Back home I had left my Vincent in the care of a BSA Dealer who I felt to be a good and close friend, Shorty by name. He promised to ride it occasionally and keep it clean and properly cared for. I should have suspected a sad twist to it all when he never answered my letters.

From the train station, it was only a short walk to the Works, and as I neared it, I saw in an adjecent field, a large canvas tent, and, to my great delight, arrayed alongside were rows of Vincents, seemingly of every Series and year. Those rows were to lengthen over the course of the afternoon as club members were steadily arriving. As it had turned out, by some great stroke of luck, my visit coincided with that year's Annual Vincent Club Rally.

Fortunately I had remembered to bring my camera and electronic flash. Though thrilled by the sight of more Vincents than I'd ever dreamed of seeing, what lay within that canvas tent was to knock my socks off! Rare models, special factory projects, race bikes-- both solo and sidecar, all arranged there for unobstructed viewing. It was a veratable Vincent lover's paradise! The first machine I encounterd was the rare model W two stroke device, leg shielding and all. It was a complete surprise to me, never having even heard of it before now. Nearby was the amazing air/sea propulsion unit. To its right sat a Picador radio controlled drone fuel injected power unit, clearly derived, yet so cleverly modified from the normal motorcycle engine. Carefully, with trembling hands, I proceeded to photograph everything in detail. Next I came to Johnny Penn's nicely detailed Black Lightning based sidehack, so cleaverly detailed that it took one's breath away. Built to exacting standards, Penn's racer was a sober study in single minded purpose. Unfortunately, Johnnie was later lost at sea while testing the Amanda water scooter, another of Vincent's advanced ideas. With his death, the Works lost a talented and dedicated young man, who had himself been preparing a contender for the world's fastest motorcycle records.

Finally, the tent's center attraction brought sweat to my palms-- the legendary works racer Gunga Din; holder, it was then said, of more individual records that any other single machine in all of England and quite possibly, the world. I stood slack jawed, wiping perspiration from my eyes, as I tried to take in every elusive detail, clever modification, and trick of pure Works practice. I even popped off the fuel cap and inhahled deeply the methanol that shimmered inside. Such an act of gaul, but I could not restrain my fascination after having been allowed hands-on proximity to this fabulous device.

Gathering control of myself, I said a prayer and then clicked off a series of what turned out to be superb photos, never equalled by any I have seen since. As moved around the bike, from side to side and front to rear, memories of what I had read of this warrior and its rider, George Brown, came to me unbidden. Gunga Din served as the rolling test mule for every racing component later incorporated in the Black Lightning, and it was said that if George wasn't flung off, he generally came home the winner. At the time of the '53 rally, it was fully functional, fueled, and equipped with the large Montlhˇry tank. (In May of '52, in Montlhery France, a Vincent Team "collected eight 1000 c.c. records from 6 to 11 hours at speeds between 100.53 and 91.98 mph," proving "record-breaking possible on a standard machine fitted with mudguards and headlamp" [Motorcycling Yearbook 1953, pp. 131-33]). The photographs prompt long study, so clever and detailed were its preparations and modifications. Seeing Gunga Din reminded me of the original purpose of my visit. I had yet to tour the Works and make my purchases.

Entering the factory, I was cordially welcomed and conducted on a tour of the manufacturing facilities and assembly areas. I was allowed to stop at each machining operation to observe the process and, if I wished, ask questions. My guide, Alan Rennie, as I recall, was cheerful and freely answered my questions. At one point I stood watching two men assemble a Black Lightning, and I asked them, "how fast should it be able to go so equipped?" One man, who was fitting a part, continued his work; the other fellow, in white coveralls, looked up from his check sheet and replied, "If kept sharply tuned it should top 140." I thanked him and shook my head in wonder. Once again I knew what my plans were: nothing less than that same performance would satisfy me. I was to go ahead with my plans begun in Germany. I would build a road equipped Black Lightning. Over the course of the day, I had seen quite clearly what it was I needed to purchase in the way of parts and what modifications were desirable. Less than two years later, I had in fact achieved that level of power. When tour ended, Alan Rennie kindly invited me to his house for a rest and a snack, because later that evening there was to be a banquet in Cambridge and we both planned to attend. As I was leaving the Works, I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Vincent and his lovely new wife. I showed a color shot of my Rapide. Looking at it, he remarked, "Oh, you got one of the red ones. We only did twenty-four of those, and then we used the balance of the paint on my car." Motioning to one side, he pointed to a red Bristol sedan, the same shade as my bike. I was to see them both again at the banquet.

By 7 pm, we were entering a large hotel in Cambridge. A hall had been converted for a sit down affair, and a clattering rumble could be heard throughout the town as a covey of big vee-twins arrived, singularly and in bunches. Soon the hall was full of men and their ladies, many clad in dark riding gear. It was a grand sight.

Mr. and Mrs. Vincent sat at the head table And as he stood to give a few brief remarks, to my surprise, I was introduced as the sole American member present. Looking around, I recognized several personalities from the pages of M.P.H. such as R.A.B. Cook, Maurice Brierley, and Paul Richardson, whom I had met earlier in the day at the Works. Friendships begun there with those seated nearby lasted for many years, one with a certain Steve Luff of Stockport, Chesire resulted in a reliable supply of racing bits while I returned the favor, providing him with a Bell helmet, and a "yank" style leather jacket, which he dearly prized. I drank a toast of champaigne from the Avon Cup and generally had a great time with my new friends.

Eventually, it now being past 1 am, and having at last accepted that, like all things, this night must to come to an end, I asked where I could catch the train back to London. It was then made known to me that the last train had gone through at midnight, and I would have to make other arrangements. At that my spirits fell and I was left wondering what the hell I was going to do. My plight became known to a certain gentleman by the name of Ben Chapman, who I heard later had recently set a new record time for the Land 'O Groats Run on his tuned Shadow. Had I been aware of his penchant for going like the clappers of doom, I'd have thought better of climbing on behind him! Imagine the scene, I a towering lad of nearly 6 foot 5 inches and a dressed weight in excess of 300 pounds and Chapman, much shorter, yet stocky and powerfully built with a guessed height of 6 feet and a weight of 220 pounds. He dressed, as was common then, in a fur lined, thick leather flying jacket with matching long gloves and boots, worn over a pair of heavy-weight trousers. I wore my standard Army dress uniform, my soft cap held to my head by a borrowed wool scarf tied under my chin. My camera and flash hung from my shoulder and that was it. The Vincent weighed in at somewhere around 480 pounds, fueled, while we weighed in at close to 600 pounds, ready to roll.

Would it, could it deliver the urge and stamina needed to carry off this task suddenly demanded of it? I climbed on behind the silent owner who sat astride the muttering beast. Rider and passenger must have dwarfed the Shadow like some ridiculous Laurel and Hardy act! Encircling his chest, I managed a weakly bravado remark as we pulled off into the ink dark night. Back home I seldom ever rode behind anyone, never relishing the lack of control and fearful that my weight would pull us both both over in one painful and inglorious heap. Now I had little choice in the matter but to hang on, try not to interfere with the rider's movements and pray fervently for a quick release from this torture.

It rapidly became apparent that not only was the Vincent able to cope with the great load, but that its operator possessed great skill and the mad desire to go as fast as hell! Ben played the gearbox like he was twinkle toes attached to some 125 c.c. two stroke, never missing a shift. He kept the motor near full bore, as we hustled around those old British back lanes and country roads. Several times I peered over his right shoulder to steal a glance at the massive speedo, dumbstruck to see it indicating speeds of near 120 mph. He slowed rapidly for each approaching bend, a few of which we barely made it round, so overworked were the brakes. All the while that great motor boomed its throaty defiance, any strain told only through a bit of preignition tinkle as it accellerated over and over. I would never have imagined such performance, and it spoke volumes for the owner's great skill and daring, and for his superb preparation. The bike displayed the power of a Lightning with a fully double back-lashed gearbox, so rapid and precise was each gear shift. A formidable machine, that particular Black Shadow. Even the Miller lighting set furnished sufficient illumination!

After what seemed like some never ending roller coaster ride we arrived in London where we burbled round Picadilly Circus and over to Kensington, where he let me off within walking distance of my flat. We shook hands, and I stood watching as he pulled off effortlessly, now free of the extra 300 pounds. The Shadow leapt away and then settled to a retreating rumble as it disappeared from sight, leaving me only the living echo of its exhaust and the memory of one fantastic ride that was to be my Last Train to London.