Click on the photos to explode them to full size!
THIRTY FIVE CENTS The Colonel waited on an overpass above the highway. He sat astride his Norton and surveyed the flow of traffic headed to the toll bridge over Lake Washington to Seattle. It was Sunday morning, April 1st. That was the date selected for his breach of the toll plaza without paying toll. The Colonel waited until there was a two-mile gap in traffic, the length of the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge spanning the lake. He kicked over the English motorcycle and left the overpass to ride out onto the highway. The Colonel was not really a colonel. He had been given the moniker "Colonel Okie" by the Muskogee Motorcycle Club—so named because of the rag-tag assortment of two-wheeled machines ridden by its members, of which he was one. Another member of that motley crew, Willie, had been dubbed The Admiral. Willie had earned that name the day he used his old motorcycle, a Triumph, for an unsuccessful assault on an island from the banks of Keechelus Lake. The Admiral's motorcycle did well on its amphibious mission until the water rose to the air intake for the carburetor, at which point the ragged riders of the Muskogee had to dismount and perform a rescue at sea. Willie had previously announced that since he had "discovered" the island—which barely stuck above the surface—he was entitled to be its governor. Watching Willie's failure to establish a beachhead on his new estate, the Colonel promptly entitled it the Isle of Disappointment. Even though the Admiral's tool kit typically consisted of little more than a hammer, vicegrips and electrical tape, the riders of the Muskogee were able to dismantle the carburetor to drain water out. The Admiral, getting both cylinders firing again, thereupon felt required to demonstrate his prowess by riding up to the summit of "Snowplow Mountain"—a forty-foot mount of snow piled on the side of Interstate 90 to keep Snoqualmie Pass clear for traffic. It was then Willie was dubbed The Admiral, while yelling about his dominance—finally proving he could be victorious on water, at least in its solid form. Another member of the motorcycle club, Bob, worked as a warehouseman. Bob had dreams of breaking out of his dead-end job to make a living as a photographer. He had already received some encouragement. The magazine "Easy Rider”, oriented toward owners of Harley Davidsons, had published one of Bob's photographs taken during a Muskogee trip. The Colonel assumed he would be doing Bob an excellent service were Bob to be poised in the bushes with his camera during the Colonel's observance of April Fool's. The Colonel thought that giving the finger to the occupant of the booth, as he accelerated through the toll plaza, would definitely be a gesture worthy of publication in "Easy Rider". The Colonel told Bob about the photo opportunity he proposed. All Bob could say was, "You're nuts!" The Colonel was crushed but went on with his planning for April Fool's anyway. The Colonel had originally targeted the toll road—officially called the A. D. Rossellini Bridge after a former governor of Washington—because he viewed the imposition of tolls on highway travel anywhere west of the Mississippi River as somewhat unAmerican or, at least, unWestern. Even at a charge of 35 cents, the toll was an affront to his driving dignity. The Colonel's planning had been extensive. From numerous reconnaissance sorties, he knew that the lightest traffic flow during daytime hours was on Sunday mornings. In case he was pursued across the two-mile bridge, the Colonel had rehearsed an elaborate escape route through the University of Washington Arboretum, such that his Norton could slip through roadblocks and travel where no police car could follow. (He already knew from drag races on the street that full-dress Harley Davidsons, like those used by the State Patrol, were no match for his Norton.) Only a mile of the Evergreen Point Bridge actually floated—on concrete pontoons. The other half of its expanse inclined to the water from either shore. From the toll plaza on the eastern side of Lake Washington to trails through the Arboretum in Seattle, the Colonel had measured a total distance of three miles in which he would need to engage in a high-speed getaway. The Colonel rode west on the highway, State Route 520, and nonchalantly pulled to a stop at the toll both. The clerk at the plaza stuck out his hand, pregnant with the anticipation of 35 cents. Without Bob and his camera to record the gesture, the Colonel saw little reason to give the finger to the poor toll-taker. Instead, he stared solemnly straight ahead, eased out the clutch handle with his left hand, and gave the throttle a mighty twist with his right. The motorcycle roared away from the toll plaza. Rapidly shifting through all four gears, the Colonel soon achieved the Norton's top speed of 115 mph. It was no coincidence that the Colonel had waited until there was a two-mile gap in traffic. Traveling at more than double the posted speed limit, the Norton and the Colonel would have been knocked into Lake Washington should a car in front make even a casual lane change. The Colonel had no desire to compete for the Admiral's title in such a fashion. At 115 mph, the Colonel had calculated he could transit the bridge in slightly more than 60 seconds. He knew, however, that police cars were capable of faster top speeds than his motorcycle. There was intense wind pressure on the face shield of the Colonel's helmet. He hunched down, thrusting his chin forward past the handlebars and over the headlight, to minimize the resistance from the velocity at which he was traveling. His knuckles were white from a death-grip on the handlebars. To this day the Colonel does not know if he was pursued across the floating bridge. He couldn't look behind. The rearview mirror was useless because he poked his face in front of it. To turn his head to look behind would have been certain suicide; at the speed he was traveling, a turning of his head—with helmet and face shield attached—would mean being torn off of the motorcycle by sheer pressure. The Colonel's timing worked. No cars were on the floating bridge during his high-speed traverse of the lake. No roadblocks or barricades had been erected at the exit. Assuming there was a host of demonic law enforcement vehicles in pursuit, he carried on with his escape plan. The Norton entered the Arboretum at 50-60 mph and decelerated rapidly thereafter. The Colonel steered for footpaths, in accordance with his pre-planned route. Various strollers and joggers were appalled at the approach of a motorcycle violating all the rules on a calm Sunday morning. They promptly yielded the right-of-way when hearing the roar from defective mufflers and seeing the crazed look in the Colonel's eyes. The Colonel traveled the length of the Arboretum and scrambled his motorcycle up a hillside out onto Lake Washington Boulevard. He was close to home. The Colonel drove the Norton into his basement and hid it. He began to realize that he was probably never even pursued. ‘What toll taker gives a damn about 35 cents anyway,’ he wondered The next time the Colonel kicked over the Norton he noticed smoke issuing from the exhaust pipes. A compression check revealed that he had burned all four of the motorcycle's valves by exceeding the red line for R.P.M.s during his field trip across the floating bridge. Not having the tools for a valve grind, he had to pay a motorcycle shop to do it. For the valve job the shop charged over 200 times what the Colonel had saved by not paying toll on the floating bridge. |
No comments:
Post a Comment