THE "BLUE STREAK"
"Isn't it a beauty?" exclaimed Bert, as, a few days later, he swept up
to a waiting group of friends and leaped from the saddle.
There was a unanimous assent as the boys crowded around the motorcycle,
looking at it almost with the rapt intentness of worshippers at a
shrine.
"It's a dandy, all right," declared Dick, with an enthusiasm equal to
Bert's own. "You skimmed along that last stretch of road like a bird."
"It's about the speediest and niftiest thing on the planet," chimed in
Tom. "You'd give an airship all it wanted to do to keep up with you."
"Easy, easy there," laughed Bert. "I wouldn't go as far as that. But on
'terra cotta,' as Mrs. Partington calls it, there are mighty few things
that will make me take their dust." And he patted the machine with as
much affection as if it could feel and respond to the touch.
"About how fast can that streak of greased lightning travel, any way?"
asked Drake. "What's the record for a motorcycle?"
"The best so far is a mile in thirty-six and four-fifths seconds," was
the answer. "That's at the rate of ninety-eight miles an hour."
"Some traveling," murmured Dick.
"Of course," went on Bert, "that was for a sprint. But even over long
distances some great records have been hung up. In England last year a
motorcycle made 300 miles in 280 minutes. I don't think the fastest
express train in the world has ever beaten that."
"Gee," said Tom, "I'd hate to be in the path of a cannon ball like that.
It would be the 'sweet by and by' for yours truly."
"It might possibly muss you up some," grinned Bert. "It's a case of 'the
quick or the dead' when you amble across the path of a twin-cylinder."
"I should think," remarked Drake, "that it would shake the daylights out
of you to travel at the speed you were going just now along that last
bit of road."
"A few years ago it would have," admitted Bert. "The way they bumped
along was a sure cure for dyspepsia. But with this saddle I could ride
all day and scarcely feel a jar. Why, look at this cradle spring frame,"
he went on enthusiastically; "it has the same flat leaf springs that
they use in the finest kind of automobiles. You wouldn't believe that
there are over 250 inches of supple, highly tempered springs between the
saddle and the road. It's as elastic and flexible as a bamboo cane.
Each spring has double scrolls that come into action one after another
whenever you have a jolt. Then, too, there are rubber bumpers to take
the recoil. Why, it's like a parlor car on a limited express. No fellow
sitting back in a Pullman has anything on me."
"You're a pampered son of luxury, all right," mocked Tom. "We children
of toil take off our hats to you."
Bert made a playful pass at him and went on:
"As to power, it would take the strength of seven horses to match it.
The engine has a piston displacement of 61 inches. And yet you can
control that tremendous power so far as to slow down to three miles an
hour. Not that I often get down to that, though. Fifty or sixty suit me
better."
"You ought to name it 'Pegasus,' after the flying horse," suggested
Hinsdale.
"Old Pegasus would have his work cut out for him if he tried to show me
the way," smiled Bert. "Still I don't claim to beat anything that goes
through the air. But when you get down to solid earth, I'd back this
daisy of mine to hold its own."
"The old Red Scout might make you hustle some," suggested Tom.
"Yes," admitted Bert, "she certainly was a hummer. Do you remember the
time she ran away from the Gray Ghost? Speed was her middle name that
day."
"It was, for fair," agreed Dick, "but perhaps she went still faster when
we scudded up the track that day, with the express thundering behind."
"Our hearts went faster, anyway," declared Tom. "Gee, but that was a
narrow squeak. It makes me shiver now when I think of it."
"Same here," echoed Bert, little dreaming that before long, on the
splendid machine whose handlebars he held, he would graze the very
garments of death.
Happily, however, the future was hidden, and for the moment the little
group were absorbed in the mechanical wonders of the motorcycle that
loomed large in the road before them. It stood for the last word in
up-to-date construction. The inventive genius of the twentieth century
had spent itself on every contrivance that would add to its speed,
strength and beauty. It was a poem in bronze and steel and rubber. From
the extremity of the handlebars in front to the rim of its rear wheel,
not the tiniest thing had been overlooked or left undone that could
add to its perfection. Fork and cams and springs and valves and
carburetor--all were of the finest material and the most careful
workmanship.
"It seemed an awful lot to pay, when I heard that it cost you over three
hundred bucks," said Tom, "but after looking it over, I guess you got
your money's worth."
"The value's there, all right," asserted Bert confidently. "I wouldn't
take that amount of money for the fun I've had already. And what I'm
going to have"--he made a comprehensive wave of the hand--"it simply
can't be reckoned in cold coin."
"It's getting to be a mighty popular way of traveling," said Dick. "I
saw it stated somewhere that a quarter of a million are in use and that
the output is increasing all the time."
"Yes," added Drake, "they certainly cover a wide field. Ministers,
doctors, rural mail carriers, gas, electric and telephone companies are
using them more and more. In the great pastures of the West, the herders
use them in making their rounds and looking after the sheep. All the
police departments in the big cities employ a lot of them, and in about
every foreign army there is a motorcycle corps. You've surely got lots
of company, old man."
"Yes, and we're only the vanguard. The time is coming when they'll be
used as widely as the bicycle in its palmiest days."
"A bicycle wouldn't have done you much good the other day, in that wild
ride down to the switch," grinned Drake. "By the way, Bert, the press
associations got hold of that, and now the whole country's humming with
it."
"Well," said Bert, anxious to change the subject, "if she'll only do as
well in the race from coast to coast, I won't have any kick coming."
"How about that contest anyway?" queried Hinsdale. "Have you really
decided to go into it?"
"Sure thing," answered Bert. "I don't see why I shouldn't. Commencement
will be over by the eighth, and the race doesn't start until the tenth.
That will give me plenty of time to get into shape. As a matter of
fact, I'm almost fit now, and Reddy is training me for two hours every
afternoon. I've almost got down to my best weight already, and I'm going
to take the rest off so slowly that I'll be in the pink of condition
when the race begins. Reddy knows me like a book and he says he never
saw me in better form."
"Of course," he went on thoughtfully, "the game is new to me and I'm not
at all sure of winning. But I think I have a chance. I'd like to win for
the honor of it and because I hate to lose. And then, too, that purse of
ten thousand dollars looks awfully good to me."
The race to which the boys referred had been for some time past a
subject of eager interest, and had provoked much discussion in sporting
and college circles. The idea had been developing since the preceding
winter from a chance remark as to the time it would take a motorcycle to
go from the Atlantic to the Pacific. A guess had been hazarded that it
could be done in twenty days. This had been disputed, and, as an outcome
of the discussion, a general race had been projected to settle the
question. The Good Roads Association of America, in conjunction with a
number of motorcycle manufacturers, had offered a purse of five thousand
dollars for the competitor who made the journey in the shortest time. If
that time came within twenty days, an additional two thousand dollars
was to be given to the winner.
One other element entered into the problem. The San Francisco Exposition,
designed to celebrate the opening of the Panama Canal, would be in full
swing at the time the survivors of the race reached the coast. One of the
great features of the Fair was to be an international carnival of sports.
There were to be contests in cavalry riding, in fencing, in auto racing,
and the pick of the world were expected to compete. But of special
interest to Bert was the international motorcycle race, which for the
first time was to be held in America. Two years before, it had taken
place in Paris and, a year later, in London. But this year it was
America's turn, and because of the immense crowds expected at the
Exposition, San Francisco had been chosen as the city to stage the event.
There was to be a first prize of three thousand dollars and lesser purses
for those that came in second and third. If, by any chance, the winner
of the long distance race should break the twenty day limit and also win
the final race at the Fair, his total reward would amount to ten thousand
dollars.
With such a possibility in prospect, it was not surprising that Bert
should be strongly tempted to enter the race. He was a natural athlete,
and in his college course so far had stood head and shoulders above his
competitors. As pitcher on the 'Varsity team, he had cinched the pennant
by his superb twirling in a most exciting series of diamond battles. He
had been chosen as a contender on the American Olympic team, and had
carried off the Marathon after a heart-breaking race, in which every
ounce of speed and stamina had been tried to the utmost. In an auto race
between rival campers, his hand at the wheel had guided the Red Scout
to victory over the Gray Ghost, its redoubtable antagonist. He was a
splendid physical machine of brawn and sinew and nerve and muscle.
Outdoor life, vigorous exercise and clean living, combined with his
natural gifts, made him a competitor to be feared and respected in any
contest that he chose to enter.
But his lithe, supple body was not his only, or indeed, his chief asset.
What made him preëminent was his quick mind and indomitable will, of
which his body was only the servant. His courage and audacity were
superb. Again and again he had been confronted with accidents and
discouragements that would have caused a weaker fellow to quit and blame
the result on fate. He had won the deciding game in the baseball race,
after his comrades had virtually thrown it away. In the Marathon, it was
with bruised and bleeding feet that he overtook his antagonist at the
very tape. The harder bad luck tried to down him, the more fiercely he
rose in rebellion. And it was this bulldog grip, this unshaken tenacity,
this "never know when you are beaten" spirit that put him in a class by
himself and made him the idol of his comrades. They had seen him so
often snatch victory from the very jaws of defeat, that they were
prepared to back him to the limit. Win or lose, they knew that he would
do his best, and, if defeated, go down fighting.
With such a character and record back of him, his enthusiastic friends
were inclined to think that it was "all over but the shouting." Bert,
however, had no such delusion. If it had been simply a matter of muscle
or swiftness or courage, he would have felt more confident of the
outcome. But here the "human equation" was not the only thing involved.
The quality and strength of the machine he rode would be a very
prominent and perhaps a deciding factor. He felt sure that he was in
such prime physical condition that he could endure the gruelling grind.
But would his machine be equal to the task? The most dashing horseman
would have to halt, if his steed foundered beneath him. The most daring
aviator would have to descend to earth, if his motor stopped. So Bert,
no matter how strong and plucky, must fail, if his machine should go
back on him.
For there could be no substitute. This was one of the conditions of the
race. He must finish, if at all, on the same machine with which he
started. The contestants were permitted to make repairs to any extent.
Tires, forks, springs and any other parts could be replaced, and, at
intervals along the route, supplies could be held in readiness, in
addition to those that the rider carried. But essentially the identical
machine must be used throughout the race. In the event of a hopeless
smashup, the luckless rider was, of course, out for good. The racer and
the machine were thus indispensable to each other. Neither could win if
the other balked. They were like the two blades of a shears--strong when
together but useless when separated.
To guard as much as possible against defects, Bert had been especially
careful in selecting his motorcycle. He had the eye for a machine that a
gipsy has for a horse. Among a host of others, he had chosen one that
appealed to him as the acme of what a motorcycle should be. It was
a seven horse power, twin cylinder racer, with every appliance and
improvement known at the time it left the factory.
The brakes, for instance, were more powerful than those fitted to any
previous type. It could be operated by a foot lever on the right side of
the machine and also by a grip lever in the left handlebar. The double
action was caused by the expansion and contraction of two bands inside
and outside a brake drum.
Then, too, there was a foot-starting device that was a marvel of
simplicity. A single downward pressure of the foot, and the racer
started off at once.
An improved rear hub also aroused Bert's enthusiasm, because of its
extra large size and the fact that it ran on ball bearings that were
absolutely frictionless. In both the front and rear hubs there was a
knock-out axle, so that the wheels could be removed without interfering
with the adjustment of the bearings.
In fact, the more Bert studied what had become his most precious
possession the more convinced he grew that he had secured a "gem of the
first water." And now that the first stiffness had worn off, the machine
was "running like a watch."
The ignition was perfect, the transmission left nothing to be desired,
and the most critical inspection could find no fault with any detail of
the steel charger that was to carry him and his fortunes to victory or
defeat.
"What are you going to christen it, Bert?" asked Tom. "Cut out the
Pegasus stuff and tell it to us straight."
"On the level, I think I'll call it the 'Blue Streak,'" answered Bert.
"That's the way it covers the ground, as a rule, and I hope it will be
prophetic. Besides, blue is our college color and it ought to bring me
luck. That's the color I wore when we took the Grays and Maroons into
camp, and I had it at my belt when I collared Dorner in the Stadium.
Everything goes in threes, you know, and this will be the third time I'm
out to win since I was a Freshie."
"Bully for you, old top," exclaimed Drake, with a rousing thump on the
shoulder. "The fellows will be tickled to death to know that the good
old blue is showing the way across country. And when we hear that you've
come in first, there'll be a yell that you'll hear way off in Frisco."
"Don't count your chickens too soon, my boy," cautioned Bert; but his
heart was warmed and elated by the confidence his comrades had in him,
and he vowed to himself that he would justify it, if it were humanly
possible.
"To judge from the names already entered, it's going to be a weird color
scheme," laughed Dick. "There's the Yellow Dragon and the Red Devil and
the Brown Antelope and the White Cloud and the Black Knight; and
there'll probably be others before the list is full."
"Gee," chortled Tom, "if a hobo should see them coming all at once, he'd
think that he had them again, sure."
"Yes," agreed Bert, "it would certainly be a crazy quilt effect, if they
should all come along together. But there are so many different routes
that, ten to one, we won't catch sight of each other after the bunch
scatters at the start."
"How about the route?" asked Martin. "I should think that would be one
of the most important things to take into account."
"So it would, if it were left to me. But it isn't. You see, one of the
great objects of the Good Roads Association is to plan a great national
highway from coast to coast. They want to get all the facts about every
possible route, so that they'll have something to go on, when they put
it up to the different States to get legislation on their pet hobby.
This race they think will be of great importance for this purpose,
because it won't be based on theory but on actual experience.
So they have mapped out a large number of possible lines to be
followed--northern, central and southern,--and when they've got them all
marked out, lots will be drawn and the fellows will have to follow the
route that chance gives them. Of course, they can't be exactly alike in
the matter of distance. But it will be as fair for one as the other,
and, all things considered, they'll average up about alike. I expect to
get a letter any day now, giving the special trip that luck has picked
out for me.
"Of course," he went on, "it isn't all absolutely cut and dried. They
don't mark out every highway and byway that you must travel, on pain of
being disqualified. But you're given a chain of important towns and
great centers that you must hit one after the other on your trip across
the continent. As long as you do that, you are left to your own judgment
as to the best and quickest way of getting there."
"How about any crooked work?" put in Axtell. "Is there any chance of
that?"
"I'm not worrying much about that," answered Bert. "To be sure, where so
much is at stake, there's always a chance of some one trying to turn
a trick. But I don't see where they could 'put it over.' At every
important place there'll be timers and checkers to keep tally on the
riders. The machines are all registered and numbered and so carefully
described that, in case of a smashup, a fellow couldn't slip in another
one without being found out at the next stopping place. Then, too, if
they tried to get a lift on a train, there would have to be too many in
the secret. Besides, in all the names I've seen so far of the racers,
there's only one that might possibly stoop to anything of that kind.
His name is Hayward, and from what I've heard he's been mixed up with
one or two shady deals. There have only been whispers and suspicions,
however, and they've never been able actually to prove anything against
him. So he is still nominally in good standing and eligible to ride. It
may be all conjecture anyway. He probably wouldn't cheat if he could,
and couldn't if he would."
"No," said Dick, "it certainly seems as though the best man and the best
machine ought to win."
"I understand that the race is to start from New York," remarked Drake.
"Yes," answered Bert, preparing to mount the machine, "from one of the
beaches near the city. It's to be actually from ocean to ocean. The rear
wheel is to be wet in the Atlantic. Then the fight is on in earnest and
only ends when the front wheel is dipped in the Pacific."
"'Twill be some race," remarked Martin.
"You'll have to travel like the wind," warned Hinsdale.
"Yes," laughed Bert, as he threw in the clutch, "to make it in twenty
days, I'll have to go like a blue streak."