It's the first day of spring and there's a raging snow storm going on outside. (Only in Canada, eh) I've just sat down with the April issue of Cycle Canada and 'am about to listen to my latest purchase. A CD entitled "STINK", by Mckenna Mendelson Mainline. Now my 8 track and vinyl copies disintegrated decades ago. But, here it is to enjoy all over again on compact disk. Ain't technology grand.
    The opening line of track 1 is, "I'm gonna ramble..." and so I thought I would. As I peruse the pages and tap along with the tunes my thoughts jump back and forth. From warm sunny days of long ago to what might the upcoming summer bring.  Then, one memory hits me. Jamie's' jammin', babe watchin', baby braggin, bike wash and bar-b-que. It was a happening of immense
proportions. The likes of which had not been seen before, nor equalled since.
    It probably started innocently enough with a couple of guys getting together on a Saturday to do that "bike wash" thing. (For those unfamiliar with this holy ritual suffice it to say that it is an experience best shared. Especially with strangers. For they will
listen politely to all the old stories your friends have tired of.)
    As spring stretched into summer so did the number of participants. Until someone decided (probably someone's wife) that if these many people were going to show up, why not organize a proper party? And organized it was, complete with a sponsor, Amzoil. My friends Peter and Keith had been invited and they in turn invited me.
    Now, as luck would have it I had agreed to attend the vintage festival being held at Mosport that very same weekend. So I would be in the general area. It was decided, after some discussion that I would be allowed to ride my new play toy (a 1990 U.S. spec. RC 30) to the track. My wife Linda, in turn would follow in our little Tracker with the trailer loaded with jun... aahhh,  make that a rare bike and desirable vintage parts. After the days racing I would go on to the "babe-wash" while she took the days profits, if any, and new found bargains back home.
    We're up to track five on the CD. How prophetic it's title "Think I'm Losing My Marbles". With all that happened on this day, I'm sure that's how the wife felt.
    Saturday dawned bright and our little caravan made the hour and a bit long trek to Mosport in just under three. But our story paled in comparison to others. Like Paul Bowyers' friend who drove for miles on a flat front tire, making it into the paddock on nothing but the rim.
    And the bad luck had only just begun. George Oligar had kindly offered me one of his vintage bikes for the weekend. But when he fell in the hairpin, breaking several bones I decided to decline. I saw the look in my wife's eyes. It had been a fall in another hair pin corner that had ended my own racing career five years earlier. And besides it would not have felt right to be riding his bike while he road a backboard to Bowmanville hospital. I suggested that we pack up early and both head into Oshawa for Jamie's' party. Wives, girlfriends and kids had all been invited.
    When I turned the corner and headed up to the driveway I could not believe my eyes. It was filled with bikes, babes, babies and more. One individual was waving me in like a fighter plane being directed to taxi into position after making a carrier landing. Even before I could get my helmet off I was greeted with "Welcome to my driveway. Can you believe this turnout?" As I gazed around I could see that the major Japanese makers were all represented. From a modified RDLC, to that race proven 0W01 of which I had intimate knowledge of. There were wash buckets, wet tee shirts and suds galore. A row of helmets sat on top of the block wall along the north side of the driveway. There were tunes on the stereo, bike G.P.s on the T.V.  and plates full of food.  Definitely a good time was being had by all. And my wife and I were about to become an integral part.
    For after the bikes had been dutifully detailed (using the sponsors free samples) came the obligatory "photo shoot". We had gone to Mosport loaded with camera gear and had lots of film. Each proud owner would push his pride and joy up the side walk to the designated spot. Some would pose with their bikes others would not. But all wanted something to remember the occasion by.
    Conspicuous by his absence from the line of bikes was our host. It seems that the week before while on a spirited ride with Glynn and Peter Wilson he had lunched the motor. (Little did I know that only two weeks later I'd do the same, but that’s another story.) But, after some coaxing he literally joined the push parade. With spark plug wires and throttle cables dangling he proudly stood behind his motorless mount. Then, those of us who were not out on test rides crowded around for a group shot.
    The smiles tell it all. Throughout the day there was of coarse the usual kibitzing and jeering. At one point while in deep conversation with two other piston heads we noticed two young lovelies walking slowly up the sidewalk, looking back at us. One claimed his masculine body while another his long flowing hair as the reason. I said it was my mature look.  "You white boys are all wrong!" said a voice from behind us. "You know they all want to learn if what they say about us is true or not."
    That comment lead into a ruckus round of good natured jabs and harmless insults. Although we never settled on an answer to just what did catch those girls eyes, our bikes or our bods, this friendly bantering did reinforce one undeniable truth. For I saw children arguing over which Ninja Turtle was the best. Women deep in debate over breast vs. bottle feeding. (You know which
one got my vote, Donatelo of course.) Two stroke vs. four and on and on. Men, women and children of varied races, ages and religions all having one heck of a good time.
    Two, three, four... oh, sorry I'm singing along with the CD again. It's track 8 "Better Watch Out". And speaking of which and good times, before the sun set we had to go for a road ride. Everyone suited up, except Jamie. I offered to take the NS400R off of the trailer for him, but he had another idea. We all rode around the block and came screaming down the side street past Jamie's' driveway, then turning and accelerating away. There he was lying in the grass at the apex of the corner with video camera in hand.
    Oh, what a sight it must have been. A freight train of two dozen bikes winding it's way through the subdivisions. Working it's way first, downtown, then north of town. Back south to the lake and finally returning to the driveway where it all had started.
    By now it was getting late and we had a long trip ahead of us. So we thanked everyone profusely and all agreed to do it again real soon. Then our little caravan headed back down the road to Glen Ross on Trent. It didn't seem to take as long getting home as it had going. Even though I don't think I got the bike out of third gear.
    The CD is part way through it's second or is that third replay. It doesn't matter. 'Cause ya know, good tunes like good times are worth repeating again n again. Oh sing it Joe...
 
 

Contact me

Stephen Warburton