441 VICTOR

 People You Meet on the Road

 

Having curtailed some motorcycle riding in anticipation of some anatomical micro-wave sessions, I did run a few errands on Mariolanza, the Moto Guzzi, the other day and stumbled into the following situation.

 

I’d parked in the motorcycle spaces at the corner of nearby little town’s iconic downtown square.  Upon returning from an errand, I spied a gentleman – older than myself – eyeballing my ride.  Even from behind, I could tell he was wistful.  Perhaps it was the way he held his shoulders.

         As I slipped the key in the ignition, he said, “What’s that? A Guzzi?”

         “Yep.”

         “Nice restoration.  What year?”  He tugged at the leash of a fine-looking Doberman who was showing some degree of interest in Mariolanza’s rear tire.

         “It’s a 2021, Guzzi’s 100^th Anniversary model.”

         “They still make ‘em?”

         “They still make ‘em.”

         “I got me a Brit bike.  A thumper.  Can’t find nobody to work on it, though.”  

         “Really.  What brand?”

         “BSA.”  

         “Wait? You’ve got a Victor?”

         “Yeah.  A 441 Victor.  How did you know?”  

 

         “You said, ‘BSA and Thumper.’  What else would it be?”

         “Well, I do sorta recall a 250 single.  Pour oil in the top and watch it drain out through the bottom.  Not a problem with my Victor, but it has a few others and I can’t find anybody to work on it.”

         “Did you check the Zen House in Point Arena?”  I’d had a very positive experience there, surrounding the rebuild of an ’86 BMW.  I offered to write down some on-line info.

         “Oh, son.”  [Ha!  He called me ‘son.’] “I don’t do computers.  Come to think of it, I don’t do carburetors anymore either.”

         “Me neither.”  Pointing to the Guzzi, “That’s why I got this one.  Fuel injected.”

         “Fuel injected?  Bah!” He gave the Dobie a gentle tug.  Then he said, “So, how is it you know about my bike?”

         “Back when I was in high school, a 441 Victor with it’s yellow over brushed aluminum tank and pea-shooter exhaust was my dream bike. Light.  Snazzy.  Cool like Steve McQueen.  Sounded cool, too.  Tucka-tucka-tucka-tucka-tucka.”

 

         “Yeah.” The gent grinned broadly. “Tucka-tucka-tucka-tucka-tucka.”  

         “College kid livin’ nearby had a Victor,” I continued. “Called it the ‘One Lung-er.’  Said he wouldn’t ever see himself comin’ the other way on one.  Not like a Honda or a Yamaha…  

         “…What year is yours?”

         “I bought it new in ’67 from the dealer in San Jose.”  

         “New in ’67?  No kidding?”

         “No kidding.  Dropped into the shop one afternoon, just to nose around. Sales guy put me on it and took me for a test ride.  No helmet.  No license.  Nothin’.  

         “Sales guy was in front of me on a big Lightning or some such when he crashed.  I ended up getting him to the hospital, but then went back and bought the Victor.”

         “Nice piece of history.  And with its own history.  You’ve had it since ’67?”

         “The whole time.” He nodded.  “You sure there’s a shop in Point Arena?  I never heard of… what’d you call it?”

         “Zen House.  From Pirsig’s book, I think.  On the highway – the Pacific Coast Highway – the main drag, behind the only gas pumps in town.  You can’t miss it.”

         “Oh, son, I’ll bet I can…”

 

 

I hope to cross paths with the Victor on the road someday soon.  I’ll be on the Guzzi.

 

© 2022

Church of the Open Road Press

CROSS COUNTRY ON ELLIE: A 40-YEAR-OLD MOTO GUZZI

Vicarious Life through Others’ Travels

In 1971, I purchased my first new car: a Clementine orange VW Super Beetle.  I loved that car. While it still resides in my heart, I wish it still had a place in my garage.  It was truly the one that got away.  If I still owned the Bug, it likely would travel no further from home than the coffee shop on Sunday morning, because, well, what if it and its forty-plus-year-old technology broke down?

I was reminded of this the other night when visitors from Tasmania, whom we were yet to meet, tooled into our neighborhood on a 1975 Moto Guzzi El Dorado.  Paul and Kerry Dickson (again, from waaayyyyy down under) purchased this classic a couple of months back from a seller in Nova Scotia, Canada, basically sight unseen.  Her name, they were told, was “Ellie.”

The story goes that the Dicksons flew into New York, caught a hop across the border, took Ellie for a short spin, laid down their money and headed west.

That takes some measure of guts, I’d opine.  I suppose if I found a seventies-era VeeDub, I could attempt a similar journey because those old Volkswagens were not all that uncommon.  We still see a few of them belching about and parts still pretty available.

But on a vintage Guzzi?  Trying to find parts for a forty-year old Moto Guzzi must be a bit like finding the third tablet upon which the rest of the Fifteen Commandments are chiseled.  But Mr. and Mrs. Dickson were undeterred.

They rode and camped and rode and moteled and rode through some of the most scenic territory in all of North America seeking small museums, enjoying mom ‘n’ pop café meals in tiny towns and sticking, whenever possible, to America’s less travelled by-ways.

The story of their introduction to Ellie, the El Dorado, has a love-at-first-sight poignancy to it.  Photos of the motoring to the top of New Hampshire’s Mount Washington and Wyoming’s Devil’s Tower added more bullets to my burgeoning bucket list, while shots of Montana-Wyoming’s Beartooth Pass reignited the excitement I felt on my trip a few years back on my then four-year-old BMW.  Except they did it on Ellie, a contemporary of my beloved, long-gone ’71 VW.

Along the way, these travelers stopped in at our house for some ribs, some rest and this reminder to self: As long as we continue to expand our view of the world and our appreciation for the diverse gifts it offers, we can keep our thus-engaged selves young.  Perhaps there is no better way to do this than through travel on a motorcycle.

Better still if her name is Ellie.

o0o

Notes: 

More exact details of the Dickson’s transaction and amazing trip can be found on their blog “Sure – Why Not?”  Plan on being captivated by the pictures and the narrative.  And keep checking back as Paul and Kerry are still composing thoughts and selecting pictures that represent the completion of their journey. Here’s the link: http://sure-why-not--2016.blogspot.com/.  

Special thanks to Patrick Hayes (left) for arranging the connections necessary to allow for visitors from the other side of the globe to come to our little place for a meal and a night’s rest.  Patrick is a moto-aficionado (and Church of the Open Road reader) who somehow hooked up with me through the blog during my Guzzi ownership days.

And kudos to the Guzzi community – as Kerry refers to them – both in the states and in Canada who helped ensure that Paul and Kerry’s adventure would be the utmost success.  I'm thinking I need to make an effort to "rejoin" that community...

And this...

“You meet the nicest people on a Honda.”

- Corporate slogan ca 1964

I spoke with my 94-year-old mother the other day and shared that visitors from Tanzania would be stopping over.  “Where’s Tanzania?” she asked.  I explained and she said, “My, you do lead an interesting life.”

No, I thought to myself, but I certainly have met some inspiring people who do.

© 2016

Church of the Open Road Press

HOW TO SAVE A QUICK THIRTEEN HUNDRED BUCKS

HAVING BEEN HIT with a mild mid-winter cold – not one severe enough to preclude me from housework or yard cleanup, but one where the over-the-counter meds made me uncomfortable on the bike, I dabbled in a wholly unproductive pastime: E-bay. A week or so prior, a hike in the hills east of Chico revived early memories of riding a 70s era Honda Trail 90 into and out of chemise and oak covered drainages.

So, I thought I’d look up what might be on the market out there. The Trail 90 weighs a little less than I do now days, and they’re so compact, I’m sure there’d be room in the garage, particularly if we parked my wife’s Civic outside. I chose not to share this plan.

As luck would have it, the little Honda CTs seem to be quite available on the resale market. Listings abounded throughout North America. After only a few hours – okay: about three days – I had distilled the listings into categories based upon distance from home, professed condition, year, and finally color. I’d had two yellow ones, and another yellow one seemed fitting.


MID-ILLNESS, I was called to spend a weekend two-plus hours away with the “kids:” daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren. Hanging with them is fine as long as, in general, I can avoid diaper duty, and specifically this trip: I don’t breathe on anyone. Running errands with son Sam is always a delight affording me an opportunity to learn more about lovely Northern Sonoma County and to talk bikes with this young man, who up until recently, owned a very sweet Bonneville black. “I’ll replace it when the kids are older,” he said. “A wise call,” I responded. My offspring-induced hiatus had lasted 12 years.  It'd been a good call for me, too, at the time.

On the way to return some flooring samples at the home improvement center, we passed through the warehouse district of Santa Rosa. I’d been sharing memories of the little CT and we were jawing about how cheap and dependable they still are. “Think about it,’” Sam said. “Is there any mechanical thing built today that you could expect to still be running forty ears from now?”

I was about to voice the same thing when, in approaching our destination, on the left stood “The Motorcycle Shop.” At first glance it appeared to be a place where kids could buy aftermarket parts to soup up their KTM or GSX-R. But nestled between two minis on the concrete walk leading to the front door was the bike we’d just been pining about. An orange one.

“We gotta stop.”

(c) The Honda CT-90 Page

THE ’74 HAD ABOUT 1160 miles on it. There were rusted spots but the only tweak appeared to be a slightly bent brake pedal – coincidentally, bent almost exactly to the same degree as I’d bent the brake on my ’70. I sat on it. The suspension compressed. I rotated the throttle. Everything felt just like forty years ago. Even me. “You gotta sit on this, Sam!”

Sam did. I showed him how to access the under-seat tank, the button to pull if riding the thing at higher than 4000 feet in elevation, and the little lever than shifted the transmission from high range to low range. He nodded with what I assumed was appreciation.

Michele, the business owner, appeared. She explained that the little Honda was on consignment and that there’d been some interest. Me: “How much is he askin’?” Michele: “$1300.  But you could call him.  He might be flexible.”

My stomach did one of those little flips. That’s little more than a 24,000-mile service on the BMW – with a new tire or two. “I could store it over here where you used to park the Bonne…”

Sam pulled me away.


LATER, GIDDILY, I spilled the find to my wife. She did not act surprised. “No room in the garage,” she said. “I checked once I saw you looking at them on line.”

I looked at her: my eyes must have formed a pair of question marks.

“Yeah. I measured,” she said. “Oh, sure, it’d fit if you folded the handbars around like you can with that lever.” Wow, she really knew something about this model! “But we’re not leaving my car outside in the cold, and unless we do, there won’t be room for another bike and you sleeping on your army cot.”  Then she added:  "Maybe the cat could keep you warm..."


RESOURCES:

“The Motorcycle Shop” 3383 Airway Drive, Santa Rosa: www.the-motorcycle-shop.com

The Honda CT-90 Page – A wonderful website for everything Honda CT. Next time you feel too under-the-weather to ride, dabble here: www.ct90.net

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press

BSA 441 Victor

INTRODUCTION TO THE VICTOR

IN ABOUT 1968, maybe 1966 or ’67, after a really wet winter, my brother and I decided to take the family’s eighteen foot Old Town “Guide’s Special” wood and canvas canoe from the One Mile recreation area on Chico Creek about a mile east of downtown, to our house, about a mile west of down town. We donned our heavy army fatigue jackets for warmth this February day, and put in just below the One Mile Dam.

The creek was running full and swift. The two-mile run would probably take much less time than the hour or two we had planned.

Had it not been for the snag.

Winter’s rain had toppled an ancient sycamore. It lay partially tipped into the creek about a quarter mile upstream from our house.

The bow of the classic canoe slipped under this white barked skeleton and the current pushed the stern so mightily that the ribs of the venerable vessel cracked. Out we tumbled. Down the raging creek we were carried, weighted down by those damned army jackets. We struggled out of the water and hot-footed it back to the scene of the now-derelict classic. How we rescued its remains is of no consequence.


AN ENGINEERING STUDENT from Chico State, one who minored in industrial arts, was commissioned to repair the damage. He arrived one day on the most classic of all thumpers. A BSA 441 Victor.

He had modified the exhaust (meaning: chopped off) so his presence was advertised long before it was realized.

This single cylinder machine was as rugged as Steve McQueen and as powerful as one of the battleships on which he served in some war movie or other. The Four-Forty-One’s tank was yellow on the front and aluminum silver on the back half and with a red-winged BSA logo tattooed on the yellow part.

Simplicity. A couple of wheels. Knobby, no nonsense tyres. An engine made mainly of cast iron. A single headlight, black with a pitted chrome ferrule. A cracked and worn seat that had probably seen about a million miles. And the tank: Red-winged “BSA” on a field of yellow paint and scoured aluminum.

If there were poetry in anything mechanical, this thing epitomized it.

The student came and departed many times on the BSA. The neighborhood kids soon knew. And after that first visit, we listened for the distinctive, throaty thump of its British motor and while the young man worked, we just stared at his bike: little boys imagining adventures in Ceylon, or Rangoon, or Malaysia, or some other far-flung point of the empire, doing something pithy, something British.

The college kid didn’t fix the boat, but he had a hell of a bike.