Cycle News - Archive Issues - 1960's

~FICTION ~ q, 'lll · . til ~ WillY's Mlt_e:rcle Had a Mind af THE MOTORCYCLE THIEF WUsU'aUOIIS by Jon Dahlstrom &; It's Own - But Ibe Guys wIIa Stele ;:; it Didn't Knaw That 'J5 ..... . q, by Charles Clayton .Q ~ ~ WILLY KNEW THE BIKE was Z stolen even before he went down'" stairs to check. Its departure without notice pulled an invisi ble string at: ~ tached to something inside his abdomen so that he felt a definite twinge ~ at about one.A.M., sitting in a crowdu ed night spot in the. city of M--- in ~ the state of Q - - - , together with U the president of the local motorcycle association, Terry, and his wife. He excused himself from their company and jellyfished through the crowded customers out of the dark room. On the way he passed a girl he had just met who, moments ago had ridden behind him, pressing her bosom against his back and squealing on the steeper turns. Willy smiled, trying to catch her eye. But she was examining her expensive white ski jacket where the rear chain had flung black aildrops from shoulder to hip. (I've got to get a chainguard, Willy thought for perhaps the thousandth time.) • Do you think it = will come out?· he heard her moan to a girlfriend, and Willy knew he had lost on that score too. Outside, his extrasensory perception was confirmed. Where moments ago the polished old rooter had stood, was now only empty pavement, wi th a familiar spot of oil in the center. All Willy could think was how sheepish he would feel announcing to his friends that his bike had been absconded. There would be a hue and cry and the evening ruined. Wasn't it locked? they would ask (he hadn't even turned off the gas· this time, he remembered ruefully; he only had eyes for the girl, and had neglected the machine). S!Jch a weird collection of parts should not appeal to a discriminating thief anyway, Willy thought. One could easily find a better cycle to steal. But he had polished its worn exterior to perfecti:> n for the meeting with Terry, and in the dim light it might be mistaken for a valuable motorcycle. Willy half-heartedly searched up and down the nearby lanes. (Maybe i ~ s parked just around the corner and someone"s having a laugh on me.) As he peered into a dark passage between two buildings he was suddenly caught in a spotlight glare. For a moment it looked like the headlight of the strayed motorcycle. ·What are you doing there?· came a stern voice from behind the light. ·Looking for a lost motorcycle ••• well, actually it was stolen from in front of the jazz clu b.· ·Oh you're one a them beatniks that hangs out there, eh?· the policeman said, eyeing Willy suspiciously. ·Well, I'm beat for my bike, I guess•• "Okay. Oive me a desc.ription and I'll report it to headquarters.· He wrote down the make, model and license number. "Hmm. Out of state, eh? Just passing through?" Willy explained he was traveling around the country reportil)g on motorcycle races for a magazine. There seemed nothing more to do, so he returned to the club. Losing the bike was too much for Willy's mind this late at night. He would ha ve to figure it out tomorrow. FIRST Arnie heard the engine, blocks away, whining through the gears, growing louder as it approached. Then a ray of headlight bobbed in the parking lot and the motorcycle drew up in front of the jazz club - a rakish, thundering mount, hi-ghlights glittering oilily on its tank and struts. The girl got off, then the man, and went upstairs. Arnie was drawn to the machine. guided Willy's fickle machine. It started easily and muttered surreptitibusly from the scene. SOME people think that simply because a machine has to obey certain laws of physics, it has no mind, no will of its own. But others know that some machines, especially motorcycles, develop individual personalities almost like human beings. And they are sensitive. They have feelings which can be hurt. They can even become jealous,like people. 580120567 (for that was the number the factory had given Willy's machine at birth) was old enough to have a mind of its own. It purred like a contended kitten when Willy tickled its adjustments, but it could balk like a stubborn donkey if its ne eds we re not me t. Although its racing d~s were over, it was a thoroughbred and liked to run proud and fast. It shook off things like road equipment the way a puppy shakes off a ribbon. Willy knew it was worn and decrepit, but old 580 refused to break down. When its frame got bent, it somehow managed to twist the forks to compensate for the irregularity, It was still powerful enough to snap a chain It embodied the spirit of the role in which he fancied himself: brave motorcyclist with a herd of mustangs between his thighs, impressing girls with the daring grace of his riding, like a knight on a black charger. when it felt like it, and it enjoyed showing off for Willy's passengers, whining nas tily through the gears and tilting low on curves, with just a hint of breakaway to send a tingle up the spine. And it always deposited an autograph stripe of chain oil on the passenger's back,like a souvenil of the ride. Sometimes Willy felt so proud of his cycle he let a special friend take her out alone. Then she would become docile and forgiving and try to adjust to the strange hand. But she only ran best for Willy. After all, they had been together more than five years now. It was beginning to be a question who owned whom, for the cycle felt as much proprietorship over Willy as he felt for it. Was it strange then that a motorcycle should feel jealous when its rider took a girl for a spin? Judging by the face she made when they were int(oduced, the girl obviously didn't care much for the cycle's rugged appearance. She'd· probably have preferred a sporty car. And she leaned the wrong wayan turns and climbed on and off awkwardly. But the cycle performed perfectly while it gleefully spattered her back with chain oil, and refrained from burning her ankle with its exhaust pipe, although the temptation was hard to resist. Then Willy ungratefully parked and left without so much as a back- He approached the bike as a curious customer in a showroom might; just looking, thanks. It was bigger, heavier than the little cyCle which had so impressed him last summer when he bought it, but now seeu'.ed inadequate to tile rule he wanted to play. Be swung his leg over the saddle and felt the warm engine between his knees. The bars were thick and powerful like Charles Atlas mail order shoulders, .and Arnie knew it was unlocked. The rider would be listening to the music upstairs. The parking lot was deserted. This was the chance Arnie had waited for. His heart beating loudly, he rolled the bike down the slight inr line to the alley, hoping the click of the chain would not give him away. Through the alley he ward glance to see if the cycle was comfortable. Didn't even turn off the tank tap, he was so enthralled with his pretty passenger. What was a poor motoroycle to do? 580 began to feel bitchy. Then it felt an unfamiliar rump on its seat, strange hands on its bar. It could tell from the touch that this was not just a casual admirer-it was a thief! The motorcycle could have thwarted the thief. It could fall over with a great clatter and frighten him away. Then Willy would come back to find it on its side. perhaps a handle grip scuffed off, belching gasoline, and feel sorry for it and angry at the tamperer. The hell with him. Was he thinking about me when he turned me up to 6500 in third to impress that chick? Let him get along withuutme for a while and see how he likes it. This guy wants me. I'll go along with him. So long, Willy.. And 580 slipped silently down the lane. TERRY Marshall found th.; ~.lzz e xcitinl;, especially the thick notes of the saxophone that seemed larger than the musician blowing it. fie relished the pleasure all the more when he reflected that he should have stayed home tonight and straightened out the association's records. But Will's call had been a welcome distraction• .And when he suggested that they meet at the jazz club, Terry had to smile. Someone had told Will about Terry's weak spot, all right. Somehow, to him, motorcycle riding and ·azz seemed to have a lot in common. Will agreed•. Even Terry's wife, whose taste tended more toward cowboy music, was having a good time. It was like this in the old days when he called for Becky at her mother's house and they would ride together to The sty on the edge of town and drink beer and laugh with the other cycle hounds and [ide off in packs to the cafe down the road or the picnic grounds by the river. Ah, the fun they used to have. He would have to tell Will about it. Wonder where he's gone? (CONTINUED NEXT WEEK)

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