It was with some sadness that Bill Hickey poured the last of his heavily-leaded, high-octane racing fuel into the oddly menacing, spindly-looking, venerable motorbike.

 “Last time, old girl!  Let’s make it a good one … no, let’s make it epic!”

Firmly securing the tank cap, he rolled the subject of his soliloquy out into the warm, morning sunshine.

 “What a day for a fang!  We’ll do this, then worry about saving the planet later.”

The 500 cc BSA Empire Star being talked to, began life in 1937, only five years before Bill was born.  He was gifted the bike for his 21st birthday.  Seemingly unloved and in a terrible state of disrepair, Bill ploughed all his spare savings into making her a competitive clubman’s race-bike.  He grafted a more modern BSA telescopic front-end on her from a Post-war 650 cc A10.  This gave him a much bigger 8” front brake and suspension as good as any of his peers.  The rigid back end may have lacked a spring-heel but the lightness more than made up for the minimal advantages of the 1950’s designs of his mates.

 “Lean, lithe and lovely!”  It was not unusual for Bill to talk aloud to his surroundings and especially to his treasured old two-wheeler.

Over the years Bill had reworked the combustion chamber shape, experimented with many cam profiles and raised the compression ratio so it only ran on specialised alcohol fuels.  A close-ratio gearbox was sourced, and being light and nimble, she was quite a weapon on the right roads, even when matched against contemporary machines.  After a pretty successful 12-year race career she was made road-ready by introducing a moveable flap into the straight-through exhaust.  This gave what Bill called town and country options, just enabling the noise compliance requirements to be met at each WoF inspection, when the restrictor baffle was engaged.

The BSA awoke with a staccato bark, bringing the usual smile to Bill’s wrinkled face.

 “Let’s go find a playmate or two!”

Putting the old bike into gear brought the usual graunch, but this was of no concern to Bill and he eased out the clutch, mindful of the very high first ratio, awake to the possibility of stalling.  Bill’s small cottage, which his family called The Eyrie, sat under a rocky escarpment, seemingly watchful like a sentinel … looking out over a fertile plain. The track to the road took him up and across an often wind-swept paddock.  Now warm enough to idle, Bill leaned the old bike’s footrest against a well-worn and strategically-placed granite boulder.  After swinging open the rustic farm gate, they embarked on the first part of the morning’s fun.  Cracking open the throttle, as one they leapt forward, the slightly-muted exhaust emissions trailing behind like rolling thunder.  The single cylinder’s cacophony was a distinct aggressive purr, the thudding beats quickening as the cadence increased.  A feeling of euphoria swept over him.

 “God, I’ll miss this!”

Bill’s thoughts were parked and his eyes became his primary sense, constantly scanning the road surface looking for changes, assessing his return ride’s needs, noting the location of carrion.  The road was dry and in perfect condition, probably having been recently swept by the highway maintenance crew.  There was no lingering detritus from the recent storms that had left numerous branches on the road mid-week. The distance down to the hamlet of Sadler was only 12 km but it was twisty and dropped 820 m through a steep-sided valley … a motorcyclist’s dream.  A topographical map showed it to be a wonderfully irregular snaking road.  The AA guidebook described it as serpentine, with 67 gazetted bends. These were never the same.  There were tight ones, there were banked ones, several were blind and a couple of fast open ones followed a tight hairpin and one especially tricky non-parabolic curve tightened to a first-gear corner.  It was a section of road that needed to be learned in detail if you’re to be fast and smooth.  This was Bill’s specialty, his metier.  For more than sixty years he had called this his playground.

The shaded sections of road showed no signs of  damp and the surface felt grippy and Bill involuntarily smiled in the knowledge that today’s run should be a quick one.  He counted each corner with a small commentary of how they were to be taken on the reverse-direction ride.  As he throttled down into the acute Horseshoe Bend near the bottom of the hill he heard the distinctive wavering trill of a Grey Warbler and wondered if this was a portent of good things to come.

The Crooked Hat was a quirky road-side café right at the bottom of Patterson’s Hill as this section of the State Highway was known.  A well-liked stopping point for all two-wheelers, Bill was satisfied to see a small line-up of bikes as he slowed. As part of the morning’s plan he had retarded the ignition after the last bend and the bike now sounded flat and unhealthy, back-firing at the twitch of the throttle. The bike looked old and sounded old … the rider looked old, and was old.  Carefully turning his trusty steed to face toward the hill, Bill went through a pedantic procedure after he cut the engine with the valve-lifter mechanism.  Firstly he reset the ignition timing almost to full-advance, and eased the piston over top-dead-centre on the compression-stroke and positioned it mid-power-stroke.  He derestricted the exhaust by turning the baffle flap to be in line with the straight-through pipe. Finally putting the bike on its back stand.  The bike was exactly positioned to start and go!

The small group of motorcyclists at the outside seating watched this with interest.  The old man on his old bike was an item of curiosity to them … a museum-exhibit in the flesh.  He and his faded old leather riding gear were seemingly a world away from theirs.  They wondered about the wide kidney belt strapped around his middle and the old pudding basin helmet, which he didn’t remove when coming over to warmly engage with them.

 “Beaut day for a bimble!” he opened with, “Oh my word … what’s this bloated behemoth?” Bill had turned towards the biggest, flashiest bike in the group.  His quaint turn of phrase brought a smile to most of the group and a titter from one of the young women, but not the Alpha Male.  Bill had spotted him immediately because of his swagger and the way he disported himself when seated, leaning back, legs proudly apart, jacket open. Obviously he used what Bill’s grandkids called product.  He was almost the Brylcreme pin-up from days of old.  Clearly full of himself, Bill judged and almost said aloud “Let’s see if we can bring you down a peg.”

Now standing beside the black and chrome example of America’s extravagance and lack of subtlety, Bill did articulate aloud, spitting out his questions and observations, whilst not always waiting for answers.

 “A two-wheeled gin palace!  What’s it for?  Must look like a Spanish Galleon when under way … as big as the Esmeralda!”  Bill said this, aware that the young audience wouldn’t know the four-masted Chilean naval training barquentine, but hoped they’d get some sort of imagery.

  “Is this the one with reverse gear and trainer wheels?”  He was now circling around the gargantuan bike taking in the minutiae.
 
 “Strike me down with a feather … it’s got television … and an arm chair!  Don’t suppose it’s got a bog as well?”  Bill was aware that some of the modern bikes had touch-screen information pods but hadn’t seen one in the flesh before.  He noted that the object of his scrutiny was clearly labelled Indian, but it was time to really rark up the owner.

 “Is this a Fat Boy?  Or are you the Fat Boy?  How big is it?  It’s not a 1200 is it?”
 
Finally the Brylcreme Kid responded.
 “Fat Boys are Harleys and this is a 119 cubic inch Indian Roadmaster Dark Horse … 1890 cc!”
 
 “1890 cc … that’s more than a Hillman Hunter!  Does the motor need to be that big to pull along the kitchen sink and the big easy chair?  I bet the magpies love you … all that bling.  Probably cost more than I paid for the farm.“

Bill could sense the irritation in his would-be opponent’s voice. “It puts out 120 horsepower and over 170 Newton/metres of torque. Way more than your old bucket of bolts could ever dream of.”

 “I’ll tell you what … this $20 note says I can race you to the top of Patterson’s Hill and back.  What’s more, if you beat me, you can have the Beezer for three months.  One other thing though … “ and Bill turned across to the well-turned-out young woman he took to be his pillion … “I don’t suppose you know how to bake scones from the Edmonds Cookbook do you?”
 
 “Of course I do, I’m the bomb!” she said with some enthusiasm in her voice.  Bill liked her already, despite her poor choice in men friends.
 
 “What say the deal is, that if I win, you come with me for the morning, bake me some scones and I’ll drop you back here!”
 
 “Piss off … Veronica is not going off with some old lech that she’s never met, to God knows where!”
 
 “No Dick, I make my own decisions, and I’m putting ten on my new great uncle!”
 
 “Dick!  His names Dick … Dick the dick … how wonderful!  That’s made my day.”

Flushing with anger, Dick the dick, a cashless millennial with only cards to make his way through life, had to ask his mates for a $20 note.

 “Old man, you have no idea how powerful and fast a Roadmaster is.  I’ll take your twenty and your wheels!”
 
 “And you, young puffed-up peacock, are going to learn to respect the unknown!  Veronica, be ready with your helmet on and the cash in your pocket when I get back.  You’ll see me come around that bluff up yonder. Now say go!”

Veronica, catching on, immediately stood and took a white handkerchief from her pocket.  Flamboyantly waving it, she called out “Go!”

Bill snapped his Stadium Mk8 goggles down from the front of his helmet, pulled on his riding gauntlets and in one step was astride the old bike. Within a second the roar of the unrestricted exhaust was shocking and surprising the onlookers.  No longer flat and feeble-sounding , it was like the bike suddenly had a soul … a tiger in the tank!  The impressive acceleration of the vintage machine with its cranky old rider, had the small throng clapping.   In almost a flash it was off up the 500 m straight before the first left-hander. The exhaust note was strong and loud, peaking a couple of times for gear changes.  And just like that it was gone!  Dick the dick was finally away and whilst clearly much faster, the big Roadmaster had no impact on the watchers.  It was like a movie without a soundtrack.

 “Out wide, tight apex … off the seat for the dip in the middle … get the throttle on early, momentum is King!”  Bill knew he had probably mumbled this, or similar, several thousand times but knew it to still be the ideal mantra.  Getting the first corner right was key to the next four.  On this occasion the flow was perfect.
 
 “Synchronicity!  Way to go … look for the Miro tree!  Now brake … then flick! Left, right left … let’s dance!”  This was an important section which Bill was confident that no big bike could achieve with the smooth panache that he and the BSA managed.  “Too heavy for the flip-flops … the wallowing whale will lose five seconds there!”  

Talking aloud helped Bill keep his focus and timing.  For him it was like poetry, and repeating the content complemented his confidence and lengthened the odds of making a mistake.  A soaring k?rearea’s view from above showed the vintage pairing to be ‘on song’ and getting every peel-off point exact.  

 “Fast and smooth … fast and smooth!  Keep the revs up, watch the gear changes!”

Bill knew that the keystone for a perfect run was approaching.  There were two spots where for a split second the way ahead could be checked through the trees for oncoming traffic.  If both were clear, the whole width of the road could be used and one corner could be taken blind, with the throttle-to-the-stop in third gear.  After seven seconds there would be the one real hard, full-on braking for the sharp corner over the Awa Pango Culvert.  This would tax the AM4 ‘green’ linings on the front brake to the maximum.  The corner was the slowest on ‘the track’ as Bill called it, and the one that he followed with a bit of pain for the bike.  Snicking into second after the culvert, Bill then took the engine to valve-bounce and held it until in the shadow of the corner with the big bank.  Then it was a matter of just easing off and keeping the bike heeled-over and balanced at three-quarters throttle and what Bill reckoned was three-quarters revs.  Fortuitously the peepholes showed the road to be empty and the k?rearea witnessed a flawless progression right across its domain.

Bill now knew that this was to be his day, the ride was unfolding perfectly and he was fully confident that the strutting peacock would be down $20 and the butt of his mates’ tales for months to come. The convoluted sequence of bends were ticked off one after the other.  The top turn around was quick and impeccably expedited.  Bill was 15 corners down the hill before he saw his rival flash by.

 “In the bag … keep the focus! Watch the flat possum! Winners are grinners, but it’s not over till the fat lady sings.“

And so it was that Bill and his mighty BSA triumphantly pulled up back at The Crooked Hat to claim his prize. Veronica was just fastening her helmet and Bill could tell by her eyes that she was smiling inside the full-face protection.  Bill folded down the pillion footrests, engaged the exhaust baffle, and with his personal baker aboard, they gently headed off, not immediately back up the hill but onwards towards Sadler.  After only 200 m they turned left and slipped between a couple of bollards and headed towards the ocean on a bridle path, soon diverting left again and meandering quietly along a track into a copse of pine trees and through a large culvert under the highway, hearing the muted roar of the Roadmaster crossing above as they did so.  Veronica would recall the ride later as picturesque and gentle, with just one moment of heightened anxiety when Bill gunned the BSA up a steep bank, then squeezed past the end of a section of Armco barrier and back onto the Patterson’s Hill highway.

Shutting off the bike back at the eyrie, Bill felt a maelstrom of emotion sweep over him as she chuffed into silence once the compression was released.

 “Well old girl … our job is done!  It’s all over red rover”

Veronica was almost overwhelmed by the views and Bill’s notification that this had been his last ride. She was further impressed by the tidy demesne of this old man.  All the baking ingredients for scones were laid out on the small timber bench.
 “So date or cheese?” she asked.
 “Can you do both?  It doesn’t hurt to have plenty, in case someone comes by in the next couple of days.  I toast them after Day One.  Bloody lovely!”
Just as she confirmed an affirmative to both, there was the clatter of a mountain bike skidding to a halt outside and being thrown down.  A stunning-looking, sweaty, lycra-clad young woman with rust-coloured hair, burst in the door.

 “Koro, you promised … you said no more!  And now there are some faux bikies outside your gate.  They are tracking this girl I presume. There is a guy on a huge, vulgar monstrosity … and he’s got your cabin blinking away on his phone.  The map wasn’t great, so I sent them away back down to the old quarry.  I told them to follow the track past the screening plant. That’ll take them to the shed over your back fence.”

 “Not me!” Veronica gasped as they both looked at her accusingly. “There’s nothing on my phone … and my little tote bag has only my purse with a comb, lip balm and a hanky.”
She emptied this out on the table for them all to concur.

 “See … hang on … there’s something hard in the lining!” Less than a minute later she’d squeezed a small black plastic pellet-like device out through a gap in the stitching where the leather outer skin folded over the satin lining.
 
 “Apple Air Tag … what the f…?  The devious, stalking bastard!  I had been beginning to think he was a controlling little shit!  Well that’s the end of that!”

Bill reached over to his sideboard and picked up an empty pill container, popping the Air Tag into it.  Turning to the youngster, who was now being identified as his grand-daughter.

 “Here Pretty Girl, skedaddle down the track and drop this off Morrisons Bridge into the river.  That’ll keep him occupied for a bit.  And today truly was the last time, I have no more methanol.”  
 
 “Patricia Grace … PG … Pretty Girl!  He’ll tell you I am in the top ten of his Mokopuna.  Koro, send Petal here, down to Sunshine Rock at 12.30.  I’ll sort out her life for her!”

And with that she was gone.  It took a while for Veronica to settle down and start the process of getting the scones underway, but before long the cabin was filled with the familiar aroma of good, old, Edmonds Cookbook scones.  Kiwiana at its finest.

 “What a wonderful day to finish it on.  A puffed-up sleaze-bag vanquished, and a distressed damsel rescued.  I feel like I have been out slaying dragons!”

Bill felt a strong affinity and fondness towards  the lovely Veronica, sensing it was being reciprocated.  His eyes glistened wetly and he whispered quietly.

 “Today really was the last time, and I haven’t told the whanau yet, but I saw a specialist during the week and this path of life is no longer stretching away to the horizon.  None of us get out of here alive, and I will look upon the news as a bonus to be able to make a few proper goodbyes.”

They hugged and in unison said “Thank you!” … before breaking apart and laughing.

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The protagonists : Indian Roadmaster Dark Horse.

The BSA is a composite of these two.

1937 BSA Empire Star

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1949 BSA B34 Competition

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