Interesting Article from MPH
The Concept of Power
Tony Rose (Supplied by Sid Biberman)
Tony Rose - he of the 100,000 mile road test (recently reprinted in MPH) wrote this amazing piece after that extraordinary feat. It stands alone for its level of passion for the road and love for his Vincent Black Shadow. Tony's inner-feelings come bursting forth in marvellous descriptions , sweeping up the reader as if he were the rider himself . I believe it should be reprinted every now and then to refresh old Vincent owners and to reveal to newer ones just what it was all about to ride a Vincent - and know the magic. Big Sid
It became part of you at once. Your power to fly, to glide, to soar, to leave behind the transport of lesser mortals. It took one to far away places, and after hours of riding, getting off was parting with a lover. All the journeys were too short.
It was pointed and where it was pointed..it went. To the salt baked beach of Porthcurno in
high summer. The twisting Cornish roads, the smell of the sea, the smell of the earth, gliding
down to Lamorna..the very vivid feeling of awareness. Aware at 130mph of the nearness of
death. A Vincent H.R.D. away, the Black Shadow and you, nothing else mattered. The off-beat roar
of the Twin, a haze of oil in the air, the tug on one's neck muscles as she dived for the far horizon.
This was the choice for the post-war era. This was the way to live.
At night, the howl of the wind. The freezing hands and pictures going past against the stars.
Little houses blur the corner of the eyes. The big clock says 90mph. The caress of the pounding
Twin between the knee; three in the morning, the old A5 very twisty at 100mph seven, eight,
perhaps nine tenths, a fraction there. Hello death, you didn't get this rider. The stink of juice and
oil and rubber. The strange capsule of loneliness that surrounded Black Shadow and rider. How
hard everything was then, how tough, after the war. No bureaucrats, protecting their unwilling
sheep. Life belonged to the rider; his to do what he wanted with it. As far as one wanted, as
fast as one wanted, with whom one wanted. Stop, only at the sea, ride all night, sleep all day on
a white, sandy beach. Then to the mountains; the heady hilly airs; freedom. Oh my God! What
on earth happened to that? The Black Shadow personified it, represented everything freedom
meant. Getting up in the middle of the night to go to the garage and look at it. A part of one
so powerful nobody part could take its place. The fantastic love affair one had. Life must go on
just like this, never, never change. Vincent H.R.D., the magic of the name, made for the few, who
dared never ignore its many traps, but how gentle, how careful for those that loved her. Never
again that happiness, that ultra supreme happiness. Collecting the new one from the agents.
King of the road; of everything. No other desires, Nirvana, pure unadulterated..Nirvana. To this
all else was second. 132mph. Yes, this was done many times. Two and a half inches of revolving
rubber between you and oblivion. The flesh pressed against one's cheekbones..grinning back..
laughing. The war was tame, the blitz was punk. This was real life, never again to be lived just like
this. Savor the memory..make each mile, each moment count. Catch the breath, each minute a
highlight of life greater than the last. One day this love will end, pigs will come and rule, filthy
little tin bikes will be made in thousands and sold to the goons who will clog up the roads of
the world. Bureaucrats seeking work will paint funny signs and yellow lines all over the roads,
life will exist as we knew it only as a memory. Men will become soft..and have to be protected.
Bomb hats will be worn 30 years after the war; plastic spheres will cover the delicate features of
decadent riders who fear the wind may tear out their National Health teeth or glasses. 50mph
will become a holy cow, and other cows will report to the police state those who go beyond it.
Those who knew the freedom of the Black Shadow will cry, they will scream for anarchy, will have
beautiful dreams of killing all politicians en-masse. They will go to the beach and see no sand;
only bodies, and tin cans with windows. Plebs will carry little seats, so as not to catch little colds
sitting on the warm sand.
In third gear the Black Shadow sails softly by, dreaming of the past. Little monsters line the
beach road sitting in the undergeared, underpowered cars, windows up against the soft summer
breeze..filling their over fed guts with food they don't need; softer and softer they get; whiter and
whiter. Motorcycles should be stopped, they howl. In case he gets hurt, protect the motorcycle
madman against himself; 50cc is enough. For those who have never lived. For those that let it
all happen. The Black Shadow is a monster from the past. The great new advance is the 20mph
electric car. Safety for all. No more killing on the roads. Don't open your window at the game
park, the monkey may bite you. Don't protect yourself, let us protect you. Look at them in the bus
queue. Have they ever lived at all? Not for the new happy breed, the morning freedom of rolling
over the flatlands on the Vincent. Not for them the control of power. Not for them a love that
will not die. A memory as fresh as 30 years ago. Not for these people the breath of spring flowers
at 85mph. Only motorway filth..fumes..heated air, 50 times old..stale..protection..grinning
mindbenders on the box.
Like ghosts from the past some of the Gods survive, the machines survive, the spirit survives. The
Club. A toast..damn it. A toast to the Club 300 issues of the magazine of the Gods. Earthbound
now perhaps, but men like Gods. Above all lesser men acclaim. The Vincent owners and riders. The
Supermen. They who know.