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PERFECTION 4
A short story by Kenneth Partrige.
Reprinted without permission from CYCLE GUIDE January 1973.
The turn came up suddenly, almost before the downshifts were
completed. Leaning until the footpeg scraped the pavement, the bike
rounded the ninety five degree corner. It rocketed down the straight,
slowing minutely then turned into the pit area where, 'brakes applied
fully and tires screaming, it stopped.
The Experts looked at each other and smiled. It was finished, done,
complete. Years of design and testing were at last drawing to a close
. The finished product, the motorcycle that stood before them , was
perfected to a degree they found hard to believe. They gazed proudly
at their creation; the slim, smooth lines of the wind tunnel tested
fairing, the controls laid out in the best manner possible after
exhaustive testing of the physical and psychological aptitude of the
human creature to various configurations, and even the orange red
color for safety. This was their machine.
They ran their hands over the tank and seat unit, made of plastic,
styled for road racing, and designed to be comfortable when used with
the clip-on bars and rearward footpegs. Their eyes moved over the
frame, across the oil tank, and over the tuned megaphones which ,
besides adding power, were as quiet as most mufflers.
It had taken three years to design the powerpIant on paper, five more
to perfect the working unit. But now, it too was finished, perhaps
the most exotic engine ever built. It had all the "goodies" a four
cylinder, four stroke racing engine should have: four valves per
cylinder, extra heavy, air cooled clutch, close ratio gearbox. It
also had a desmodromic valve system for more power and higher revs
without valve float. All . interior parts were micro sealed for less
friction which increased the amount of power to the rear wheel. And
power it had, 94 usable horses which would propel the cycle to 180
mph. A power band from 7-12 thousand rpm was attained using
carburetors with two needles, one for high revs and one for low. The
combination made the cycle a very formidable 750cc machine.
Almost apologetically one of them broke the silence . "On to phase
two", he said, then once more was quiet. The others nodded and they
walked slowly back inside the grey building they had come from . Once
inside, the yellowed walls and scattered tools brought them back to
reality. Only phase one was completed, the project was far from
finished.
Peter Karbor had been waiting for the Experts to return. He stood up
from the bench, grabbed his Bell Star, and approached the tall,
bearded one.
"Now Jarrud? Ready for me?" ,
Emil Jarrud grinned at Pete's questioning expression. He's excited,
but who wouldn't be? A chance to ride such a motorcycle isn't common.
"Yes, Peter, it's time."
Together they walked to the cycle . Pete instinctively reached out,
twisting the throttle, pulling in the braVe and clutch levers. The
bike felt so "right", as though it was made for him. And, in a sense,
it was, for it was to his psychological and physical specifications
that the bike had been laid out. The right degree of inclination to
clutch and brake levers the shift lever not a tenth of an inch too
short or long, the handgrips not too hard or too spongy it was his
bike. He wanted to mount and ride, but Jarrud's . voice stopped him
"Let's go over the procedure again," the voice was saying, and,
despite his wishes, Pete listened.
"You drop this card in the slot in the black box. You push the green
button and the cycle will begin moving. All you do is sit back for
two laps; the computer will run the bike. When you reach the straight
to begin the third lap, push the red button on the box and manual
control will be returned. Make one lap and return here.
You understand?"
Pete nodded, "Yes."
"Okay, here's !the card. And relax, the gyro won't let you fall and
it's really perfectly safe. Pete slid the card into the slot and a
small yellow light came on to acknowledge the activation of the
computer. He planted his right foot firmly on J the peg and settled
onto the saddle. Even the seating position was comfortable, due to
the exhaustive testing that had accompanied every stage of
development. Swallowing hard, he brought his finger down on the green
button The engine throbbed to life, its exhaust note only a whisper
through the megaphone, and the cycle began to move, quickly but
smoothly.
He watched the tach needle climb. He was doing 100 and the first left
hand corner was coming up. Pete tried to roll off the throttle; it
wouldn't move. 97 ! 98 mph, slow down, you infernal-it did, hard but
smooth, applying just the right brake pressure and leaving off the
throttle just enough to take the turn at the fastest speed possible.
Pete relaxed somewhat, cursing himself for panicking and remembering
what Jarrud had told him: "it's perfectly safe."
Perfection IV , the code name given the bike, was behaving in a manner
befitting its designation . It was through the first right before
Pete realized the left was finished. A short straight was next,
followed by a declining radius left terminating in a right and left
"S" curve. The foot pegs ground on the concrete as the bike exited
the first corner and started into the "S"
The rear tire lost traction a moment and Pete shifted his weight to
compensate. It . was a useless move, for the cycle just
recompensated and continued on its chosen path through the curve.
Another straight, a long sweeping left, and two 180 degree curves. A
short straight, and a ninety five degree corner; the bike took each
flawlessly and headed down past the pits.
Lap two would yield no new information as to how the machine
handled the course, so Pete, now a one lap veteran of Perfection
riding, concentrated on what revs the bike shifted at and the speed
and line through the corners.
The lap ended soon enough, if not too soon, and he switched off the
computer. Okay, Petey boy, 85 through the first corner in third gear.
He downdhifted twice, applied the brakes, and leaned into the turn .
The speed wad right but the line was not. The tires squealed, then
broke. Gently leaving off the throttle and grating his teeth, Pete
stayed on the track . The line for the right was now completely wrong
and he took it at an ashamed 45 mph.
Forget what the computer did, he told himself, and be you . He took
the declining radius left 12 mph slower than the computer, but the
line was good. The esses were slower still.
130 down the back straight and 115 around the large left, same as the
computer. The twin 180's were slow, hard, and frightening for Pete
His chosen line was wrong on both, so he had to lean far over at a
slow pace. The ninety and ninety five degree turns were easy , and
Pete relaxed as he motored toward the pits. The Experts were already
waiting for him.
"Well, Pete, how did it run?" Jarrud grinned in anticipation of the
answer.
"Great," Pete's muffled voice offered from the helmet he was jerking
off.
"Do you realize it set a lap speed fifteen mph faster than you and
twenty nine seconds quicker?" He patted the gas tank as if the cycle
was alive.
"Yeah." Pete tried to force a smile. "Yeah, it's good. Well, I guess
I'll pack up now. You gonna run phase three next Saturday?"
"Yes, that's right. Actual race conditions" Perfection IV should
really shine then, don't you think?"
"Yeah." The sombre tone brought frowns to the Experts' faces. They
watched Pete as he shuffled toward his van, his head hung low in
contemplation . "Hey what's with him?" One of the Experts asked.
"What could possibly be wrong with the motorcycle?"
With a slight quaver in his voice, Jarrud replied, "Maybe everything."
A short story by Kenneth Partrige.
Reprinted without permission from CYCLE GUIDE January 1973.
The turn came up suddenly, almost before the downshifts were
completed. Leaning until the footpeg scraped the pavement, the bike
rounded the ninety five degree corner. It rocketed down the straight,
slowing minutely then turned into the pit area where, 'brakes applied
fully and tires screaming, it stopped.
The Experts looked at each other and smiled. It was finished, done,
complete. Years of design and testing were at last drawing to a close
. The finished product, the motorcycle that stood before them , was
perfected to a degree they found hard to believe. They gazed proudly
at their creation; the slim, smooth lines of the wind tunnel tested
fairing, the controls laid out in the best manner possible after
exhaustive testing of the physical and psychological aptitude of the
human creature to various configurations, and even the orange red
color for safety. This was their machine.
They ran their hands over the tank and seat unit, made of plastic,
styled for road racing, and designed to be comfortable when used with
the clip-on bars and rearward footpegs. Their eyes moved over the
frame, across the oil tank, and over the tuned megaphones which ,
besides adding power, were as quiet as most mufflers.
It had taken three years to design the powerpIant on paper, five more
to perfect the working unit. But now, it too was finished, perhaps
the most exotic engine ever built. It had all the "goodies" a four
cylinder, four stroke racing engine should have: four valves per
cylinder, extra heavy, air cooled clutch, close ratio gearbox. It
also had a desmodromic valve system for more power and higher revs
without valve float. All . interior parts were micro sealed for less
friction which increased the amount of power to the rear wheel. And
power it had, 94 usable horses which would propel the cycle to 180
mph. A power band from 7-12 thousand rpm was attained using
carburetors with two needles, one for high revs and one for low. The
combination made the cycle a very formidable 750cc machine.
Almost apologetically one of them broke the silence . "On to phase
two", he said, then once more was quiet. The others nodded and they
walked slowly back inside the grey building they had come from . Once
inside, the yellowed walls and scattered tools brought them back to
reality. Only phase one was completed, the project was far from
finished.
Peter Karbor had been waiting for the Experts to return. He stood up
from the bench, grabbed his Bell Star, and approached the tall,
bearded one.
"Now Jarrud? Ready for me?" ,
Emil Jarrud grinned at Pete's questioning expression. He's excited,
but who wouldn't be? A chance to ride such a motorcycle isn't common.
"Yes, Peter, it's time."
Together they walked to the cycle . Pete instinctively reached out,
twisting the throttle, pulling in the braVe and clutch levers. The
bike felt so "right", as though it was made for him. And, in a sense,
it was, for it was to his psychological and physical specifications
that the bike had been laid out. The right degree of inclination to
clutch and brake levers the shift lever not a tenth of an inch too
short or long, the handgrips not too hard or too spongy it was his
bike. He wanted to mount and ride, but Jarrud's . voice stopped him
"Let's go over the procedure again," the voice was saying, and,
despite his wishes, Pete listened.
"You drop this card in the slot in the black box. You push the green
button and the cycle will begin moving. All you do is sit back for
two laps; the computer will run the bike. When you reach the straight
to begin the third lap, push the red button on the box and manual
control will be returned. Make one lap and return here.
You understand?"
Pete nodded, "Yes."
"Okay, here's !the card. And relax, the gyro won't let you fall and
it's really perfectly safe. Pete slid the card into the slot and a
small yellow light came on to acknowledge the activation of the
computer. He planted his right foot firmly on J the peg and settled
onto the saddle. Even the seating position was comfortable, due to
the exhaustive testing that had accompanied every stage of
development. Swallowing hard, he brought his finger down on the green
button The engine throbbed to life, its exhaust note only a whisper
through the megaphone, and the cycle began to move, quickly but
smoothly.
He watched the tach needle climb. He was doing 100 and the first left
hand corner was coming up. Pete tried to roll off the throttle; it
wouldn't move. 97 ! 98 mph, slow down, you infernal-it did, hard but
smooth, applying just the right brake pressure and leaving off the
throttle just enough to take the turn at the fastest speed possible.
Pete relaxed somewhat, cursing himself for panicking and remembering
what Jarrud had told him: "it's perfectly safe."
Perfection IV , the code name given the bike, was behaving in a manner
befitting its designation . It was through the first right before
Pete realized the left was finished. A short straight was next,
followed by a declining radius left terminating in a right and left
"S" curve. The foot pegs ground on the concrete as the bike exited
the first corner and started into the "S"
The rear tire lost traction a moment and Pete shifted his weight to
compensate. It . was a useless move, for the cycle just
recompensated and continued on its chosen path through the curve.
Another straight, a long sweeping left, and two 180 degree curves. A
short straight, and a ninety five degree corner; the bike took each
flawlessly and headed down past the pits.
Lap two would yield no new information as to how the machine
handled the course, so Pete, now a one lap veteran of Perfection
riding, concentrated on what revs the bike shifted at and the speed
and line through the corners.
The lap ended soon enough, if not too soon, and he switched off the
computer. Okay, Petey boy, 85 through the first corner in third gear.
He downdhifted twice, applied the brakes, and leaned into the turn .
The speed wad right but the line was not. The tires squealed, then
broke. Gently leaving off the throttle and grating his teeth, Pete
stayed on the track . The line for the right was now completely wrong
and he took it at an ashamed 45 mph.
Forget what the computer did, he told himself, and be you . He took
the declining radius left 12 mph slower than the computer, but the
line was good. The esses were slower still.
130 down the back straight and 115 around the large left, same as the
computer. The twin 180's were slow, hard, and frightening for Pete
His chosen line was wrong on both, so he had to lean far over at a
slow pace. The ninety and ninety five degree turns were easy , and
Pete relaxed as he motored toward the pits. The Experts were already
waiting for him.
"Well, Pete, how did it run?" Jarrud grinned in anticipation of the
answer.
"Great," Pete's muffled voice offered from the helmet he was jerking
off.
"Do you realize it set a lap speed fifteen mph faster than you and
twenty nine seconds quicker?" He patted the gas tank as if the cycle
was alive.
"Yeah." Pete tried to force a smile. "Yeah, it's good. Well, I guess
I'll pack up now. You gonna run phase three next Saturday?"
"Yes, that's right. Actual race conditions" Perfection IV should
really shine then, don't you think?"
"Yeah." The sombre tone brought frowns to the Experts' faces. They
watched Pete as he shuffled toward his van, his head hung low in
contemplation . "Hey what's with him?" One of the Experts asked.
"What could possibly be wrong with the motorcycle?"
With a slight quaver in his voice, Jarrud replied, "Maybe everything."