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| Dash to Delta – September 2003 by Don Cutts |
| Ottawa Section CVMG |
Shiny Bob Booth and I set out for the rally in Delta that sunny Saturday morning and set a quick pace along
Roger Stevens Road, Bob on the Police Harley and me on the Triumph. We came upon a string of cars tying
up a motorcycle rider and I passed the line as we had a deadline to get to Delta. The unknown motorcycle
rider took heart and followed suit. Bob brought up the rear. We were on a tear. Once we hit Smiths Falls, it
became evident that we had picked up none other than Nigel Baker, progeny of Burnout Baker, and he was
riding his stripped-down Harley Davidson.
As Nigel is a Harley enthusiast, it was mandatory for us to visit Iron Horse Legends, that emporium of leather
and motorcycle accessories. Outside the shop, a heavily tattooed employee straight out of ‘Easy Rider’
engaged us in motorcycle talk. Once inside the shop, the owner came over to us and gave us quite a
welcome as he explained his overall business strategy which included heated winter storage for motorcycles
and a sideline in hydroponic plant growing for customers. There were quite a few customers milling about,
the fringes on their leather garments dancing with every movement. The owner caught sight of a barrel-
chested gentleman with a black patch over one eye and summoned him over. His name was Mannfred and
he was very jolly and very German. We knew at once that he had been a motorcycle enthusiast from a very
young age up until quite recently. His father had been a motorcycle rider in pre-War Germany. He had traded
in the family vehicle, a 1928 NSU 500 single, for a 1938 model, which the Wehrmacht promptly
commandeered for their war machine. Oh, foolish papa! No more summers in the Hartz Mountains. Despite all
this Mannfred turned out reasonably well and had an encyclopedic knowledge of all vintage motorbikes
including Vincents and Velocettes. His repertoire of experiences was most interesting but I had to get back on
the road with the boys and so I eased out the door and across the sidewalk to the Triumph with the greatest
subtlety, closely followed by this font of knowledge. We waved goodbye and roared loudly out of town.
Out on the Lombardy road, I watched for the sign to Cyprus as Frank Tetzlaff had instructed me but that
very morning. This was a sign never to be seen for the next 15 miles or ever and no wonder … it’s not even
in this part of the province. Frank has a habit of giving directions with the odd pertinent name changed.
Frank maintains that he said “Crosby” and maybe he did. It looked to me like a case of, as Frank himself puts
it, “Oldtimers” syndrome and at least one of us may have it. I began to have misgivings as we went by the
sign for Toledo and then Athens. Approaching Portland at this point, I stopped and asked directions from
cleverly disguised U.S. fishermen. A failure in this area galvanized Bob into action and we turned around and
headed back to the Athens cutoff. We went the wrong way for some ten more minutes until Bob got his
compass in order and then motored around the winding roads in the vague direction we imagined led to
Delta. The town of Delta has retained its small village size and traditions by cunningly removing its name from
all crossroad markers and we applaud them for that. Luckily, it gave us more of a chance to appreciate the
natural beauty of this country idyll and we unconsciously slowed our pace as if in sympathy with our languid
and rustic surroundings. Good fortune brought us eventually to Delta. It was a far cry from my experience on
the road from Delta last September when I had become exhausted by a Triumph that refused to run more
than five minutes at a stretch and exasperated by the late Fred Bouliane as he volunteered to relieve me of
the machine for two hundred and fifty dollars.
We rode into the fairgrounds, paid our entrance fee and then went down to the restaurant on Main Street
where we found the Ottawa boys chowing down, as is their custom. Bob Guzzo was at the head of the table.
James Berndt, Frank Tetzlaff, Glen MacIntosh Avery Frail and Leighton Brown were some of the group. After
we suffered Bob’s usual verbal assaults, fast-talking Glen MacIntosh, our PR man, informed us in two
paragraphs taking only seven seconds flat to deliver, that their band had passed Professor Brian Given,
toiling at the roadside. His Velocette had ceased to make headway due to the rear drive chain having slipped
away but not before smashing the top rear portion of the chain guard. The redoubtable professor had
recovered the connecting link minus the locking clip and used an academic paper clip to act as a temporary
locking clip. He limped gingerly into town with this device holding things together. Captain Ernie Olivo, Rally
Organizer, came through with a proper clip afterward. The original locking clip re-appeared after a time when
Glen retrieved it from his own motorcycle tire. Mechanically inclined riders will want to make note of this
engineering fix.
While speaking of Velocettes on the road to Delta, another Velocette rider from Ottawa, all in black and in a
racing crouch doing ninety miles an hour, had made his presence felt as he roared up from behind and within
a whisker of an unsuspecting rider, leaving a thick cloud of black smoke and then bellowed past the poor
fellow’s wife on her own motorcycle up ahead. Apparently, he also horribly frightened some drivers of
oncoming cars while tearing up the hill in the passing lane ahead of the last victims. Powerful indeed can be
the lure of Delta! The Velocette rider should be made aware that it is likely time to replace the throttle needle
and main jet as one or both could be worn. If the Velocette is a Venom Clubman Mark 11, the air filter should
be cleaned or replaced. These machines can be tricky to start on occasion and a buildup of carbon on the
plug or in the combustion chamber can add to misery.
After our meal at the restaurant, Shiny Bob led me into the general store which had about it the air of the
late nineteenth century. Ten foot ceilings were finished in textured tintype with raised borders. The floors
were made of stout and unfinished four-inch boards. Attractive display counters appeared to be of heavy
oak. Bay windows pushed out over the sidewalk. Merchandise was quite varied. Caught up in the old time
atmosphere, I bought my first-ever patchwork black leather vest at an old time price! It was made for a
motorcycle rider.
Following this, Shiny Bob and I went back to the fairgrounds. There was a sizeable crowd. We parked and
walked around. Nigel had found his dad’s group earlier. There were some old post-war Norton singles for
sale and a mid-sixties Triumph. A 1972 Moto Guzzi 750 Ambassador was up for grabs and Frank tried in vain
to get me interested in it. Phil Boyes had a Blue Indian Chief on the block and was keeping a wary eye on it.
Zeke Stewart, vintage motorcycle restorer from Morrisburg, had a partial 1934 Panther big single in the back
of his pickup truck and has been assembling and making parts for it over a period of time. It had languished
in a garage for some decades and then survived the fire when the garage burned down. Thomas Craig’s AJS
350 R5 single with hand shift, built in 1930, was on display. This was the kind of machine that men would
head out west on, to help with the harvest. In fact, two young men purchased this machine during the Great
Depression and did exactly that in 1938. There were lots of interesting machines that visitors had ridden in to
the rally. A large meal was to be provided at suppertime to those who had bought tickets. Overnight cabins
could be rented and many took advantage of this feature. The rally was well organized.
Later in the day, Frank, Shiny Bob and I went over to the snack bar after seeing the ice cream sign. Frank
quickly discovered that the lady had run out of ice cream. Bob and I both took turns asking her for ice cream
cones. I told her that ice cream parlours just do not run out of ice cream. I then asked her for a milkshake.
She quickly caught on to us. After that, we sat down nearby for a few minutes and told approaching
customers to ask for ice cream. Everyone was laughing when we left. We went down to the lake and sat for a
while on a park bench, gazing out over the water.
Bob and I figured it was time to go after a spell and we headed back to Smiths Falls, passing a nifty Russian
sidecar rig along the way. One way or the other, we were going to have ice cream and so we settled in at the
Smiths Falls Dairy Queen for a while.
The ride back to town was uneventful but pleasant. The Triumph electrical problems were ironed out earlier
this year and there was no further excitement to be experienced in this area.
Donald Cutts.
Roger Stevens Road, Bob on the Police Harley and me on the Triumph. We came upon a string of cars tying
up a motorcycle rider and I passed the line as we had a deadline to get to Delta. The unknown motorcycle
rider took heart and followed suit. Bob brought up the rear. We were on a tear. Once we hit Smiths Falls, it
became evident that we had picked up none other than Nigel Baker, progeny of Burnout Baker, and he was
riding his stripped-down Harley Davidson.
As Nigel is a Harley enthusiast, it was mandatory for us to visit Iron Horse Legends, that emporium of leather
and motorcycle accessories. Outside the shop, a heavily tattooed employee straight out of ‘Easy Rider’
engaged us in motorcycle talk. Once inside the shop, the owner came over to us and gave us quite a
welcome as he explained his overall business strategy which included heated winter storage for motorcycles
and a sideline in hydroponic plant growing for customers. There were quite a few customers milling about,
the fringes on their leather garments dancing with every movement. The owner caught sight of a barrel-
chested gentleman with a black patch over one eye and summoned him over. His name was Mannfred and
he was very jolly and very German. We knew at once that he had been a motorcycle enthusiast from a very
young age up until quite recently. His father had been a motorcycle rider in pre-War Germany. He had traded
in the family vehicle, a 1928 NSU 500 single, for a 1938 model, which the Wehrmacht promptly
commandeered for their war machine. Oh, foolish papa! No more summers in the Hartz Mountains. Despite all
this Mannfred turned out reasonably well and had an encyclopedic knowledge of all vintage motorbikes
including Vincents and Velocettes. His repertoire of experiences was most interesting but I had to get back on
the road with the boys and so I eased out the door and across the sidewalk to the Triumph with the greatest
subtlety, closely followed by this font of knowledge. We waved goodbye and roared loudly out of town.
Out on the Lombardy road, I watched for the sign to Cyprus as Frank Tetzlaff had instructed me but that
very morning. This was a sign never to be seen for the next 15 miles or ever and no wonder … it’s not even
in this part of the province. Frank has a habit of giving directions with the odd pertinent name changed.
Frank maintains that he said “Crosby” and maybe he did. It looked to me like a case of, as Frank himself puts
it, “Oldtimers” syndrome and at least one of us may have it. I began to have misgivings as we went by the
sign for Toledo and then Athens. Approaching Portland at this point, I stopped and asked directions from
cleverly disguised U.S. fishermen. A failure in this area galvanized Bob into action and we turned around and
headed back to the Athens cutoff. We went the wrong way for some ten more minutes until Bob got his
compass in order and then motored around the winding roads in the vague direction we imagined led to
Delta. The town of Delta has retained its small village size and traditions by cunningly removing its name from
all crossroad markers and we applaud them for that. Luckily, it gave us more of a chance to appreciate the
natural beauty of this country idyll and we unconsciously slowed our pace as if in sympathy with our languid
and rustic surroundings. Good fortune brought us eventually to Delta. It was a far cry from my experience on
the road from Delta last September when I had become exhausted by a Triumph that refused to run more
than five minutes at a stretch and exasperated by the late Fred Bouliane as he volunteered to relieve me of
the machine for two hundred and fifty dollars.
We rode into the fairgrounds, paid our entrance fee and then went down to the restaurant on Main Street
where we found the Ottawa boys chowing down, as is their custom. Bob Guzzo was at the head of the table.
James Berndt, Frank Tetzlaff, Glen MacIntosh Avery Frail and Leighton Brown were some of the group. After
we suffered Bob’s usual verbal assaults, fast-talking Glen MacIntosh, our PR man, informed us in two
paragraphs taking only seven seconds flat to deliver, that their band had passed Professor Brian Given,
toiling at the roadside. His Velocette had ceased to make headway due to the rear drive chain having slipped
away but not before smashing the top rear portion of the chain guard. The redoubtable professor had
recovered the connecting link minus the locking clip and used an academic paper clip to act as a temporary
locking clip. He limped gingerly into town with this device holding things together. Captain Ernie Olivo, Rally
Organizer, came through with a proper clip afterward. The original locking clip re-appeared after a time when
Glen retrieved it from his own motorcycle tire. Mechanically inclined riders will want to make note of this
engineering fix.
While speaking of Velocettes on the road to Delta, another Velocette rider from Ottawa, all in black and in a
racing crouch doing ninety miles an hour, had made his presence felt as he roared up from behind and within
a whisker of an unsuspecting rider, leaving a thick cloud of black smoke and then bellowed past the poor
fellow’s wife on her own motorcycle up ahead. Apparently, he also horribly frightened some drivers of
oncoming cars while tearing up the hill in the passing lane ahead of the last victims. Powerful indeed can be
the lure of Delta! The Velocette rider should be made aware that it is likely time to replace the throttle needle
and main jet as one or both could be worn. If the Velocette is a Venom Clubman Mark 11, the air filter should
be cleaned or replaced. These machines can be tricky to start on occasion and a buildup of carbon on the
plug or in the combustion chamber can add to misery.
After our meal at the restaurant, Shiny Bob led me into the general store which had about it the air of the
late nineteenth century. Ten foot ceilings were finished in textured tintype with raised borders. The floors
were made of stout and unfinished four-inch boards. Attractive display counters appeared to be of heavy
oak. Bay windows pushed out over the sidewalk. Merchandise was quite varied. Caught up in the old time
atmosphere, I bought my first-ever patchwork black leather vest at an old time price! It was made for a
motorcycle rider.
Following this, Shiny Bob and I went back to the fairgrounds. There was a sizeable crowd. We parked and
walked around. Nigel had found his dad’s group earlier. There were some old post-war Norton singles for
sale and a mid-sixties Triumph. A 1972 Moto Guzzi 750 Ambassador was up for grabs and Frank tried in vain
to get me interested in it. Phil Boyes had a Blue Indian Chief on the block and was keeping a wary eye on it.
Zeke Stewart, vintage motorcycle restorer from Morrisburg, had a partial 1934 Panther big single in the back
of his pickup truck and has been assembling and making parts for it over a period of time. It had languished
in a garage for some decades and then survived the fire when the garage burned down. Thomas Craig’s AJS
350 R5 single with hand shift, built in 1930, was on display. This was the kind of machine that men would
head out west on, to help with the harvest. In fact, two young men purchased this machine during the Great
Depression and did exactly that in 1938. There were lots of interesting machines that visitors had ridden in to
the rally. A large meal was to be provided at suppertime to those who had bought tickets. Overnight cabins
could be rented and many took advantage of this feature. The rally was well organized.
Later in the day, Frank, Shiny Bob and I went over to the snack bar after seeing the ice cream sign. Frank
quickly discovered that the lady had run out of ice cream. Bob and I both took turns asking her for ice cream
cones. I told her that ice cream parlours just do not run out of ice cream. I then asked her for a milkshake.
She quickly caught on to us. After that, we sat down nearby for a few minutes and told approaching
customers to ask for ice cream. Everyone was laughing when we left. We went down to the lake and sat for a
while on a park bench, gazing out over the water.
Bob and I figured it was time to go after a spell and we headed back to Smiths Falls, passing a nifty Russian
sidecar rig along the way. One way or the other, we were going to have ice cream and so we settled in at the
Smiths Falls Dairy Queen for a while.
The ride back to town was uneventful but pleasant. The Triumph electrical problems were ironed out earlier
this year and there was no further excitement to be experienced in this area.
Donald Cutts.