That same beat-up Vincent, a Shadow, was part of the Chittwood show. Stripped of front fender and head lamp, the front forks and damper showed deep scars in the once glossy paint. The seat cover was ripped in several places and the inner rubber showed through like bleached white bone in the glaring sunlight. The exhaust system was beat-up and rusted. The once straight silencer now pointed skyward at a crazy angle. Its engine was so filthy and dirt splattered that we could scarcely tell it was a Shadow and not a Rapide.

The show finally began, and we watched slack-jawed as its rider or tormentor -- smashed through two wooden barricades, both set ablaze after being drenched with gasoline. Later, the rider hurled up a steep ramp at full speed and leaped over several parked Fords. The Vincent must have been airborne for fifty feet before it touched down.

How many times these feats were repeated I have no idea. They must have been duplicated many times on tour from state to state, circus to fairground. Still the misused bike sang its song of power, as if to say -- "I still live."

My buddies and I came away proud. The drumming of its defiant metal heart still thudded in my ears as I walked back to where my own Vincent sat parked. Riding home as evening drew on I returned again and again to the sight of that airborne Vincent, a grand tribute to its creators.