Bert Wilson's Twin Cylinder Racer Read online

  CHAPTER II

  THE "BLUE STREAK"

  "Isn't it a beauty?" exclaimed Bert, as, a few days later, he swept upto a waiting group of friends and leaped from the saddle.

  There was a unanimous assent as the boys crowded around the motorcycle,looking at it almost with the rapt intentness of worshippers at ashrine.

  "It's a dandy, all right," declared Dick, with an enthusiasm equal toBert's own. "You skimmed along that last stretch of road like a bird."

  "It's about the speediest and niftiest thing on the planet," chimed inTom. "You'd give an airship all it wanted to do to keep up with you."

  "Easy, easy there," laughed Bert. "I wouldn't go as far as that. But on'terra cotta,' as Mrs. Partington calls it, there are mighty few thingsthat will make me take their dust." And he patted the machine with asmuch affection as if it could feel and respond to the touch.

  "About how fast can that streak of greased lightning travel, any way?"asked Drake. "What's the record for a motorcycle?"

  "The best so far is a mile in thirty-six and four-fifths seconds," wasthe answer. "That's at the rate of ninety-eight miles an hour."

  "Some traveling," murmured Dick.

  "Of course," went on Bert, "that was for a sprint. But even over longdistances some great records have been hung up. In England last year amotorcycle made 300 miles in 280 minutes. I don't think the fastestexpress train in the world has ever beaten that."

  "Gee," said Tom, "I'd hate to be in the path of a cannon ball like that.It would be the 'sweet by and by' for yours truly."

  "It might possibly muss you up some," grinned Bert. "It's a case of 'thequick or the dead' when you amble across the path of a twin-cylinder."

  "I should think," remarked Drake, "that it would shake the daylights outof you to travel at the speed you were going just now along that lastbit of road."

  "A few years ago it would have," admitted Bert. "The way they bumpedalong was a sure cure for dyspepsia. But with this saddle I could rideall day and scarcely feel a jar. Why, look at this cradle spring frame,"he went on enthusiastically; "it has the same flat leaf springs thatthey use in the finest kind of automobiles. You wouldn't believe thatthere are over 250 inches of supple, highly tempered springs between thesaddle and the road. It's as elastic and flexible as a bamboo cane.Each spring has double scrolls that come into action one after anotherwhenever you have a jolt. Then, too, there are rubber bumpers to takethe recoil. Why, it's like a parlor car on a limited express. No fellowsitting back in a Pullman has anything on me."

  "You're a pampered son of luxury, all right," mocked Tom. "We childrenof toil take off our hats to you."

  Bert made a playful pass at him and went on:

  "As to power, it would take the strength of seven horses to match it.The engine has a piston displacement of 61 inches. And yet you cancontrol that tremendous power so far as to slow down to three miles anhour. Not that I often get down to that, though. Fifty or sixty suit mebetter."

  "You ought to name it 'Pegasus,' after the flying horse," suggestedHinsdale.

  "Old Pegasus would have his work cut out for him if he tried to show methe way," smiled Bert. "Still I don't claim to beat anything that goesthrough the air. But when you get down to solid earth, I'd back thisdaisy of mine to hold its own."

  "The old Red Scout might make you hustle some," suggested Tom.

  "Yes," admitted Bert, "she certainly was a hummer. Do you remember thetime she ran away from the Gray Ghost? Speed was her middle name thatday."

  "It was, for fair," agreed Dick, "but perhaps she went still faster whenwe scudded up the track that day, with the express thundering behind."

  "Our hearts went faster, anyway," declared Tom. "Gee, but that was anarrow squeak. It makes me shiver now when I think of it."

  "Same here," echoed Bert, little dreaming that before long, on thesplendid machine whose handlebars he held, he would graze the verygarments of death.

  Happily, however, the future was hidden, and for the moment the littlegroup were absorbed in the mechanical wonders of the motorcycle thatloomed large in the road before them. It stood for the last word inup-to-date construction. The inventive genius of the twentieth centuryhad spent itself on every contrivance that would add to its speed,strength and beauty. It was a poem in bronze and steel and rubber. Fromthe extremity of the handlebars in front to the rim of its rear wheel,not the tiniest thing had been overlooked or left undone that couldadd to its perfection. Fork and cams and springs and valves andcarburetor--all were of the finest material and the most carefulworkmanship.

  "It seemed an awful lot to pay, when I heard that it cost you over threehundred bucks," said Tom, "but after looking it over, I guess you gotyour money's worth."

  "The value's there, all right," asserted Bert confidently. "I wouldn'ttake that amount of money for the fun I've had already. And what I'mgoing to have"--he made a comprehensive wave of the hand--"it simplycan't be reckoned in cold coin."

  "It's getting to be a mighty popular way of traveling," said Dick. "Isaw it stated somewhere that a quarter of a million are in use and thatthe output is increasing all the time."

  "Yes," added Drake, "they certainly cover a wide field. Ministers,doctors, rural mail carriers, gas, electric and telephone companies areusing them more and more. In the great pastures of the West, the herdersuse them in making their rounds and looking after the sheep. All thepolice departments in the big cities employ a lot of them, and in aboutevery foreign army there is a motorcycle corps. You've surely got lotsof company, old man."

  "Yes, and we're only the vanguard. The time is coming when they'll beused as widely as the bicycle in its palmiest days."

  "A bicycle wouldn't have done you much good the other day, in that wildride down to the switch," grinned Drake. "By the way, Bert, the pressassociations got hold of that, and now the whole country's humming withit."

  "Well," said Bert, anxious to change the subject, "if she'll only do aswell in the race from coast to coast, I won't have any kick coming."

  "How about that contest anyway?" queried Hinsdale. "Have you reallydecided to go into it?"

  "Sure thing," answered Bert. "I don't see why I shouldn't. Commencementwill be over by the eighth, and the race doesn't start until the tenth.That will give me plenty of time to get into shape. As a matter offact, I'm almost fit now, and Reddy is training me for two hours everyafternoon. I've almost got down to my best weight already, and I'm goingto take the rest off so slowly that I'll be in the pink of conditionwhen the race begins. Reddy knows me like a book and he says he neversaw me in better form."

  "Of course," he went on thoughtfully, "the game is new to me and I'm notat all sure of winning. But I think I have a chance. I'd like to win forthe honor of it and because I hate to lose. And then, too, that purse often thousand dollars looks awfully good to me."

  The race to which the boys referred had been for some time past asubject of eager interest, and had provoked much discussion in sportingand college circles. The idea had been developing since the precedingwinter from a chance remark as to the time it would take a motorcycle togo from the Atlantic to the Pacific. A guess had been hazarded that itcould be done in twenty days. This had been disputed, and, as an outcomeof the discussion, a general race had been projected to settle thequestion. The Good Roads Association of America, in conjunction with anumber of motorcycle manufacturers, had offered a purse of five thousanddollars for the competitor who made the journey in the shortest time. Ifthat time came within twenty days, an additional two thousand dollarswas to be given to the winner.

  One other element entered into the problem. The San Francisco Exposition,designed to celebrate the opening of the Panama Canal, would be in fullswing at the time the survivors of the race reached the coast. One of thegreat features of the Fair was to be an international carnival of sports.There were to be contests in cavalry riding, in fencing, in auto racing,and the pick of the world were expected to compete. But of specialinterest to Bert was the international motorcycle ra
ce, which for thefirst time was to be held in America. Two years before, it had takenplace in Paris and, a year later, in London. But this year it wasAmerica's turn, and because of the immense crowds expected at theExposition, San Francisco had been chosen as the city to stage the event.There was to be a first prize of three thousand dollars and lesser pursesfor those that came in second and third. If, by any chance, the winnerof the long distance race should break the twenty day limit and also winthe final race at the Fair, his total reward would amount to ten thousanddollars.

  With such a possibility in prospect, it was not surprising that Bertshould be strongly tempted to enter the race. He was a natural athlete,and in his college course so far had stood head and shoulders above hiscompetitors. As pitcher on the 'Varsity team, he had cinched the pennantby his superb twirling in a most exciting series of diamond battles. Hehad been chosen as a contender on the American Olympic team, and hadcarried off the Marathon after a heart-breaking race, in which everyounce of speed and stamina had been tried to the utmost. In an auto racebetween rival campers, his hand at the wheel had guided the Red Scoutto victory over the Gray Ghost, its redoubtable antagonist. He was asplendid physical machine of brawn and sinew and nerve and muscle.Outdoor life, vigorous exercise and clean living, combined with hisnatural gifts, made him a competitor to be feared and respected in anycontest that he chose to enter.

  But his lithe, supple body was not his only, or indeed, his chief asset.What made him preeminent was his quick mind and indomitable will, ofwhich his body was only the servant. His courage and audacity weresuperb. Again and again he had been confronted with accidents anddiscouragements that would have caused a weaker fellow to quit and blamethe result on fate. He had won the deciding game in the baseball race,after his comrades had virtually thrown it away. In the Marathon, it waswith bruised and bleeding feet that he overtook his antagonist at thevery tape. The harder bad luck tried to down him, the more fiercely herose in rebellion. And it was this bulldog grip, this unshaken tenacity,this "never know when you are beaten" spirit that put him in a class byhimself and made him the idol of his comrades. They had seen him sooften snatch victory from the very jaws of defeat, that they wereprepared to back him to the limit. Win or lose, they knew that he woulddo his best, and, if defeated, go down fighting.

  With such a character and record back of him, his enthusiastic friendswere inclined to think that it was "all over but the shouting." Bert,however, had no such delusion. If it had been simply a matter of muscleor swiftness or courage, he would have felt more confident of theoutcome. But here the "human equation" was not the only thing involved.The quality and strength of the machine he rode would be a veryprominent and perhaps a deciding factor. He felt sure that he was insuch prime physical condition that he could endure the gruelling grind.But would his machine be equal to the task? The most dashing horsemanwould have to halt, if his steed foundered beneath him. The most daringaviator would have to descend to earth, if his motor stopped. So Bert,no matter how strong and plucky, must fail, if his machine should goback on him.

  For there could be no substitute. This was one of the conditions of therace. He must finish, if at all, on the same machine with which hestarted. The contestants were permitted to make repairs to any extent.Tires, forks, springs and any other parts could be replaced, and, atintervals along the route, supplies could be held in readiness, inaddition to those that the rider carried. But essentially the identicalmachine must be used throughout the race. In the event of a hopelesssmashup, the luckless rider was, of course, out for good. The racer andthe machine were thus indispensable to each other. Neither could win ifthe other balked. They were like the two blades of a shears--strong whentogether but useless when separated.

  To guard as much as possible against defects, Bert had been especiallycareful in selecting his motorcycle. He had the eye for a machine that agipsy has for a horse. Among a host of others, he had chosen one thatappealed to him as the acme of what a motorcycle should be. It wasa seven horse power, twin cylinder racer, with every appliance andimprovement known at the time it left the factory.

  The brakes, for instance, were more powerful than those fitted to anyprevious type. It could be operated by a foot lever on the right side ofthe machine and also by a grip lever in the left handlebar. The doubleaction was caused by the expansion and contraction of two bands insideand outside a brake drum.

  Then, too, there was a foot-starting device that was a marvel ofsimplicity. A single downward pressure of the foot, and the racerstarted off at once.

  An improved rear hub also aroused Bert's enthusiasm, because of itsextra large size and the fact that it ran on ball bearings that wereabsolutely frictionless. In both the front and rear hubs there was aknock-out axle, so that the wheels could be removed without interferingwith the adjustment of the bearings.

  In fact, the more Bert studied what had become his most preciouspossession the more convinced he grew that he had secured a "gem of thefirst water." And now that the first stiffness had worn off, the machinewas "running like a watch."

  The ignition was perfect, the transmission left nothing to be desired,and the most critical inspection could find no fault with any detail ofthe steel charger that was to carry him and his fortunes to victory ordefeat.

  "What are you going to christen it, Bert?" asked Tom. "Cut out thePegasus stuff and tell it to us straight."

  "On the level, I think I'll call it the 'Blue Streak,'" answered Bert."That's the way it covers the ground, as a rule, and I hope it will beprophetic. Besides, blue is our college color and it ought to bring meluck. That's the color I wore when we took the Grays and Maroons intocamp, and I had it at my belt when I collared Dorner in the Stadium.Everything goes in threes, you know, and this will be the third time I'mout to win since I was a Freshie."

  "Bully for you, old top," exclaimed Drake, with a rousing thump on theshoulder. "The fellows will be tickled to death to know that the goodold blue is showing the way across country. And when we hear that you'vecome in first, there'll be a yell that you'll hear way off in Frisco."

  "Don't count your chickens too soon, my boy," cautioned Bert; but hisheart was warmed and elated by the confidence his comrades had in him,and he vowed to himself that he would justify it, if it were humanlypossible.

  "To judge from the names already entered, it's going to be a weird colorscheme," laughed Dick. "There's the Yellow Dragon and the Red Devil andthe Brown Antelope and the White Cloud and the Black Knight; andthere'll probably be others before the list is full."

  "Gee," chortled Tom, "if a hobo should see them coming all at once, he'dthink that he had them again, sure."

  "Yes," agreed Bert, "it would certainly be a crazy quilt effect, if theyshould all come along together. But there are so many different routesthat, ten to one, we won't catch sight of each other after the bunchscatters at the start."

  "How about the route?" asked Martin. "I should think that would be oneof the most important things to take into account."

  "So it would, if it were left to me. But it isn't. You see, one of thegreat objects of the Good Roads Association is to plan a great nationalhighway from coast to coast. They want to get all the facts about everypossible route, so that they'll have something to go on, when they putit up to the different States to get legislation on their pet hobby.This race they think will be of great importance for this purpose,because it won't be based on theory but on actual experience.So they have mapped out a large number of possible lines to befollowed--northern, central and southern,--and when they've got them allmarked out, lots will be drawn and the fellows will have to follow theroute that chance gives them. Of course, they can't be exactly alike inthe matter of distance. But it will be as fair for one as the other,and, all things considered, they'll average up about alike. I expect toget a letter any day now, giving the special trip that luck has pickedout for me.

  "Of course," he went on, "it isn't all absolutely cut and dried. Theydon't mark out every highway and byway that you must travel, on pai
n ofbeing disqualified. But you're given a chain of important towns andgreat centers that you must hit one after the other on your trip acrossthe continent. As long as you do that, you are left to your own judgmentas to the best and quickest way of getting there."

  "How about any crooked work?" put in Axtell. "Is there any chance ofthat?"

  "I'm not worrying much about that," answered Bert. "To be sure, where somuch is at stake, there's always a chance of some one trying to turna trick. But I don't see where they could 'put it over.' At everyimportant place there'll be timers and checkers to keep tally on theriders. The machines are all registered and numbered and so carefullydescribed that, in case of a smashup, a fellow couldn't slip in anotherone without being found out at the next stopping place. Then, too, ifthey tried to get a lift on a train, there would have to be too many inthe secret. Besides, in all the names I've seen so far of the racers,there's only one that might possibly stoop to anything of that kind.His name is Hayward, and from what I've heard he's been mixed up withone or two shady deals. There have only been whispers and suspicions,however, and they've never been able actually to prove anything againsthim. So he is still nominally in good standing and eligible to ride. Itmay be all conjecture anyway. He probably wouldn't cheat if he could,and couldn't if he would."

  "No," said Dick, "it certainly seems as though the best man and the bestmachine ought to win."

  "I understand that the race is to start from New York," remarked Drake.

  "Yes," answered Bert, preparing to mount the machine, "from one of thebeaches near the city. It's to be actually from ocean to ocean. The rearwheel is to be wet in the Atlantic. Then the fight is on in earnest andonly ends when the front wheel is dipped in the Pacific."

  "'Twill be some race," remarked Martin.

  "You'll have to travel like the wind," warned Hinsdale.

  "Yes," laughed Bert, as he threw in the clutch, "to make it in twentydays, I'll have to go like a blue streak."