Head Check: What it Feels Like to Ride Motorcycles by Lewis Jack

Author:Lewis, Jack [Lewis, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781935878094
Publisher: Litsam
Published: 2014-12-13T22:00:00+00:00

May 2009, Motorcyclist

Boomershoot

Pretty Wife anticipated Boomershoot approximately like this: “Skitchy vet who’s got about five minutes of sidecar experience borrows someone else’s Ural to ride across two states, hang out with armed strangers, and shoot at exploding targets.

“What could possibly go wrong?”

My grandfather knew good technology when he tried it — and he tried it all.

In the 19-teens, Grandpa flew the U.S. Mail in de Havilland biplanes. He roared through the Twenties on a Harley-Davidson J Model, beating a set of Slingerland Radio Kings with his jazz band on the weekends.

Gramps liked good gear. When he finally got tired of horseback hunting, he bought himself a Willys pickup, the first 4WD in McCall, Idaho. Behind the seat rode his trusty Model 70, a “rifleman’s rifle” that emerged from Winchester’s New Haven works around the time the first Ural rigs shipped to the Soviet army.

By the time that rifle came down to me, it was field-scarred and scruffy — and nothing like cutting edge — but it still shot better than I could on my best day, long before the shakes and flinches set in. Even so armed, however, I felt woefully unprepared when a drinking buddy invited me to check out Boomershoot ’09, a long-range shooterpalooza in north-central Idaho.

My kamerads at Irbit Motor Works had promised a lend-lease 2WD Ural Safari, brand new and tarted up in desert camouflage with fuel can, ammo carrier and spotlights. I was rubbing my hands together with anticipation when Pretty Wife arched an eyebrow and said, “Don’t you need an endorsement for those?”

Much scrambling around resulted in my taking a sidecar class in frozen fog, which would prove appropriate preparation. Meanwhile, back at the national distributor, my fully optioned loaner was sold to some cooler guy to go the Long Way. When I showed up to kick start my big adventure, they led me instead to a seven year-old test mule, decked out in rust-bubbled olive drab.

Smacked around for 66,000 kilometers, an ’05 mill in an ’02 frame with ’0-everywhen dings, the shop beater was a blueprint match for Grandpa’s old rifle.

Some assembly was required. Factory hackmeister Sergei is on the short side, and his solo perch positioned me like a shy boy at the urinal. We unbolted it in favor of the standard loaf, an excellent all-day saddle.

I asked about maintenance.

“No, nothing.”

I pointed at the dipstick. Sergei just shook his head. The man is a believer.

After admonishing me to shut off the gas at every stop lest hydraulic lock shear the crankshaft in two (don’t laugh — this is actually possible), Sergei sent me wobbling out into eastside traffic.

I signed nothing. They held my black Beemer hostage. Everyone was nervous. Only I was armed.

• • •

The next morning at oh-gray-thirty, Pretty Wife bustled around packing double-bagged electronics, extra duds and road snacks into the capacious trunk. I contented myself with wrapping boxes of match-grade ammo into a double-rubber Wehrmacht bag strapped to the outboard nerf bar.

Finally, Pretty Wife approached the sidecar as gingerly as a virgin ascending Tlaloc’s altar.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.