From the Library

[Biggles]

At last the day came when his new engine was finished. The old frame had gone through a lot of hard road and race miles and Bert was concerned it might be suffering metal fatigue.  When he saw a gorse fire raging on a hill on his way home from work one afternoon he had an idea that made him to rush back to his shed at even greater speed than normal.  He grabbed the stripped bike frame and threw in into the Model T's trailer, then raced back to the scene of the fire where he hauled the frame through the gorse until he was as close as he could get to the flames and the choking, yellow smoke.  After laying his burden down he staggered away from the intense heat, back to the safety of the road where he climbed into the Model T and drove home.  The following afternoon, once again after work, he retrieved the frame from the now charred hillside, noting with satisfaction that the fire had completely stripped all the oil and paint from it.  He had no doubt the heat of the burning gorse had been intense enough to anneal the metal, relieving any stress points that might have developed.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 113

[Biggles]

Bert's trip through Europe was one of the best times of his life.  He quickly hooked up with the tight-knit Australasian contingent competing at the TT, a tradition going back to the earliest days of the contest, relishing the easy camaraderie of the group.  There were some among them aware of his achievements, which lent him a bona fide standing among the larger community of racers.  He was invited to the official TT dinner dance and met all the stars of the day, exchanging notes with such luminaries as Geoff Duke.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 155-6

[Biggles]

The smiling Lancastrian had been pleased to share his tips for riding flat out with Bert, who had been equally pleased to reciprocate.  Duke had recently taken up one piece racing leathers and Bert was intrigued by the outfits.  Duke assured him he would never race anything else and Bert had made him roar with laughter when he told him he entirely understood.  "I have an old pair of sandshoes back home," he said, "that I always wear for record attempts."
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 156

[Biggles]

One such incident occurred when Ashley arrived and found them about to start the Velocette.  Bert suspected his back wheel was buckled and wanted to check it, so he mounted the machine on a block of wood that left the back wheel free to spin a few centimetres off the floor.  Duncan was kneeling behind the machine about to start it by pulling the underside of the rear wheel towards him while the machine was in second gear.  The bike fired up and Bert slipped it into top, all the better to detect a wobble should the wheel prove buckled.  But when he revved the engine hard the machine jumped off the block, bellowing away and spinning its wheel on the floor.  The handlebars were barely big enough for each hand so Ben's grip on the bucking machine was marginal, but he had at least managed to grab the front brake.
As the shed began to fill with smoke, Ashley, who had been standing beside the bike and now felt helpless to intervene, backed up against the bench to get as far away as possible while he awaited developments.  They were not long in coming.  Bert made the mistake of shutting the throttle.  The tyre slowed, of course, but also suddenly found traction on the ageing linoleum, rocketing the bike forward on an arced course around Bert, who somehow kept a grip but was eventually dragged under the cluttered, all-purpose table.  There was a tremendous crash and suddenly pots and pans were showering down while the engine kept booming away and the back wheel kept spinning, still gripping occasionally and throwing everything back in the air.  Finally, Duncan managed to reach in and switch off the bike.  He and Ashley dragged it from the wreckage to free Bert, who was unhurt.  The bike too had sustained little damage.  The three men looked at each other blankly for a few seconds and then laughed.  Bert recovered his breath enough to ask Duncan if the wheel was in fact buckled. 
Duncan shrugged. "Hell man, d'ya seriously expect me to notice with all that going on?"
Bert snorted. "Well of course I do. You could see I was busy!"
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 179-80

[Biggles]

The road racing tyres Bert switched to were still far from ideal for the speeds he was now achieving, speeds that demanded proper, high-speed race tyres.  But these were beyond his budget.  He could use old road racing tyres because, of course, the first thing he did was remove the tread and smooth them off.  Sometimes he went a little far, which was easy to do, and exposed the canvas.  The scrutineer pointed at just such a patch and told Bert he could not run.  Bert was quick to respond.  He fixed the scrutineer with a look of cold determination.
"If I'm game to run on them, what's your damn problem?" 
The hapless official looked at the patch of canvas and then back at Bert.  He was clearly conflicted but in the end he relented.  As he said later to a fellow scrutineer, "The old bugger's been riding on tyres like that for years.  Who was I to tell him he had to change his ways?"
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 183

[Biggles]

Ashley sometimes tested their bikes and on one occasion took Bert's for a blast up the beach after the engine had been carefully balanced in accordance with several pages of calculations Duncan had made.  Once under way Ashley found the vibration disturbingly odd.  It was not exactly unpleasant but it made the handlebar grips feel as if they were growing thicker and his vision began to blur.  He returned to the two men waiting on the beach and switched off.
"How was it?" asked Duncan.  "Good?"
"Not bad so far as the overall smoothness went, I suppose.  There's just one problem.  I seem to be going blind. Everything is going white.  Bloody hell! Now I can't 
see a damn thing!"
"Bugger!" exclaimed Duncan.  "I'll have to start again."
"What about my eyes?" asked Ashley.  "I'm completely blind."
Bert's voice boomed out of the white mist.  "Hold your horses Ashley. Can't you see Duncan is thinking?"
It was only a temporary condition, and not all of Ashley's test runs ended so strangely.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 184

[Biggles]

By the time the New Zealand Grand Prix rolled around again the Velocette was going very well indeed.  Burt and Duncan decided to make an all out assault on the Rangiora Handicap.  Duncan insisted Burt buy a new race spark plug for the occasion and although Burt grumbled he finally gave way and did so.  The race started splendidly with Burt well to the fore and he was able to run in the top three or four places, lap after lap.  As the end of the race approached it looked like Burt would manage a podium finish at the very least.  But all such hopes were dashed when the Velocette suddenly gave up and coasted to a halt.
Once the dead bike had been retrieved Duncan set about performing his usual post mortem back at the pits.  The first thing he found was that an old spark plug had been fitted.  Seething with silent rage he replaced it with the new one and the bike ran faultlessly.  He switched the machine off and turned to Burt, who suddenly remembered he had urgent business elsewhere.  He had not gone five paces before he found Duncan barring the way, eyes flashing with genuine anger.
All over the pits, riders, mechanics, wives, girlfriends and assorted rubberneckers stopped to hear Duncan Meikle tell Burt Munro exactly what he thought of his stupid, idiotic, thick-headed, time-wasting, plain bloody perverse, mean as sin attitude, and to learn just what Burt Munro could, in Duncan's opinion, do with it.   
This seemed to involve inserting a motorcycle inside himself, after first wrapping it in barbed wire and dunking it in battery acid.
Having made his point Duncan stormed off, leaving Burt to find his own way home.  His old friend had once again stopped playing speaks.  This went on for some months, by which time Burt was ready to catch a ship back to America.  The day before he was due to leave, Duncan turned up and had a cup of tea and a gingernut as if nothing had happened.  He wished Burt a good trip and quietly left.  Burt was much relieved.  It was bad enough when Duncan went off his head, but it was worse when he just went off.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 198-9

[Biggles]

The start-finish line consisted of a narrow strip of concrete running across the track.  Over the years it had become slightly proud of the asphalt, which had slumped about half a centimetre on either side.  For some reason this was enough to send the Velocette into a horrendous tank-slapper from which there was no possible recovery.  With the bike bucking and kicking toward the infield like a bronco with a burr under its saddle, Burt decided it was time to step off and roll into a ball.  He was wearing his usual attire: sneakers, light T-shirt, battered ex-army trousers topped off with his ancient pudding-basin helmet - hardly the best rig for the occasion.
The first impact was so terrific Burt was sure it had killed him.   He felt he was hanging in the air a long time before he hit the deck again with another tremendous thump, tearing more chunks of flesh off his frame.  One massive crack on the head knocked him out completely but his flailing body carried on, losing more flesh every time it ricocheted off the hard track, one impact breaking an arm, another splitting his helmet and grinding his watch face flat while his light clothing was reduced to strips of rag.  In the meantime the bike tore off into the rough ground and launched itself nine metres in the air before smashing back to earth and dismantling itself as it cartwheeled into the infield.  When finally it came to rest it had shed the back wheel and much of its body, leaving parts all along its violent course.
Burt finally flopped to a halt, covered in blood with his arm at a strange angle, lying horribly still.  Ossie and Trevor were at his side immediately, both terrified that Old Burt, as everyone called him by now, had finally cashed in his chips.  To their tremendous relief he was still breathing and soon came to.
"Beat you young buggers then," he said as Ossie and Trevor swam into focus.  They confirmed that he had and he tried to sit up, gasping as his moved his arm.  "Gee, that hurts," he said, before asking anxiously where his bike was. 
Ossie gave him the direct answer.  "It's scattered all over Teretonga Park, Burt."
Burt rested for a moment as he considered the situation. "Right.  You two can pick up all the bits and put them on your truck and I'll get them back when I can."   
His eyes flicked to Duncan who was now kneeling at his side. "And you can take me to the bloody hospital."
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 207-8

[Biggles]

There was time for a final run out at Ryal Bush Road.  Burt towed his long red fish there on its new trailer behind the Vauxhall with Ashley and Duncan on board.   
With Burt ensconced in the cockpit, which was snug but not too tight, Duncan and Ashley began to push.  The streamliner was naturally geared for a theoretical top speed in excess of two hundred miles an hour, a figure Burt increasingly attracted to, and the two pushers had to run at a flat-out sprint before Burt judged the engine would turn over fast enough to fire when he would drop the decompression lever.
With Burt's encouraging shouts of "Faster, faster," they were soon up to speed, hands stretched out on the machine's low rump.  Burt dropped the lever, accelerating away as soon as the engine caught. Of course, Duncan and Ashley found themselves at a full sprint, bent forward with nothing to lean on.  As they picked themselves off the road Duncan waved his fist at the rapidly diminishing red dot.  "You bloody old bastard.  You gave your word you would never do that again!"
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 216 

[Biggles]

Burt's idea of appropriate gear for speed record attempts was clearly very different to the inspectors', although he at least had a decent crash helmet.  His old suit pants, check shirt, worn-out sandshoes and battered leather jacket were the subject of a heated exchange, with Burt insisting that he wore the gear because it was comfortable and therefore safer.  The argument went back and forth until the senior inspector finally said exasperatedly, "Look Mr Munro, none of this stuff has a fire rating or offers any real protection if you crash.  We just can't let you run like this."
Burt fixed the man with a hard stare.  "I got married in these pants and they are high quality, pure wool.  Everybody knows wool is great for resisting flame.  And I wear the sandshoes because otherwise I can't fit in.  Besides, it's my flaming skin and bones, so what's your bloody problem?"
By now many of the friends Burt had made over the years of attending Speed Week had gathered around and there were murmurs of support for Burt's stand.  He pressed home his advantage.
"Show me the rule that says I can't wear what I like!" The inspector glared back.
"All right, you do what you want.  But don't blame me when they take you away in a box!"
Burt grinned.  "If that happens I'll put in a word of recommendation for you with the old fellow down below!  I'll tell him you're just the sort of bloke he's looking for."
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 237

[Biggles]

Burt slipped the clutch until the bike was doing about fifty miles an hour, then he let it out and gave the bike its head.  At ninety miles an hour he reached down and slipped the gear lever into second, winding the power back on and rejoicing as the speed built up.  At about 100 miles an hour the weaving began again.  As the bike accelerated up to about 140 he began to wonder if he might have to button off and abort the mission.  At 145 miles an hour he slipped the gear lever into top.   
The bike was seriously unbalanced now and it took every bit of skill Burt had, from nearly a century of riding flat out, to keep it from swinging sideways and flipping down the salt.  He kept the throttle wide open, desperately hoping the weave might go away at higher speed.  It did not, he continued to accelerate.  It no longer seemed to be getting worse. Bugger it, he thought. It's all or nothing.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 241

[Biggles]

Inside the machine Burt Munro was fighting for his life, but he did it with the throttle jammed against the stop.  He no longer had any idea where he was.  He was simply determined to run until the bike broke or crashed.  After what felt like many miles the engine faltered and dropped on to one cylinder, but still he kept going, not knowing if he was heading into the vast emptiness of the salt flats or aiming straight at a trailer home.  When the bike finally ran out of fuel Burt somehow remembered to deploy his landing gear and the bike slowly coasted to a halt, the diminishing sound of salt crunching under the tyres the only noise to break the perfect silence.  Utterly exhausted he pushed his goggles up and once more looked about at a glaring, empty landscape. "Jesus," he croaked.  "Don't tell me I'm lost again."
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 244

[Biggles]

They loaded the bike onto the trailer and headed back to the start-finish line where the Indian had to be available to ensure it met the capacity requirements for its class, should it have broken a record.  Burt revealed that he had been blinded on the first run by fried rubber coming off the front tyre, which had grown with the centrifugal force caused by running at three times the speed it was designed for, rubbing on the leaf spring suspension.  He had decided to make the return run on the basis that the small amount of rubber in contact with the suspension had probably burned off on the first run.  He had been wrong, and his second blind charge into the desert had been the result. 
Back at the start area a beaming Earl Flanders told Burt that his bike would have to be measured because his average over two matching miles had been 178.971, a new national speed record.  Burt slumped back against the Nash and let the news sink in.  He was a champion; he'd set a record and it was bloody fast by anyone's standards, let alone a geriatric on a middle-aged motorcycle.
"If that's the case," he said, wincing at the pain in his leg, "I'm never coming back here again."
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 245-6

[Biggles]

He ground off the single wide cam from the cam drive shaft and made two very narrow cams, one for the inlet valves and one the exhaust valves. To make the cams he first created a cam grinder, using an old washing machine motor.  Prior to this Burt had always shaped his cams by hand with hacksaws and files, demonstrating a remarkable facility with the simplest tools.  His new machine worked well and saved a lot of time and effort, even though most who saw it were hard pressed to decipher how exactly the thing worked.  The two new narrow cams ran side by side on the cam drive shaft and activated appropriately narrow cam followers.
He carved the four L-shaped cam followers from high-tensile steel, each forked at the cam end to take a twenty-millimetre needle bearing roller, just six millimetres wide.  When the cams were finished he drilled a hole through them so they slipped over the cam drive shaft.  Once he had the timing right a high tensile bolt was screwed through the cam wheel via a six millimetre threaded hole, locking the cam on the shaft.  He organised a healthy supply of oil to keep the cams and followers well lubricated by mounting an oil pump from a 1933 Indian, which also supplied the big ends and main bearings. The work took approximately 800 hours of 16-hour days and when it was done the valve set up was capable of sustaining high revs without any real problems.  Burt had created another unique engineering solution to a complicated problem without drawing a line on a piece of paper.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 265-6

[Biggles]

Back in Wendover Burt was full of confidence that he could not only set the record he wanted, but also shatter the 200 mile an hour barrier.  But the God of Speed is a capricious fellow.  During his qualifying run Burt was horrified to discover the streamliner was again shaking and weaving, even at his comparatively modest qualifying speed of 172 miles an hour.  The next day he lined up to take his first serious run with frayed nerves and a sense of dread.  Neither Marty nor Rollie had made it to Speed Week that year and Burt missed them both.  He still had the small but dedicated band of helpers that had formed over the years, always designating whatever car Burt was driving as Team Indian HQ.  They even had Team Indian T-shirts printed.  They treated Burt like a guru and could not do enough for him.  Like Rollie, they were convinced he was from another planet where the normal rules of ageing did not hold.  Even so, as they pushed him off, Burt could not shake his anxiety.  But Burt always found confidence once he was under way.  He took the bike up to about 180 miles an hour in spite of the snaking and weaving.  It was an heroic effort, and far more than most mortals would have attempted.  Still the God of Speed wanted more.  As he approached the timed sections Burt had a split second to make his choice.  Did he back off and hope he could slow the bike down without crashing, or did he go for it and hope it became more stable in the mysterious world that waited behind the door?
It was never really an issue.  He kept the throttle wound hard against the stop.  As he hit the timed miles the bike was going faster than it ever had before.  At over 200 miles an hour, the first quarter mile - clearly marked because it was used in setting qualifying times - went past in just four seconds.
But the bike was not becoming more stable.  Far from it.  Burt knew he was rapidly losing control and a fatal crash was just seconds away.  He had used every bit of his skill to keep it on track but the vibrations were now so bad he was beginning to grey out.  In desperation he did the only thing he could do - he sat up.  The terrific slipstream immediately tore his goggles off and tried to rip the helmet off his head, strangling him with the chinstrap.  Blinded by the 200 mile an hour blast and by stinging salt flying off the front wheel, Burt lost track and the streamliner veered off into the salt flats, heading like a guided missile for a steel pylon standing all by itself in the distance.
The bike missed it - and certain destruction - by just twenty centimetres, streaking into the distance with Burt riding completely blind.  It seemed to take forever to slow but he finally was at a speed where he could put the landing gear down.  Burt was so dazed by this stage, however, that he could not locate the handle to drop the little wheels.  When the bike stopped it just flopped on its side, badly tearing his shoulder muscles.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 276-7