2003 Lucas Memorial Push

Frozen & Refrigerated Hedz:

Last night the Canadian Vintage Motorcycle Group held its annual homage to The Prince Of Darkness, Lucas, with the annual "Lucas Memorial Push". Local AirHeads were a strong contingent in this fracas/affair/booze-up.

For those of you Heads who have not had the pleasure of either riding something designed with Lucas electrics, or the subsequent pleasure of pushing the sonofabitch, some of the patina of fond memory may be lacking. However, after the first few pints of Mother's Milk (read "Guinness"), the stories flowed.

Of course, no Lucas Push would be proper without an example of the subject at hand. A 1953 project bike came along for the evening, an old Triumph Speed Twin, missing rather more of its parts than it still had. This was ostentatiously chained up outside The Wheatsheaf while the owner and 30 - 40 rabid motorcyclists nudged foam heads around inside and bought the CVMG's T-shirts, this year sporting the logo "Get Home Before Dark".

It was cold. Several of the Heads had taken part in a large peace rally earlier in the day, when the temperature had warmed up to a balmy -25 degrees (with the wind chill thrown in). By the time we gathered at The Wheatsheaf, the damn bike wouldn't have lit up even if we'd set it on fire. It did, however, have JUST enough oil to piddle a few drops onto the frozen sidewalk outside the pub.

Well, after a libation or three, and watching a bit of hockey, and removal of the ostentatious lock, it was off to the next pub, pushing this sorry excuse for transport along the sidewalk. Pedestrians gave us a lot of room, and a couple of sweet younger ladies on their way to work (wearing large fur coats and a smile) had their pictures taken next to this Anglo embarrasment. We had time, just, for a "Wee d'och an doris", and other AirHeads managed to make the scene. (This whole evening is finely scripted as to time, so it is easy to drop in and join for a while if you can't stomach the whole fracas.) Watched a little more telly, and a good fight was on, but it got ruined when some Referee tossed in a puck, and a hockey game broke out.

Off to the next pub, pushing the scooter. The back wheel wobbled badly, and things were so seized up that the bearings were also the brakes. No cables were attached. The lights didn't work. It didn't matter. In and out of a bit of traffic, a rolicking gang of bikers with no more need for anti-freeze found the third pub, and in we poured, having tied the bike to a tree outside. "Don't want anyone to steal this rare and valuable antique", someone was heard to declare. "WTF are ya lockin' that thing up for?" wondered another. This joint which shall remain nameless, the most depressing bar I've seen in a L-O-N-G time, made me glad I wasn't in my 20s and trying to date or even pick up for a frisk. (Joyfully married, over 20 years! I got it right. Gail wonders, sometimes, with the antics I ask her to put up with ...)

The last stop, lovingly named "The Bovine Sex Club", makes the whole evening worth it. We were attacked. ATTACKED!! Joyfully ATTACKED, and snuggled towards and played with and fondl ... Ahem. Most of the pushers by this time were sporting the Lucas Memorial Push shirts, and we sure as hell didn't fit into the usual group that lounges, lunges and gropes at the BSC. Honey, this was all about cosmic thrusts and not-too-subtle glances. Good Grunge music, with bump-and-grind thrown in. More Mother's Milk. Lots of good laughs. Stories told to poor innocents who were 25 years old and just desperately wanted to buy the shirt. Had never ridden a bike in their lives. Knew what an Indian was (or is). Knew about Harleys. Never heard of AirHeads. (Good god! Must be from another planet!) We set 'em straight. Represented well.

This writer finally tottered off into the night at 1 in the morning, running down Queen Street to get the streetcar home. A great evening, with lots of AirHead fun.

Thanks to Lawrence Hogarth, who got out the initial information to us, and the CVMC members who put this together. Hair On Ya !

Lord T'underin' Jesus, it is still cold here.

We will conclude with a morsel of poetry. Feel free to substitute the word "biker" for "logger".

__________________________

The Frozen Logger  --  as sung and attributed to Mike Wier

As I sat down one evening,
'Twas in a small cafe,
A forty year old waitress
To me these words did say:

I see that you're a logger,
And not a common bum,
For no one but a logger
Stirs coffee with his thumb.

I once had a logger lover,
There's none like him today.
If you poured whisky on it,
He'd eat a bail of hay.

He never shaved a whisker
Off of his horny hide;
He hammered in the bristles,
And bit them off inside.

My logger came to see me,
'Twas on a winter's day;
He held me in a fond embrace
That broke three vertebrae.

He kissed me when we parted
So hard it broke my jaw;
I couldn't speak to tell him
He forgot his mackinaw.

I saw my logger lover
Go stridin' through the snow,
A-goin' gaily homeward
At forty-eight below.

The weather tried to freeze him,
It did its very best;
At a hundred degrees below zero,
He buttoned up his vest.

It froze clear down to China,
It froze to the stars above;
At a thousand degrees below zero,
It froze my logger love.

They tried in vain to thaw him,
And if you believe it sir,
They made him into axe blades
To cut the Douglass Fir.

And so I lost my logger,
And to this cafe I've come,
And it's here I wait for someone
To stir coffee with his thumb.

_____________________

Greetings from the frozen north-country ...

martin in toronto

ABC #5156

Ontario AirMarshall

"Peace is not the absence of war, but the absence of fear,

which is the presence of justice."

-- Ursula Franklin.