Nina's Story

Ever question your sanity?  Granted, I do that

on a regular basis (for good reason) but there are

times that I wonder if maybe I wasn't missing some

sort of crucial chemical essential for mental balance.

Like this August.  While friends are planning trips

to tranquil islands & peaceful country inns Bill and

I are gleefully loading a 44 year old, non running

British motorcycle into the back of a pickup truck

in anticipation of driving 2200 miles to the first

ever Panther Owner's Club rally to be held in the

US.  Crawford, Colorado to be exact.  A number of

POC members were having their bikes containered up

& shipped over from the UK in order to spend roughly

3 weeks riding around the western US, scattering Panther

spoor & frightening the locals.  There was no way that

we were going to miss this.

The drive was...long.  Close to 3 days worth of incessant

driving from sunup until past sundown.

The drive out was uneventful, if boring.  For the last

third of Kansas we could only pick up 3 radio stations,

two of which were broadcasting the same livestock auction.

Bill soon became

immune to my pleas every time we passed an antique shop

("it's Ohio...this is Fiesta country!"  "There's no room

in the truck" "Indiana...birthplace of the exquisite Hoosier

cabinet!" "You and the exquisite hoosier can ride on the roof")

and in 2 days we made it to Limon, Co

which welcomed us with incessant and impressive flashes

of lightning.

It took us a healthy chunk of the next day to wind our way to

Crawford.  Partly it was a result of I-70's cutting through

the Rockies combined with our 4 cylinder pickup truck gasping

and wheezing it's way up while 500 pounds of old metal sulked

in the back.  Partly it was the 2 1/2 hours that it took us

after we left I-70 to negotiate the 20 MPH mountain roads and

goat paths that led into Crawford proper.

Bill & I are by no means stuck up city folk.  We have trees

nearby and can see things like cows on a regular basis if

we choose the right roads.  But even we were startled when we

passed a) an corral full of emu and b) signs that stated

"Open Range Area" right before we rolled into "town".

Open range apparantly means that there are no fences, that

the animals can roam where they will and that if you hit them

with your vehicle not only will your vehicle be totalled but

you will owe the rancher for the cow, steer or emu because

you have been warned.

We drove right through Crawford (all 2 blocks and 8 stores

of it) and managed to locate our accomodations for the

next three nights.  Go up the "hill" (OK, in comparison

to the Rockies I guess that it could be called a hill)

paved with loose gravel, round the ess curve...making

sure that the back end of the truck doesn't break loose

and plummet off of the side of the "hill" and arrive

at the pine log and particle board confection we would

be paying to sleep at.

Actually I came to love that place.  The well behaved

on site dog (Buster).  The wonderful breakfasts cooked

up daily on an ancient, but still working, stove.  Sitting peacefully

on the massive porches, overlooking the reservoir with

the "whump whump whump" of Panthers off in the distance,

softer that the whirr of the hummingbirds' wings.  Of course

there wasn't too much time for sitting & contemplating.  There

was the reason we drove all of this way.  There were Panthers

to find.

So how to find the Panthers?  They could

be anywhere.  Our first stop was the campsite

which evidenced tents and one lone Panther but

no people.   We decided to drive into "town"

and see about leaving a message for the rally

organizer Jerry, a Colorado native & POC member

who organized this whole thing.  Jerry was

staying in the center of town

at the Crawford Country Store, where

they kept rags in the rooms so that you could

clean your boots and/or guns.

But as we pulled into the town proper we were

sidetracked.  Blinded.  Dazzled by the sight of

a line of motorcycles with UK number plates.

Dusty, bug splattered Panthers, some sporting

sidecars the size of Minis.  Weighted down

with racks & bungees, fouling the ground

beneath them...we had found the bikes.  Could

the owners be far behind?

In a word, no.  By the time we had parked the truck (our

Panther still in the back) and gigglingly admired each

and every Panther the owners had started drifting out.

easily identified by their POC T shirts & varieties of

accents we rushed to introduce ourselves before the

bikes were started & conversation became impossible.

I had always wondered if all Panther owners were slightly

twisted in the way that Bill is.  If this group is any

indication, then yes they are.  There's something about the

average Panther that appeals to a specific sort of person.

Someone that doesn't take themselves too seriously and that

has a delightfully warped way of looking at life.  Yes, as

with any marque I'm certain that there are those that buy

them thinking "investment" those that are snotty and brand centric

and those people that are just plain unlikeable but this

group was a flat out riot.  To sum it up perfectly:

One time someone from another owner's group looked

disparagingly on Steve, the POC president's battered

and oil splattered M100 outfit and said "You know, you're

the president.  You should set an example."

Steve's response? "I am."

The next two days were an incredible time, an uneblieveable

time.  First thing Saturday morning they had Bill's bike

started in the back of the truck, patiently going over the

Panther starting ritual & explaining what lever went where

& which cables he had routed improperly. Other bikes were

being stripped down & having minor maintenance done in preparation

for a short ride to Joe Cocker's Mad Dog Ranch & the ensuing

longer ride to the Black Canyon of the Gunnison.

I spent some

time talking with Hillbilly, the "native" guide that met

the POC folk in Denver after the bikes were unloaded from the

container & led them via mountain roads & scenic backroads

to Crawford over the course of 4 days.  He originally hails

from West Virginia & rides a beautiful mid '70s bonneville,

teal & white with hard bags painted to match.  He was not

only a nice guy with an extensive knowledge of the roads &

a deep love for bikes but he also had an impossibly thick

drawl and was chock full of "down home" sayings.  He was the

ideal choice to guide a group of serious, slightly loony

Panther riders & they adored him.  He was marvelling over the

skills of the Panther riders & how they'd tear their bikes

up and down the mountain roads (well as quick as a single can

tear up & down a road, anyway).  Just the thought of some

of those massive outfits tearing around the narrow, gravelly

local roads was enough to make me catch my breath but riders

& passengers alike were having a blast.

Soon enough it was time to ride.  I opted to follow in the

ruck as opposed to riding pillion on Bill's and brought up

the tail of the Panther train on the way to the ranch.

Gravel roads, of course.  Curvy gravel roads.  At one

point at a Y intersection there was a massive steer sitting

in the grass at the fork of the Y.  I was praying that it

would stay put until the bikes had passed and it did, glaring

& stomping away in disgust once we had passed.  When we got to

the ranch (couldn't go in, of course, just stopped at the edge)

I asked if everyone had seen the steer & they said yes, Hillbilly

had signalled to them.  I can't help but wonder what the hand signal

for "huge steer in the middle of the road" is...making horns

with your fingers on the side of your helmet?

After a brief repair (among them Bill needing to reattatch his

front brake cable) we were off to the Black Canyon.

The Black Canyon, so called because the sun seldom

reaches the bottom.  A narrow, scarily dark & jaw

droppingly impressive creation carved out of the landscape

aeons ago by the river tha still courses through the

bottom of it.  We should have known what we were in for

by the roads.

The road leading up to the canyon warns that you've got 11

miles to go, 6 of them unpaved.  No problems for the hardy

Panther riders and I solemnly piloted the truck after them,

trying and failing to keep up.  After passing signs warning

to unload all weapons (and from the looks of the signs many

of the weapons had been unloaded into them) I spotted a lone

Panther in the distance.  Stopped.  It was Bill's.  After a

brief flash of hope that he was simply waiting for me I realized

that the bike was silent & wouldn't not start again.  After a

few minuted help arrived in the form of Jerry the rally organizer

on his Triumph and Robert on his gorgeous 40's era Panther that

he had trailered out from Ontario for the meet.

No joy, no sound, no spark.  Even new plugs gave us no hope.

We feared for the magneto & after about 10 minutes loaded

the Panther back into the truck (it had probably gotten to like it

back there) and set out for the canyon.  In spite of the

bike's dying Bill was ecstatic.  Having ridden with a pack of

Panthers for a number of miles he was thrilled.  This was one

of the reasons that we made this insane trip, to ride the Panther

with the Panthers.  What better place for the bike to choose

to break down but among a group of savvy Panther owners?

See above for the Canyon.  Words fail, and I'm terrified of heights.

It was amazing and one of the scariest and most impressive things

that I've ever seen.

Back at camp we discovered that it was in fact the magneto that

was the culprit.  It had shellacked itself & would need to be

rebuilt.  Bill's mag is going on the container along with the

rest of the Panthers to be either swapped for a rebuilt one or

rebuilt itself once the bikes & their owners get home.  But the

brilliant part of this was the Panther folk unflappably stripping

down a bike, producing an endless supply of arcane tools (along

with a spare mag) and diagnosing the problem in seemingly no

time.  Of couse the alarming part was Laurie, one of the POC officers,

making a shopping list for Bill as he wandered around the bike.  I

checked to make sure that the POC club house didn't need a new roof

or something.

Of course once Bill's bike was wheeled away other bikes were already

in line waiting for their turn at maintenance.  Bill was able to work

with the Panther folk on their Panthers & I've seldom seen him happier.

After a good work session we went back tot he ranch to clean up

before dinner.  Tonight was going to be a BBQ at the campgrounds,

a chance to really soend time with the Panther folk & we wanted

to get some real beer to bring along.

Saturday night's BBQ

Never before in my life did I wish so fervently that

such a thing as a teleporter existed.  Sure, I'd think

of such things after leaving a club at 4AM and realizing

that I had at least an hour's drive home with all of

my passenger's sleeping before I'd be snug in my own bed

but this was the first time that I desperately wished to

be able to transport people to another location...specifically

here, around the campfire & among the Panther people.

Mike T would have been in his glory, not only by being surrounded

 by the two wheeled anacronisms but also because of the ingenuity

& resourcefullness of the people.  One of the older Panthers

had a purpose built rack over the front fender.  The owner, Dave,

devised this so that when his daughter came to rallies with him

he'd have a place to put his camping gear.  Unsafe, true but it

did kind of balance the unsprung weight in the back.

After talking with Nick, the owner of the two stroke Panther that

so intrigued Frank Snively & the club's Panther Villier's specialist,

I discovered that he has a couple of locomotives in his back yard at home.

Ben English should have been a part of this conversation...aside from

the fact that none of the bikes had anything even approaching an

electronic ignition, but some did have a car battery hidden in the boot

of their sidecar that was wired to power the bike.  Actually Mike T

should have been around to have a conversation with Nick as well.

Nick had me in stitches, explaining about how he'd been in a few accidents

since he'd had his leg amputated but fortunately the car had hit the fake

leg.  One time he came to with the car driver explaining that he had a very

bad compound fracture & to lie still.  Nick looked down, straightend his

foot out (which was off at a bad angle) & stood up saying "no worries, I'll

just go to the leg shop & get another".

Most of all I wish that I had been able to magically transport more

US panther owners to the rally.  I know that the POC folk were disappointed

that more didn't show...there were 4 of us, actually.  Jerry, who organized

the rally, Bill, Rob from Canada & another gent from PA who flew out to

Denver and hired a bike.  This was truly a once in a lifetime, surreal

experience for us US Panther folk & I'm sorry that others missed it.  Even

if you weren't Panther obsessed you would have enjoyed these people & this

rally.

We brought our neurotic dog along for the trip.  After having to cut

our weekend at VMD short because she wasn't faring well with the pet sitter

we didn't want to take any chances with Colorado.  It ended up being a great

idea as 3 of the UK couples had brought children with them & one was

absolutely thrilled to make our Amber's acquaintance.  I taught him her

commands & hand signals & he spent the rest of the night putting her through

her paces, charmed when she's respond to him time & time again. Especially

nice as Amber is a rottweiler about as big as this boy was.

Sunday was the wind down.  Everyone preparing to go their seperate ways over

the next 2 weeks before meeting back up in Denver to crate the bikes up & go

home.  More tinkering was done on the bikes, more tea was drunk (lots of tea

was consumed over the weekend), Frank & Sue Snively (and Chuck) stopped by

to visit & Nick & I took a ride into the "big" city of Hotchkiss in search

of a hardware store.  That night the last of the food was cooked over the

campfire (including some crawfish that had been fished out of the reservoir

by the ever resourceful Panther people), the last of the beer drunk, another

pot of tea brewed & songs sung while the open range cows chimed in

periodically.  A melancholy ending to a great rally, seeing new friends &

kindred spirits getting ready to continue their adventure while we were to

get ready to head home.

By the time we passed the campgrounds early Monday all of the tents were

gone.  the only sign of life was Rob loading his Panther onto the trailer

for his long drive back to Ontario & the suspiciously viscous oil

puddles...Panther spoor...mark of the beasts.

Aside from the foot high pies at a truck stop in Illinois the ride back was

as unmemorable...and even more boring...than the ride in.  Home by Wednesday

evening and back to work on Thursday, just in time for the big blackout.

I doubt that the POC will ever come back to the US but I'm praying that they

will.  Maybe if we can get enough US Panther people together to put on a

proper rally we might be able to lure them back.  We should try anyway, if

only to lure them back.  Bill and I would do this again...in a heartbeat.

Nina