It’s a prayer finally fulfilled, the longawaited end of the virtual journey we made aside our real trip to the other end of the road. But there’s always a new road leading to the horizon and waiting for some big roaring combustion-driven vehicles to make it to it’s end. Thanks for travelling with us and see you soon on a road out there.
Oh Boy, getting a bit stretchy the last miles. But no wonder: we’re in a parallel timezone. There but here and vice versa. The plan: we are in Florida anyway. Why not paying the Daytony Bike Week a short visit. And take a Goodbye Pic at the beach. A bit of swapping, dragging, racing. And done. But first: getting there:
See you in Eustis, Gainesville, Daytona Beach.
So we are off from “Wheels through times” headed for the southernmost point of the continental USA in Key West, Florida - no prob at all, it’s just 972 miles to go.
We need something fast and powerful to reach escape velocity from the time machine we’re trapped in.
We have two models here for your convenience - make your choice by clicking: a 1915 Hotrod Harley
or how about a Harry Molenaar Hillclimber from the thirties.
Prattleprattle and away…
With the cracked handlebar on Pedro’s bike, the ride needed a time-out. But we had planned a museum stopover anyway, and Paul promised us a very unique experience at the “Wheels through time” Museum. It wasn’t exactly the long overdue bunch of good looking wrencherettes we found - but the museum’s Boss Dale Walksler was more than willing to help us out in the case of the broken handlebar. And he was mighty proud to present us his guest Tom Faber from Faber Cycle. The God of Handlebars - said Dale. This calls for proof. You better get your welding machine going, Major Tom.
You ready? To run the video - just click on it.
You don’t have to stick knee deep in geographic knowledge to follow us with the upcoming conclusion: once you have crossed the melting point of beer and keep heading south, it’s not only the beer, that has started floating, everything else as well floats off that has given our travel that fluffy, sparkling sense of purpose: The snow. The ice. The cold. All gone. Sure, you still get the bikes on the road, if the conditions are right:
But honestly: doesn’t it look a mite like a sunny ride somewhere in the Black Forest?
OK, it is the Smokey Mountains National Park, but draw your own comparison to the early days of our trip:
As if the Big Chromed Rhinestone up there had a good day and wanted our adrenaline to rise to normal levels again he gave us a broken handlebar on Peter’s 48 Panhead, right there in Cherokee, capital of the Cherokee People Indian Reservation.
There was only one hope: go down the road and pray that Cherokee’s Hell Boy of Welding at Cherokee Choppers was at home and willing to crank up his welding machine.
Where’s there’s a will, there’s not necessarily electricity for the welding machine. Reason: Divorce. Women… But hey, the good news was, Cherokee Choppers chopper was running.
And we had the hope that our next stop may be as helpful as our visit at S&S was.
There’s nothing overcautious in questioning a visit in a restaurant that is looking for more than one experienced cook on an illuminated panel. But on the other hand - we are just out for breakfast. Getting two eggs sunny side up ready to serve should be genetically fixed somewhere in the gene pool of the american people. And there’s so many cars parked outside, we had to use next door’s parking lot - let’s go, inside Bob’s Mountaineer Restaurant.
We feel immediately at home in this loungy log cabin. This place is american to the core - in the best of meanings.
And despite the lack of experienced chefs, the kitchen’s output leaves no room for complaints.
And there’s not too much out there to beat a zesty, nutritious breakfast that bans any thought about ingestion to the far outposts of your brain for the next hours. (Exceptions to the rule could be found aboard the southbound truck.)
In case the impression may have occurred that the Wrecking Crew has been out in those polaresque areas just for the ultimate fun - wrong. It was after all a scientific mission, that made us travel to the boundaries of human civilisation. A group of Nobel prize-worthy specialists conceived this plan that now found it’s final fruition: the Wrecking Crew discovered and located for the first time ever the melting point of beer on the North American continent. Here’s how they did it: Up in Tuktoyaktuk, some beers of different brands were bought and left to freeze inside a large metal case…
…and then transported southbound until the beer was going to melt. Our beer-melting-indicator was a highly precise thermometer that was hidden somewhere on the truck. Yes, somewhere – to prevent nonscientific influence. That thermometer informed us about the temperature somewhere in or around the truck. And at this very moment, with the exit-sign London, Kentucky, approaching, we found our instrument reading precisely something above 0 degrees Celsius.
Off the road - and onto the roof for the beer check-routine.
It’s a small step for mankind - but it’s a large smelly beer-dripping metal-case for a thirsty man.
We look around: a dignified place for this historic continental discovery.
And so we fly the banner we brought along for this rare moment.
Only a couple of miles later the Wrecking Crew held a press conference in the tired lobby of the Knoxville, Tennessee, Holiday Inn.
It was going to be a very short night.
Indianapolis has long since vanished from the rear view mirrors. Our Mobile Support Unit toils down the Kentucky highways at a factory preset top speed of ball busting 90 km/h (55 mph)
Aboard: 5 people, 2 bikes and a radio with poor reception - whaddafuck, can’t hear it anyway inside this noisy truck. Every stop, every refreshment is a gift, especially if it reminds us of that nice, frosty time we had up there in Northern Canada - like this Klondike ice-brick.
Anyway, we are beginning to see the end of our mission time window, but not the end of the mission itself. Gotta keep on rollin´, rollin´, rollin´ … .
… but then, quite coincidentally our gaze hits our truck’s dashboard…
The weather stays in a winterly mood as we drive the 2,3 miles down to our today’s waypoint:
There the Wrecking Crew discovers the perfect background for a little souvenir photo.
Erm, yes, objection sustained, the infield-located Indy Speedway Museum “Hall of Fame” is basically for those fourwheelerthings:
But there are some two wheelers as well and they have gone pretty fast at least once:
The S&S Streamliner (pilot Cal Rayborn) who went a record 265.492 MPH in 1970. Harley-Davidson Sportster-based streamliner referred to as the ‘Manning’ Harley-Davidson, more than 700 pounds of weight and more than 10 feet long.
A single-cylinder Harley-Davidson “Peashooter” racer.
You want to know more? Go there, ask Howard Jackson, he knows it all and then some more. Thanks, Howard!
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