And now for biker stories from another planet....
It was 1985 and a beautiful day in west central North Carolina. The sun was glowing but not hot and we'd all had the day off from the "Airborne Shuffle" back at Ft. Bragg. we were out on some wonderful, tree lined roads and the twighlight was just starting to creep into the picture.
The road in between Salemburg and Piney Green NC is nothing special, except for the fact that it is perfectly flat and unchanged for app two miles in the middle. This makes conditions perfect for running a measured mile on a motorcycle.
We had been tooling around all day and were taking a nice break in the 5 mile long stand of pines that line the road. I remember it like yesterday,
"Anybody want to run a measured mile?" I instantly chimed in that I couldn't; I rode BMW R75/6 at the time and although a measured mile in the 120's was possible, it just wasn't impressive enough for me to try it. ALong came my good friend Dan, who offered up the services of his juiced Kawi Z-1.
Agreements were made (If I died, Dan got the Beemer as compensation) and Jeff Champeaux (yes, pronounced Shampoo) headed down the road two miles with a pair of Zeiss binoculars, our best stopwatch and a 6 pack of Hamms he pulled from the ice before assuming his post. Dan headed down the road 1 mile to mark the measurement point for the mile... a small crew of locals and other n'er do wells had gathered. It was death time and few people would pass on an opportunity to watch a 20 year old wrap a Kawi around a pine tree, mostlikely tearing himself into a thousand pieces.
I slipped into my jacket, and pulled on my state of the art Bell helmet. The Kawi Z-1 was the first great mid-70's superbike: pure brute power combined with a 1970's breaking system and, well, a seat. No fairing, windshield, or any other amenities but the bike was fast, real fast. I'd been wanting to wind the nasty little bugger out for a year and now I was going to get my chance.
The trick to the measured mile is to take off like a human and then, in third gear, roll off like a bat out of hell and don't let go of the throttle until you're well past the final marker, or until you scatter yoursel all over the road after hitting a patch of pine needles.
The old Kerker exhaust was barking in sync... I knew this was the bike. Click, I slipped the bike into first... it seemed like an eternity to get to second...
The old Z-1 was an unrestricted beast, built up by a serious Danger junkie (Dan was killed in Angola later, it never got too fast for him.) Root Beer and orange...
Third gear was 80 and I plunged into the pool, laying down on the bike and working through the last two gears in less than two seconds, through the quarter close to a hundred, after that, anyone who says they look at their speedo is either a fool or a liar. I focused straight ahead, moving the head from side to side became impossible and all the blood drained from my face... the tunnelvision set in, faster.
It was over before it started, at basically 138 miles an hour. its still never gotten that fast again for me and thrill of doing it on a naked bike still perks up my ears and makes my olfactory system trigger the scent of pine and lightly burning motor oil.
Some of the locals were dumbstruck, I went back to the 1st mile to retrieve my staid, dignified beemer and was greeted by a man with a quart mason jar. "Mister, I ain't never seen someone go that fast on no bike." We shared and rode back triumphantly to Smoke Bomb Hill. For a moment we were the fastest men alive, the kings of the highway, road people. No cops, noone got Killt and all the equipment was in one piece.
It was the best day I've ever had on two wheels.
