Bear stops the truck and opens the door, plants one heavily booted foot on the ground and "Damn! It's all limestone Richard! I hate limestone! The damn stuff will turn everything white and sticks like glue! Even gets into your shorts!" Bear stomps up the drive looking more than a little bit like Sasquatch. I follow like a puppy behind him, kicking bits of crushed stone and rising little dust clouds as I walk. Great! We're off to a really good start!

Bear is introducing himself to Mr. George Wilkins Sr. and he turns to make the same introductions as I catch up. That's when I trip over my own feet and land not so gracefully in a heap in the driveway. White dust is covering me and I look like a photo negative of a police crime scene chalk outline. I pick myself up and try to brush off the white powdery crap. To no avail I'll admit. Bear just stares at me and then says to George. "This is my friend Richard a damn good friend and a lot of help as well. He doesn't look like much but he does know his stuff. Well for the most part anyway." Bear Just reaches down and helps pull me upright once more. "What the hell were you doing down there anyway?" He asks.

"Oh, just checking tire tracks to see if I can learn anything". Pretty lame but it's the best I can come up with. I stick out a hand and I'm surprised at how strong the old man's grip is. "Pleasure" is about all I can say. "Likewise" is the response. But I detect just a hint of a smile in his eyes. Well no small wonder really.

"Come on around back and I'll show you the bike" and with that he leads us around the side of the house towards an old barn that sure looks like it has seen better days. The barn is gray from lack of paint and weathered to the point that the termites have all but quit chewing on it. Not a great place to find a running motorcycle. To our surprise he continues on around past the barn and there's a nice new concrete garage sitting at the end of a paved concrete drive. I look up and there are electrical wires running to the building and although it's not large it's probably big enough to hold three cars.

"Here's my work shop and storage area" George states matter of factly. I hear the hum of an air conditioner running somewhere nearby. George pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door and ushers us inside. It's cool in there and when the lights go on we can see that everything is ship shape and clean as a doctor's office. Almost antiseptic. Bear is impressed. I'm just somewhat bewildered. There are nice clean workbenches along one entire wall and tool cabinets and machine tools of all sorts. Drill press, vertical-milling machine, lathe, grinders and saws and, well you name it and it was there. But damn little else. Oh yes, there was a large covered lump over in the far corner of the garage. Bear's gaze was fixed on that!

"Well here's the motorcycle, come on over and have a look. I wouldn't be selling it but this place is getting to damn expensive to keep and I'm too damn old to ride anymore and don't have the money to keep paying for something I don't use." George sort of trails off and he pulls off the cover on the bike.

1949 Series C, Vincent Black Shadow

Now moments like these only happen once or twice in a lifetime really so it took awhile for the full effect of what we were looking at to sink in. There in all it's resplendent glory sat one of the most perfectly exquisite examples of a Series C, Vincent Black Shadow that I have ever seen! Beautiful chrome fenders, deep black paint and the letters HRD in gold on either side of the tank and the engine case. Bear was impressed as hell but he also looked a bit disappointed. I was in heaven or at least as close to it as I want to get for a few years.

George says, "Well what do you think? I've had her since she was new and I've kept her in running condition right up until today. I wouldn't part with her but like I said, I can't ride any more so .... she has to go."

"Damn! Why not donate this to a museum and take a tax write off?" is the best that I can muster. "It's worth a fortune today and I bet there are any number of places that would kill to get their hands on one in this condition."

George just goes over and puts his hand on the saddle and says, "Well to be honest I really gave that some thought. I truly did. But in the end it all comes down to one thing. One thing only".

"OK What's that?" I stammer.

"Bikes are made to be ridden Richard, not displayed like trophies somewhere", Bear interjected.

"Damn right" says George. "You hit the nail on the head. Ride it good and the rewards are wonderful. You let them sit and they just seem to die. Machines like this need attention and good hands, the hands of a person who appreciates them for what they are and will do anything to keep them running right. They are thoroughbreds really and need a lot from anyone who rides one. Hell they demand it!"

"I hate to ask but I really need to know something Mr. Wilkins I really want to know how much you're asking for this machine. I know it's out of my league and all but I am very interested. Now if my memory is still with me I think that this is a 1949 model?" I asked. "I say that only because it still says HRD on the tank and not Vincent. Something to do with Harley Davidson and ...."

Mr. Wilkins cut me off mid sentence. "You're right and the reason was that in 1950 the initials HRD were dropped from the manufacturer's name due to Americans confusing the similarly initialed Harley Davidson with the marque. So after that all the bikes carried the Vincent name instead of HRD. This is really a race tuned Series C, Rapide. Look at the speedometer. Goes all the way to 150mph (241km/h) and that was their way of saying that this was the fastest production motorcycle in the world".

"The 1951 Vincent Super Rapide, all the 1950's Vincent Black Shadows and all the rest were labeled Vincent up till production ceased with the 1955 Vincent Series D Rapide. There's a little history lesson for you." he said smiling. Something told me that there was more to come, I was correct. Odd enough for me.

"Philip Vincent", he continued, "purchased the four-year-old HRD company in 1928, applied the name to his own line of motorcycles. Damn well made but very expensive machines for their time. So, do you want to try it out?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye. You could tell the old man loved the damn bike and wanted to make certain that he had sold it to someone who really appreciated it for what it was. Well I could tell that Bear was impressed but not all that turned on. I on the other hand was more than ready to sell my soul to Willie G. for a chance to ride one of these beautiful machines.

Mr. Wilkins wheeled the bike off its kickstand and together we rolled it out into the sunlight. God! It was only more beautiful out there. "Go ahead son, see if she likes you. If she does she'll kick right over and purr like a kitten."

"You're sure about this Mr. Wilkins?" I asked as I threw my leg over the tall saddle and settled in to the rather worn but somehow comfortable flat seat. "Yes! This just feels right!" is about all I could say. Just then my joy and glee ended abruptly enough as a bellow came from the inside of the garage that sounded like a crazed demented barbarian in heat! What the hell? Then I remembered, BEAR! Jeeez! He was still in there and we walked back inside only to see one of the oddest most ungodly sights that anyone has ever been forced to witness.

The rest of the tarp was scattered all over the floor and Bear was on his knees, hugging the front fender, tire and the ugliest damn front fork on any motorcycle I have ever seen. Bear was smitten and had it really bad. I hated to even see him like this. Worse yet I hated for anyone else to see him like this. It was honestly that bad. The man had lost it all to a motorcycle. He was hugging that damn bike with a death grip and all he said, over and over again was one word. That word was "Mother!"

"Holy Crap! What do I do now?" is about all I could think of. Bear had lost any trace of dignity that he might have had. He was in love! Mr. Wilkins just looked somewhat amused. Brave soul really and what we were watching was not at all attractive. Well you just had to be there I guess...

1940 Indian model 440

Bear had fallen head over heels in love with a 1940 Indian model 440 and there was no way in hell we were going to pry his hands loose from the damn thing. Mr.Wilkins just looked on in amazement while all I could do was try to be gentle with my friend. I walked slowly over to Bear and noticed that there we tears in his eyes. Bear was actually crying all over the front fender! It looked for all the world as if the Indian head ornament on the fender was suffering from a severe head cold! There was snot all over the poor thing and worst of all it was dripping off the Indian's nose!

"Hey Bear, you OK?" Is the best I could come up with just then. I have my moments but this was not to be one of the better ones. Bear just stares at me and then the Indian and then Mr. Wilkins and then back again to the Indian. This goes on for a few minutes and finally Bear just says, "HOW MUCH FOR THIS ONE?"

Mr. Wilkins seems puzzled for a second and then replies. "Well that wasn't the one I was planning on selling really. But if you want it I guess we can come to some sort of an agreement. Now mind you that it hasn't been run in a few years. All I did was drain the tank, change the oil and well... I did add some mystery oil to coat the inside of the gas tank. But I bet the carb is all but varnished tight. Take a lot of work to bring her back to life."

Jeez! I look at the bike, which is now fully exposed, to the light and it's an Indian model 440. Everything seems backwards to me. The kick-starter is on the left side, the throttle as well. The tank-mounted gearshift is on the right and the only thing that makes sense is the rear brake.

Bear is in fluid drive now and has the bike rolled out and he sets it on its stand again. Then he throws one massive leg over it and sits down on the saddle. POW! The front tire gives up in a most impressive manner. A little cloud of fine white powder fills the air. Damn! What next? This doesn't even slow Bear down and he eases the bike down off the stand and BANG! The rear tire goes the way of the Dodo and the great Auk as well!

So back down goes the kickstand and Bear gets off, looks the bike over in the light now and just a little more clearly. Mr. Wilkins and I just stand there and watch. Well it was amusing to say the least. Bear finally turns to George and asks, "How much will you take for this and give me your honest price please. Just name your figure, that's all I ask."

George just thinks for a minute and then says, "Well I'll tell you what, how about you tell me what you plan on doing with it and then I'll give you a price? I mean I don't want this turned into something it was never meant to be. This old bike and I go way back to when she was new. Lot of history there and that bike and I have been to England back before the War"

He pauses to let this sink in. This is all slowly dripping into my steel sieve mind. Wait a minute, before the war? What was the old guy doing there anyway? The war he was talking about started in 1939 really and this was a 1940 model. So that had to mean that George and the Indian four had been in England during the Blitz! Holy Crap!

Bear asks the right questions, "What in hell's name were you doing there at that time anyway? Why the bike?"

"Well that's a long story son, but to keep in brief I was in the US Army in the Horse Cavalry before the war. They sent me to England with a horse and a blanket, an old Winchester lever action 30.30 and that's about it. Sat in the barracks for weeks on end and tried to learn to ride a damn horse. Turns out that horses really don't like me, maybe it a personal thing but I didn't particularly like them much either. Something about their exhaust system I suspect.

"So I was sent to be a messenger over in London as things were not looking too good in the friendship department with the Krauts. So I needed some form of transportation and as petrol was in short supply they wouldn't give me a vehicle. They tried to give me a bicycle but....", He trailed off in to the past slightly as though remembering when he was a young man.

Bear cut in then with "Mr. Wilkins? George? You want to finish that and tell us about the bike?"

"Oh sure, sorry about that, sometimes my mind just wanders a bit." This is something that I can relate to myself. We could see that Bear was getting a little impatient so Mr. Wilkins continued his story.

"Well the bicycle and I didn't see eye to eye either and then I had an idea. I went to my CO and asked if I could have something shipped over if I agreed to pay for it. Now my CO was a good man and so he said no problem and that whatever it was I wouldn't have to pay a thing. So I called my brother and told him to go down to Tampa, buy me the best damn motorcycle he could find and ship it to the military base and I'd send him all the info.

"Well my brother did just that only he had no idea what I wanted. But he went down to the Indian Dealership and bought this here motorcycle. Well I was as surprised as the next guy when a month later they told me that a large crate had been brought in and I had to go to Portsmouth to pick it up. So it was a surprise to me when I found that he had followed my request to the letter. God but all I really wanted was a twin and he took me at my word and bought the inline four. 'Well you did say the best' was all he could muster when I called him on the blower.

"Had to laugh though and all I did was uncrate the damn thing, put some petrol in the tank and rode her back to London. My CO was a little amused but said that it was AOK as long as I painted the damn thing Olive drab and had it brought to mil. spec. You know, black out lights, windshield, Scabbard for the rifle and such. She sure went from pretty to pretty damned awful when the boys at the motorpool where done with her." He chuckled at that point. "The damn big white star on the tank about did it though. Indian made a lot of bikes for the war effort as did Harley Davidson, but I think this was the only four cylinder Indian that ever served outside the states. I stayed there for through the Battle of Britain, and then some. Met my wife there as well and she was an ambulance driver. When the war was over the wife and I came home to Cedar Key. Well home to me anyway and the bike stayed there in 'Old Blighty.'

"Funny thing was I had all but forgotten about that bike. But a few years later, that would have been around 1950 or so, I got a letter from my old CO saying that I had forgotten something and to go over to Pensacola and pick it up. Damned if he wasn't stationed there himself and he had brought back my old Indian and, as a gift he also gave me that new Black Shadow. Guess he liked the way I rode or something. Never did figure that all out but that's the story anyway."

[Continues...]