With a few days to our four day trip to Myrtle Beach coming up last week, i was desperate to find a way to bring my beloved Great Stroker. So asked daughter Becky if she could help out, and she said "sure, I'll bring so much stuff that we can't possibly fit it all in mom's new Jag." So she put so much stuff out, that it was looking up for me. The night before lift for the beach, the Wife had one of those Girl Card cames at the house, the kind where us men are invited to stay away. So i feigned disappointment, and gleefully went to the garage, where i primped the Old Girl like never before. Wash, polish, that Clay Bar thing, then Carnuba, shampooed the carpets, even got out my big buffer thing, put on a cable drive, and with some rouge, went around the Trigo rims, leaving them looking chromed. Boy, did it look good.
Sure enough, the next day, following Lynne and Becky, headed out for the four hours to the shore. Foggy at first, then it warmed up under the caressing SC sunshine, but as we got closer and closer to the beach, more and more bikes were around us, stoplights, Quick Shops, more and more Harley's, so i radioed the Leading ladies, and asked if by chance it was Biker Weekend, and they were pretty sure it wasn't yet. Finally, near the beach, there were so many loud racy bikes, that i sorta wondered if this was how the 7th Cav. troopers felt as they approached the Little Big Horn. I followed them, wanting to be able to react if the bikers started smashing their windshield with chains like they do in the Brian Bosworth B flicks.
Found our beachfront Condo rental, by now there were countless thousands of mostly Harleys out and about. Tanned a bit, then decided to go cruising, and out i went into the evening traffic. What a great time! At every traffic light, i would be surrounded by bikers, about half ridden or with a Lady on back. Every sort of Harley ever made. Cruised for several hours, talking at each light, exchanging complements, sometimes behind a group of bikers, as they would blip their right hands, i would send back a thundering blast from the sidepipes, to the cheers and thumbs up from the bike folks.
The same the next day, and again Sat, the last evening, slowly idled past thousands of fans in chairs lining the beach road, inching along, with my car's hot, intimidating hostile sounding exhaust crackle, with many flash's from cameras, and shouted admirations from the onlookers. I ran my fans constantly, which kept my motor under 90C, but from time to time the carb would boil over, requiring revs and rpm to burn out the choking overfuel in the intake system, once right in front of the police, who just nodded and smiled, while i worried about a noise citation. Sometimes, i would have a few yards to run my Stroker up to about 3000 rpm, then let it hammer out the overun snarl, to the great delight of the crowd.
later, at a light, with about 30 bikes in the right and left lane, waiting for the green, i came up in the midlde with "pole position", and just as it went green, i nailed the throttle, overcoming the conjoined noise of the bikes, with my incredibly loud sidepipes. I enjoyed sitting at the lights, overhearing the admiring comments about my car, "great wheels", " wonder if it's a real one..." "jeeze, that thing is loud." and so forth.
Twice in restaurants, with Lynne and Becky, folks at the next table could be overheard talking about the Cobra out front.
But all good things must end, so Sunday started home, again in stop and go traffic, but with the hood propped open an inch with my foam pad, only once had a percolated carburator. Separated from the Jag, so came back on the rural SC back roads, a wiff of rain for a few seconds, with an occasional opportunity to open it up fully, even if only for a few seconds.
Alltogether, right at 700 miles, burned no
oil, no leaks, no tickets, and one of the best times ever, with over 275,000 motorcycles at the beach. Sad to see that there were 7 fatal 'cyle accidents at the beach, but in the local police blotter, matching the number of stolen bikes, was the number of citations for public nudity, not suprising with all the signs saying "show 'em". I am never in the right place at the right time, i guess. Outside one bar, right behind a big bike with a lady piloting it, must have had too much to drink, as she let it topple over on her, the bikers on the porch hopped off and lifted it off her, then she staggered into the bar for more.
Saw no other Replicas, but for sure, one of these cars is much admired and even respected by the Harley men and women. I gotta go again next year.
Hal's Sand Snake
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