As Pency and I wheeled into Falkland , Pency turned in his saddle to look back at me, his left hand on his hip. I got the message. It was my fault. When I had set up the meeting with Big Ed, I had forgotten that this was the weekend of the Falkland Stampede, an important event on the calendars of both wannabe rodeo riders and wannabe outlaw bikers. Everywhere one looked, there were Harleys, all along the main road, filling every front yard, lined up on every side street, Harleys as far as the eye could see.
“A confluence of crap,” Pency always muttered about such events. “Anachronistic excrescence. An effulgence of flatulent Fatboys!”
Pency always made me nervous around Harley owners. That’s because he wouldn’t keep his opinions about Harleys to himself. Once he had passed fifty-five years of age, he lost all desire to restrain himself.
“It’s just too hard to keep it all to myself anymore,” he had once told me. “Besides, I’m old enough now so that they won’t hit me more than once, and I think I can still take one shot to the head.”
It didn’t occur to him that his companions might be drawn into the fray, of course. Still, here we were in lovely Falkland , British Columbia Falkland ’s five hundred permanent residents loved the annual Stampede. They all made a fortune selling hotdogs, parking spaces, beer and marijuana. Especially the owner of the hotel loved it. He owned the only pub in town, and it was always full during the stampede.
We found a place to park around the corner from the hotel: two spots in a long line of Harleys, then walked back to the bar. Pency never drank when he was on a bike; I never had more than one.
The place was jammed, cowboys and bikers were crammed shoulder to shoulder around about fifteen wooden tables and stood three deep at the bar. I was about to say that we would never get served when a middle-aged barmaid in overly tight blue jeans and bulging breasts in a black leather vest sidled up to Pency with a tray of draft beer.
“You lads looking for a drink?” she said, in drawl that was half western and half British. “Nice moustache, by the by?”
For some reason, women have always liked Pency’s moustache, particularly when he turned up the corners like a World War II, English Sergeant-Major. Even now, drooping slightly and almost completely white, the moustache had obviously piqued the barmaid’s fancy.
“Coffee for me, Luv,” Pency said, almost smiling.
“Bud Light,” I said. “Just a glass, please.”
“Sorry, dearie, but we only serve mugs at stampede.”
“Okay, a mug.”
Three large men wearing sleeveless black leather jackets bearing “Satans Spawn” patches got up from a table and brushed past us. Percy immediately took the place of the nearest spawn before a silver bearded biker with a cane could sit down. I sat in the chair opposite him. Silver beard was not to be denied.
“Hey, I was going to sit there,” he said to Pency.
“There’s still one empty chair, mate,” Pency replied. “Be my guest.”
To my surprise the guy sat down.
“Name’s Ziggy,” he said, holding out his hand.
Pency took it.
“Pency O’Doule. This is Jim.”
I offered my hand. Ziggy’s was rough and calloused.
“What do you guys ride, anyway?” Ziggy asked.
“A ZX-10 and a GPZ 1100,” Pency said, looking Ziggy in the eye.
“Rice burners?“ he snorted.
“Yes, it’s amazing what modern technology can do.”
“I couldn’t stand the buzzing and whining, myself,” Ziggy said.
“I know what you mean,” Pency said. “Though I usually go by so fast, I can’t hear the Harley riders whine. And the acceleration is particularly annoying. I almost did my neck an injury last week.”
“Acceleration is one thing,” Ziggy said, “but it’s torque that gives a bike that feeling of power.”
“Ah, torque,” Pency responded, “the poor man’s horsepower. What have they got the 1500 Harley up to now? Eighty horses?”
“Eighty-four.”
“Well, only 82 more and you’ll match mine.”
“Boomer’s got more horsepower than that under him,” a man standing behind me said.
“Pull up a chair,” Ziggy siad. “This here is Frank. This is Pency and Jim.”
Frank grunted hello and slid a chair in next to mine. He was about fifty with a greying pony tail and curved sunglasses. His leather jacket had bug carcasses all over the front. He reeked of marijuana.
“Really? More horsepower?” Percy asked. “What did Boomer do, load the hog onto his pick-up?”
“Very funny! He put in a Stage Four Screamin’ Eagle engine,” Frank said.
“Put it into what?”
“A Durango Brothers soft-tail custom frame.”
“And the forks?”
“Stanley
“Tank, fenders, wheels?”
“Howard, Clean-line and Decourcey.”
“I thought we were talking about Harleys?”
“We are. A custom Harley. Those are just custom parts.”
“What parts aren’t custom?”
“Hey, it looks like a Harley and sounds like a Harley; that’s what counts.”
“Yes, indeed; my sentiments exactly. Well, good luck to Boomer then; I’m sure he’s happy.”
“He loves that bike,” Ziggy said, grinning. “He’s got over sixty thousand invested.”
“Chrome plating and custom paint was twenty alone,” Frank commented in a hushed whisper.
“My, god,” Pency blurted. “He could have bought a Ducati race replica for that!”
“That’s one of those Eye-talian crotch rockets, isn’t it?” Ziggy said.
“Boomer wouldn’t like them,” Frank added.
“You boys talkin’ about me?” a deep voice said from behind Pency. A very large bearded man in a black, sleeveless tee shirt with a picture on the front of a large cobra wrapped around a naked woman hove into view. He looked like Bluto, gone to seed.
The bikers at the table seemed glad to see him.
“Hey, Boomer!” Frank said. “We were just telling these boys about your bike.”
Boomer grinned. “Yeah, well, it’s not quite finished.”
“What’s left to add?” Pency asked. “Streamers and a raccoon tail?”
Boomer’s smile disappeared.
“Who’s your little friend, Frank?”
“Just met him, Boomer; I wouldn’t call him a friend,” Frank said in what sounded like a verbal retreat.
“Pency here doesn’t think your bike is very fast,” Ziggy said. I detected a little goading taking place.
“Oh, yeah?” Boomer responded, not very enthusiastically.
“Maybe you should drag race him,” Frank suggested.
“Think so?” Boomer asked. He sipped a little more from the beer in his right hand.
“Actually,” Pency said, “I never really thought much of straight line racing. I prefer something with a few turns.”
I expected Boomer to make a disparaging excuse and change the subject. He didn’t.
“Really? Turns you say. Hmmm. I could fancy that.”
For the first time I noticed a slight Scottish burr in Boomers speech.
Pency smiled. “You want to race me around corners on your your Harley chopper?” he asked with a grin on his face.
“Maybe. Do I get to choose the course?”
“My friend, you can plot any course you wish as long as it has...let’s say...more than four corners in it.”
“How much?”
“You really want to lose money over this?” Pency asked. “Well, I don’t wish to take advantage of you, but if you insist...twenty dollars?”
“Well, I’m not greedy,” Boomer answered, “but let’s say fifty.”
“Deal,” Pency said. He looked at me and smiled, shaking his head slightly.
“Frank, what time is it?” Boomer asked.
“Ten thirty, Boomer.”
“Perfect. Let’s fire ‘em up.”
We all got up and headed for the door. Frank and Ziggy spoke to a few men on their way out and before I knew it, there were thirty or forty people walking out the door. Pency and I started to turn toward the side street where we had parked but stopped when Boomer stepped into the street and picked up a helmet off the seat of a motorcycle.
His bike was a custom Harley all right, but not a typical chopper. It looked like a modern interpretation of an old 1920’s board track racer: sleek, spare, with low bars, clean lines and a lot of chrome. Pency was impressed too.
“Well, that’s a surprise,” he said. “It’s actually quite attractive. Oh, well.” Then he added loudly, “My bike’s over here, Boomer. Which way are we going?”
Boomer pointed north out of town.
Pency and I put on our helmets, climbed aboard, started the bikes and headed in the direction Boomer had pointed. I was expecting a trip away down the highway to a section that wouldn’t have much traffic where an illegal race could take place in relative safety, but we had only gone a block when we came up to Boomer, stopped at the edge of the road. He pointed toward the rodeo arena off to the left and drove off. Pency glanced at me but followed. Up ahead, Boomer had stopped just past some bleachers and was waiting, his Harley engine thumping slowly and loudly. Frank was hurriedly opening up a gate that led into the arena. Pency pulled up beside Boomer and motioned to him to turn off his motor. They both took off their helmets.
“What’s this?” Pency asked, a little annoyed.
“The race course, my little English friend. Two laps around the arena: four corners.”
Pency looked into Boomer’s face for a few seconds.
“You’ve put on a little weight,” he said.
“Aye, about six stone.”
Pency unzipped his leather jacket, reached inside and pulled out his wallet. He removed some bills and handed them to Boomer.
“I saw you in ’76 in London
“Aye, good times. Thanks.”
Pency put his helmet back on. He had to paddle backwards a bike length in order to turn around. The men who had gathered to watch were laughing and applauding, not very politely. I followed Pency to the outskirts of town and a little garage that had a few motorcycles in the drive and an old Dunlop sign on the wall beneath the words: Big Ed’s Garage and Motorcycle Spa.
When we had parked and taken off our helmets Pency pre-empted my question.
“Boomer McGhie was the best speedway racer in Britain
“Well, he tricked you though, Pency. He couldn’t expect you to race your Ten on dirt.”
Before he turned enter the garage he looked at me. “He could have.”
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