 |
Only the Irish...
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Irish Rally
Mike Jackson
05/01/2006
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
A lazy afternoon in late August. The Irish Rally. Southwest Ireland. We could
hear the music long before our engines were killed, we had dismounted, or our
helmets were removed. About 170 of us, starting in pairs at 30-second intervals,
had been in the saddle since before 10 am; sure, we had enjoyed a convivial
lunch. But by now, after riding the moors for over an hour, we needed a break.
As we descended to a time-check in the little town of Inchigeelagh, there,
beside a leafy tavern on the sidewalk, was fellow contestant Dave McMahon,
playing a Gaelic ballad on the accordion he perennially (and so carefully)
carries on the back of his 1938 Rudge. Accompanied by Ariel-riding Len Ore on
harmonica, the melodious exertions were enhanced by the rich baritone of the
establishment’s landlord—a giant of a man who relishes his annual invasion by
musical motorcyclists. The tavern’s interior is packed with contented riders,
quenching thirsts, fulfilled by the challenge of County Kerry’s back roads,
which, seemingly, consist exclusively of gradients, bends, and dramatic views.
You can imagine, in context, how evocative that lilt sounds. That is but one
memory from this exceptional four-day event, which discerning Europeans of a
certain age regard as one of the world’s greatest two-wheel gatherings.
Top: A BSA and its rider take a break. Bottom: A Brough
borders a bevy of bikes at the Orange Pub. (Click images to enlarge)
Long-running motorcycle events invariably contain an attractive mix of
ingredients; but participants in the Munster Club’s Irish National
Vintage
Motorcycle Assembly are guaranteed a cornucopia. Hang on—but
what’s an Assembly?
We’re in Ireland, so we must rely on an affable
Club official to translate the
terminology. In typical Irish fashion,
the euphemism is explained, “Well, we
wouldn’t want the insurance folk
asking too many questions, now would
we?”
It was Bud Ekins’ fault I became an aficianado. I would
catch the larger-than-life Californian in August, freshly returned from The
Irish, while he resided a few days with Eric Cheney, producer of handcrafted
moto-cross frames and Bud’s erstwhile travelling companion on numerous European
MX tours back in the ’60s. Glass in hand, he enjoyed trading anecdotes in Eric’s
garden; is it any surprise Ekins’ stories about the auld country inspired as
much as they amused? Having competed in so many aspects of motorcycling, Ekins
is inundated with invitations, but he is selective, and most are declined. The
Irish, however, is one event on his personal calendar that is unfailingly
attended—nevermind the long haul from North Hollywood. It also begs the question
why, in comfortable maturity, one of the world’s most successful senior racers
is motivated to travel 13,000 miles to ride yet another motorcycle over 600
miles of rugged horizon. Is this event, perhaps, something special? After just
two rides, I can confirm that it is.
The concept evolved 40 years ago. Jim
Morrissey was unhappy with a culture that saw the majority of bike runs tagged
on the back of auto club events, too often as an afterthought. His frustration
triggered a 1966 trip to the Isle of Man TT, seeking support for a stand-alone
Cork-based event, for enthusiasts with pre-1961 machines, on a sympathetic time
schedule. The idea gelled. Around 40 riders, drawn from UK and Eire, ensured the
success of that inaugural Assembly.
My, did it grow! From that first
single day, it soon progressed to two, and eventually to four, full days. The
delightful-if-congested city of Cork, too, was rapidly outgrown. When entry
levels exceeded 100, it became impractical to billet everyone involved under one
sensibly priced roof, or to conduct a motorcycle “crocodile” of that magnitude
to the boonies beyond. It is the region’s terrain, of course, that is the prime
attraction, linked with the inherent charm of the organization. Latterly, they
have located the Assembly at Kenmare’s splendid Bay Hotel where, amazingly, the
whole contingent is comfortably accommodated. Competitors and organizers eat and
sleep together, as it were, which generates a great ambience. In the same vein,
attentive staff insists that “the biker week” is traditionally the high spot of
their season.
 A Norton Dominator stops for refueling. (Click image to enlarge)
The car park is dedicated to competitors’ machines, so, for
five days, this area resembles a race paddock. The hotel’s enthusiasm extends to
floodlighting “the pits”, for as long as it takes, allowing the fettling and
repair of machines; many of them fitted, remember, with Lucas equipment. It is
the Munster Club’s philosophy that, irrespective of how complex a mechanical
problem, it is paramount that the bike and rider reach Starter’s Orders the next
day. Once, when someone’s crucial fender-stays went missing, a handy chromed bar
stool provided near-perfect raw materials. Out on the course, riders frequently
conk out, miles from civilization, only to be collected by one of the vigilant
sweeper trucks. After an effective fix, they rejoin where convenient. Then there
is the apocryphal tale of how a bent-forked machine was kept mobile after a
nearby playing field’s steel goal posts were used as replacement stanchions.
“Well, you see,” I was told, “the football (soccer) wasn’t starting ’till
October!”
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
; function voidFunc() { } voidFunc();)
; function voidFunc() { } voidFunc();)
; function voidFunc() { } voidFunc();)
