York Wings: Motorcycle Olympics

Over the years, the Olympics enjoyed better than average weather. Perhaps it was thanks to the bike blessings that were performed there each year. Every motorcyclist so

The priest by the van addresses the bikers prior to them funneling past to be blessed.

inclined could ride in procession past our official priest to be ceremoniously sprinkled with holy water, and to be blessed with a short prayer for safe travel.

Although we seemed to have been, for the most part, spared from the wet stuff (or at least when I was there), there was one year when blustery weather provided us with a different kind of challenge instead. Many tents would fall victim that day to the gale strength winds that had developed, some breaking lose from their ties to fly across the fields with owners in hot pursuit.

That year I had decided not to camp, but to make the 60 mile trip from the city to Molson Park, and back each day. Heading for home during that turbulent evening, I gained the novel experience of traveling in a straight line, but at an angle that would have looked more natural if I had been navigating around a sharp hairpin. Every so often an unexpected gust would catch me that was even more powerful that the formidable force I was already being subjected to, and I would shoot across two or three lanes before recovering. As you can imagine, it must have been a small miracle that kept me from making contact with other traffic during those frightful moments. I can safely say that that was one of the

Bikes lining up for the games.

worst riding conditions that I had ever personally encountered, and was up there with the time I got caught in a snow storm - but that's another story.

Although we all came for the bike games, it was the camaraderie and the partying that really made the event. The wise would pace their alcoholic consumption, and thus avoid being partied out before the evening festivities began. Being still young and stupid back then, I was ignorant of that concept. From the moment I crawled out of my tent, I would start my day inhaling Molson's products with supreme gusto. By noon, I would be in peak form, and an overpowering need for a nap would not be far off. But before that would happen, my normal mild mannered persona would transform into a brazen silliness.

So it was during one year's festivities when I stumbled over to another inebriated fellow York Winger, Doug, who looked in far worse shape than I (or at least that was what my glazed eyes conferred). Doug was the owner of a neat RD400. The Yamaha was brimming with all kinds of performance enhancements and topped off with a real cool one of a kind paint job. Doug was sort of explaining the bike's intricacies to a few gathered around his bike, though much of what he tried to say came out rather jumbled and confused. What did come out loud and clear was his offer for us to test his bike. Without hesitation, I jumped on to the hot rodded oil burner and kicked it to life. While I snicked the shift lever down into gear, Doug wandered off in search of more of whatever it was that was leaking out of his Dixie cup. I gave it some throttle, let out the clutch, and was prepared to be impressed by this legendary giant killer. The bike stalled. Oops! <Hic>