...dial...dial...dial...

"... another 16 people have quit the administration this week, as the scandal deepened with ..."

...dial...dial...dial...

"... so if you've always wanted a 214-speed food processor, but were afraid you couldn't afford one, here's the answer. Yes, with the new diesel-powered Whack-O-Matic, you can slice, dice ..."

...dial...dial...dial...

"... for only $99 a month, you can have a new car in your driveway. There are only a limited number of these great little Yugos left in our inventory, so be sure to stop by ..."

...dial...dial...dial...

"... a late news flash, as another 14 people resigned from the administration in the wake of the ..."

...dial...dial...dial...

"... to keep fleas and ticks off your poodle, there's no better product than Le Foo Foo Shampoo, available at ..."

...dial...dial...dial...

"... best in talk radio. So today, we're going to dig right in and chat with Assemblyman Johnson about the proposed new sewage tax ... "

...dial...dial...dial...

"... for people who want to make some real money, simply turn to investments that are out of the mainstream. For example, buyers of 50s vintage autos have made huge profits. One acquaintance of mine purchased a 1957 Chevrolet for $2000, spent another $5,000 fixing it up, and sold it for $20,000. Even vintage motorcycles can be money makers.

"The secret is finding the vintage car or motorcycle for a good price. And this means hunting for those out of the way places. Search the back roads, hit those small towns in the middle of nowhere, check out vehicles that have been stored in barns for years. The bargains are out there; you just have to get busy and look for them!

"Now, let's turn our attention to collecting ceramic dolls. Long ignored, this market ..."

"Emma! Wake up! Did you hear that stuff on the radio just now about making big money on old cars and bikes?" "Yes, I caught the tail end of it. But what do you know about old cars and bikes?"

"Hey, when I was growin' up, those old things were new! I remember old Packards, Fraziers, Nashes, Henry Js, DeSotos ... all that stuff. And I used to own an old BSA back in the 50s. That don't even count the three Harleys I owned when I was first in the Navy. I may not be a whiz, but I can damn sure tell an old Triumph from a new Honda. So let's take some of these back roads, hit a few out-of-the-way small towns and see if we can find us a money-maker."

Carl peeled off when he saw the first sign on a narrow road: STUMPVILLE - 14 MILES.

The road got cobbier as it wandered back, then turned into a hard-packed dirt two track. Stumpville was not much to look at. There was a gas station, a few dozen homes, a hardware store and a burger stand. It was located at a cross-road, which explained how the town managed to survive.

Carl pulled the huge Suburban into the gas station and stretched his legs while the grumpy old attendant filled up two of the three gas tanks.

There was a bulletin board on the wall of the gas station office, and Carl studied it for possible deals. Some of the stuff looked interesting:

1955 PACKARD CARIBBEAN, Low mileage, good shape, runs like new. See Doc Parker at the Animal Clinic. $5,000 firm.

Hmmm. That sounded a bit pricey. He looked further.

1952 STUDEBAKER TWO DOOR HARD TOP. Body good, no motor. Will trade for lawn mower. (123) 555-1212.

Nope. No sense in getting a vintage machine that required a bunch of work, now matter how cheap the initial price was. What Carl really wanted was something that was mechanically sound, and just needed some paint and such.

The attendant returned and blew his nose on a greasy red shop rag. "That'll be a hunnert and ninety-two bucks, mister. I thought you had some bottomless tanks there for a while."

"Nope. She takes about 150 gallons all total. That gives me some range. Say, I'm looking for some older vehicles. It's a hobby of mine. You wouldn't know the whereabouts of any nice old Scouts, or Broncos, or maybe a clean '55 Chevy convertible. I might even consider an old bike if it's in good condition."

The attendant scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment. "Well, there's a real nice dump truck for sale down at the Murphy farm. I think it's a '58 International, and it's got good tires on it."

"No thanks, but I'm looking for something a little more sporty than a dump truck. How about bikes?"

"Hmmm. I understand that old Jack Anderson has a motorcycle in his barn he's been tryin' to sell for years. I can write down some directions for you, if you want. He lives way back in the hills. Is that a four wheel drive rig you got there?"

"You bet! Four wheel drive, Detroit lockers, big tires ... the works."

***

The Whale lumbered down the north-pointing road of the intersection. A few miles later, Carl turned left down a road by a large Mail Pouch sign. The road deteriorated into a bumpy two-track, flanked by a rusty barbed-wire fence on both sides. Bored looking cows chewed on clumps of grass and ignored the passing of the huge Suburban.

Eventually, the Anderson farm came into view, and Carl parked The Whale in front of the house. A white-haired gentleman came out and introduced himself.

Carl got right down to business. "Glad to meet ya, Mr. Anderson. I understand you got an old bike for sale. I'm lookin' for something to fix up and fool around with, just as a hobby, you understand."

"Hmmm. Got one in the barn, but it ain't been started for a good five years. My son used to own it, but he moved to China and became a missionary, so he told me to sell it."

Carl followed Mr. Anderson back to the barn. Shafts of sunlight streamed in the open doors, catching flecks of dust and bits of hay tumbling in the air.

In the back of the barn was the unmistakable shape of a motorcycle under an old army blanket. Mr. Anderson pulled the blanket off and Carl was disappointed. The bike was covered with mud to the point where there were no identifying marks visible.

About all Carl could tell was that the bike was some sort of a V-twin. It sure didn't look like much. "You say it runs?"

"Like I said, it ran five years ago. Then one night it was left out in the rain and got all muddy when the tractor drove by it. I pushed it in the barn, drained the gas out of the tank and covered it up. It ain't been touched since then. I'll pour some fresh gas in the tank and you can try to fire it up if you want." Carl wiped the area around the gas cap while Mr. Anderson got a gas can, so no dried-up mud would fall inside. Well, at least he could see what color the bike was where he wiped it: black.

Mr. Anderson carefully poured a gallon of fuel into the tank, then screwed the cap back on. He threw a towel over the muddy saddle, then smiled at Carl: "Have at it. At least your pants won't get dirty now."

Carl slung a beefy leg over the bike, reached under the tank until he felt the gas petcock, and turned it down, which he assumed was ON. He searched around for a while, but couldn't find any kind of OFF-ON switch.

There were tickle buttons on the carbs; Carl jiggled them to prime the fuel supply, then he located neutral with the shifter, brought the kick starter up to the top of its arc and kicked it through a few times with the clutch held in to free up the clutch plates.

There was a compression release mounted on the handlebars, which Carl squeezed in. He balanced himself carefully and then gave the kick starter a strong boot.

Amazingly, the engine popped loudly on the first kick! Carl brought the kick starter up again and gave another strong kick. The bike coughed once, then roared to life! Carl could barely believe his ears! This huge pile of dried up mud fired up on the second kick!

Carl let the bike sit there and idle, then got off the bike, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and squatted down behind the bike.

Emma was puzzled. "What are you doing with that handkerchief, Carl?"

"It's an old mechanics trick, Emma. You see, I'll just hold this clean white handkerchief over the end of the exhaust pipe, and if it's burning oil, it'll show right away on the cloth. Hmmm. Seems to be OK. No soot, or oil stains on the 'kerchief."

Carl shut the bike down and fixed Mr. Anderson with a steely gaze. "What's your best price on this here machine? Bear in mind, I don't even know what brand it is, with all the crud on it. But I'm willing to take a chance if the price is right."

Mr. Anderson thought for a long pause. "Two hundred dollars?"

Carl shook his head. "One hundred bucks, tops. Cash on the spot. Take it or leave it."

Mr. Anderson sighed. "Well, guess it ain't doing much good sitting in here. You got yourself a motorcycle."

Carl paid Mr. Anderson and quickly got the portable trailer out of the back of The Whale, hooked it up and loaded the bike. Moments later, The Whale was back-tracking carefully down the two-track road, with the bike swaying from side to side on the light-weight trailer.

A hour later, Carl pulled into the parking lot of a motorcycle shop. He explained to Emma, "I remember passing this place on the road. What I can do is have one of the mechanics here check the bike out to see if it's worth anything. And if it ain't, what the heck? I'm only out a hunnert bucks."

The shop owner agreed to check the bike out for ten dollars, and Carl pulled The Whale around back and unloaded the filthy old bike.


The shop owner, a huge man named Tiny, walked around the motorcycle and studied it. "You know what you got here?

"Yeah. I got a muddy old motorcycle that runs and doesn't burn any oil."

Tiny looked confused. "How do you figure that?"

"Easy. I started this sucker up on the second kick and put a handkerchief behind the exhaust to check for black smoke."

Tiny unscrewed the oil tank an peered in. "Hmmmph. No wonder it didn't smoke. There isn't any oil in the tank. It can't smoke if there isn't any oil. You might have ruined the motor by doing that, buddy."

Carl's eyes got big. "What!? You mean there was no oil in the tank?"

Tiny smiled. "Yup. It's a trick some unscrupulous people use when they're trying to sell a smoker engine."

Carl let loose with a mild string of Navy curses. "Looks like I just wasted some money."

Tiny raised one eye. "And just how much did you spend on this here bike?"

"A hunnert bucks."

Tiny scratched his stomach. "Hmmm. Well, I've been looking for an old bike to mess around with. Tell you what, I'll give you a hundred dollars and take that old pile off your hands."

Carl considered this for a second. "Make it $150 and got a deal."

Tiny stuck out his hand. "Deal! I'll write you up a receipt."

***

Twenty minutes later, Carl was driving down the highway, chuckling to himself.

"Looks like I did just fine on that deal. Made myself a quick fifty buck profit. Say, what's that paper you're lookin' at, Emma?"

"Oh that? It's a receipt from that nice man at the motorcycle shop."

"Really? What's it say?"

"It says: Received one 1952 Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle, Series C, in exchange for the sum of $150 cash."

"What? Did you say Vincent Black Shadow?"

"Yes. Why, is that something special?"

Carl let out a low moan. "Emma? Get the cellular phone out and call this magazine here, and find out what that bike is worth. It's a vintage bike magazine that I buy every now and then, and if anybody would know, they're the ones."

Emma dialed and talked quietly for a few minutes. "Well, that's a surprise!"

"Give it to me straight, woman. What's it worth? Two thousand? Three thousand?"

Emma cleared her throat. "They said a decent one would be about $25,000, or maybe even more. Carl? Carl? Would you please stop beating your head on the steering wheel."