At the drag strip in the early sixties, the racers moved along two by two; paired bikes left the line together locked in fearsome and thunderous competition. This was not the bracket racing of today-- we were simply doing what came naturally. We went as quickly and as fast across the finish line as possible. Low elapsed times were sought through careful and constant development of gearing and carburetion and much else, but ultimately all such modifications were subservient to the fast reaction time and innate skill of the rider. It was the one element I as mechanic had little control over....

That Sunday Paul had already bested a string of contenders, and for this round, he was staged against yet another nicely prepared Harley, running the same class as our Vincent. Both bikes were stripped to the bone and running methanol fuel. These two "A Dragster" class bikes sat at the start line looking mean as hell, both riders eyeing the starter's flag with deadly intent. The two vee-twins assaulted the eardrums with their savage roars. The H.D.'s deeper bellow had a decidedly metallic ring to it whereas the Rapide's voice seemed a mixture of hard edged snarl and rapid fire machine gun bursts. A blaze of heavy fuel odors and burnt oil was now easily detected as both men and machines lept off the line together. Feeling confident that all was well, I turned and walked back toward the pits to put away my tools. After having taken only a few quick strides, I was stopped dead by a collective gasp by the crowd. It quickly rose to a roar punctuated by shouts of "he's going to lose it!"

I ran to my Ford and whipped it down the return road heading for the far end, all the while trying to spot Paul without luck. I was fully expecting the worst. He had left the line in the the right lane, yet when I finally spotted him he was clear across the wide runway and into the gras s field that bordered the right side of the strip. Thank God, I muttered, noting he was still right side up, motionless, but he seemed in one piece. Pulling up beside him, I saw a picture of an absolutely whipped man, drained of strength, dripping with sweat. His long hair freed, from his helmet,which had been flung into the grass, fell forward, covering his face and lay on the front wheel as he leaned exhausted over the short bar. Still breathing hoarsely, he told me what had happened. Right at the top of third gear, he fanned the clutch and threw the final shift. After this sudden interval the power returned, but with it the front forks commenced to slap wildly back and forth, banging heavily against the fork stops. A classic lock-to-lock wobble--dreaded by all riders and survived unscathed by very few. Paul had fought the beast the full width of the track and emerged the victor, wiser, and fully a believer in the Lord!

As he straightened up I saw immediately the cause of his frightful experience. The steering damper knob was gone! An empty hole gaped at me from where the damper rod should be. Stepping back I looked down at the front wheel and there, hanging on the loose rod were the components of the damper resting against the front tire. I had somehow neglected to tighten down the knob and so let the demon in, the wild bucking action then loosened it fully and flung it off. Paul muttered, with some effort, "If I don't ride this thing right now, I never will again."

Later, back in the pit area, Paul rested while I checked over the entire front end and steering head adjustment, securing the damper rod by double nutting, set with a firm bite to damp out unwanted movement. Paul suited up and made himself ready, and then together, with Paul in the little saddle and me acting as pusher, we lit off the motor. The sound of its wicked voice clearing the way, he rolled directly to the start line where the flagman waved him off on a solo run. We all watched, slack-jawed, while he made a "full-noise" wheel standing launch and shot down the track, proving to himself and all of us that he still had what it took.