. Sorry: marine algae and vascular plants.

‘Where did you get the skills for all that? Not riding horses …’

‘Did a basic bike mechanic course while I was inside. But most of it I learned by trial and error. A couple of bikie mates got me started.’

‘It’s an impressive achievement, Leonard.’

‘Thanks. Real journey of discovery. No manual to follow. These bikes were all hand-made, see?’ He patted the chrome tank lovingly as if it were the neck of one of his horses.

‘No assembly line churning out Broughs – only three thousand ever made.’ Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes.

‘Biggest headache has been sourcing parts. You order something online from the other side of the world, and when you get it, months later, it’s not as advertised. Stuff that I couldn’t source and couldn’t machine myself, I had to get made in an engineering shop. Like that front axle fr’instance.’

‘Is a vintage bike like this worth a lot of money?’ I was expecting to hear a few tens-of-thousand dollars.

‘Pristine one’ll fetch over half a million.’

‘Good grief!’

‘This old girl’s rideable but “barn fresh” as they say – literally, ha! – so maybe half that? Dunno.’ He scratched his shaggy cheek.

‘What will you do with it? Her?’ I didn’t really approve of this calling vehicles ‘she’ – we females are neither for riding nor tinkering with, thank you very much – but I wanted to honour Leonard’s passion.

‘Take her out on the open road and enjoy her, course! It’s what Jimmy’d have wanted. And when I’m old and knackered and can’t ride no more, I’ll put her up for auction and the horses’ll get the proceeds.’

It seemed like a fair plan to me.

‘So – coming for a ride?’ He held out a second helmet.

Ah.

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Next week in Beach Walker:

Chapter 13: Wind Song

Grace casts caution to the winds.

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Disclaimer: The people and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people and events. The locations are authentic.