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The Beattie Files
Shock & Awe – it's a V8
mate!
In which young Beattie defies
the natural order of things
(Ed's note: These are excerpts from young Beattie's book on some of the more colourful incidents in an action-packed life. See the end of the piece for more info.)
(by Chris Beattie, May 2024)
“Mate, there’s no way
known on this earth that this thing is legal,” said the
cop, shaking his head as he surveyed what he clearly
regarded as a rolling mechanical insult. “I’ve seen
plenty of modified vehicles in my time, but this is
taking things way too far.”
As I would come to
realise, some people are just not psychologically
equipped to deal with the existence of machines that
challenge everything they’ve come to hold dear. It
seemed the cop had literally been offended by the mere
sight that confronted him as he gestured me to pull
over.
It wasn’t the first time
I’d attracted the attention of the local Mornington
Peninsula cops – and by the time I handed the keys back
to the owner, I’d practically be on a first name basis
with most of the highway cops in our area. They just
couldn’t help themselves.
On many other occasions I
would head out in search of ‘playmates’; local blokes
who liked to show off their modified cars. This
particular time, as I sat at the lights, I glimpsed
across at the V8 HQ Holden, with the big hood scoop and
fat tyres. It rumbled and shook and had “HOON” in big,
wide capital letters written all over it. The guy at the
wheel hadn’t seen me yet so he had no inkling that his
world was about to be shaken off its foundations.
I gave the throttle a blip
to clear the big engine’s throat in anticipation of the
green light. My mount twisted violently with the torque.
I was really beginning to like this outrageous machine,
that seemed to defy all of the laws of physics,
mechanics and common sense. Little did I suspect that it
would nearly kill me on a couple of occasions, and
actually succeed in claiming the life of its owner only
a few weeks later.
I steadied for the green
light. With a kilometre or so of empty straight road
ahead, I was ready to give my young adversary a
demonstration of the art of automotive street warfare –
not to mention the element of surprise.
On the green I grabbed a
handful of throttle and dumped the clutch. Initially I
felt it skew sideways as the fat rear tyre surrendered
to the gods of traction – and more than 300hp --
spinning wildly as I counter-steered in reply. I eased
the throttle slightly and felt the rest of the bike
straighten, before nailing it again.
With 350 raging cubic
inches of Chevrolet V8 between my legs, the Boss Hoss
Two Wheeled Terror Machine From Hell suddenly became a
very angry, rampaging beast. With a beautiful, unmuffled
– we’d earlier removed both mufflers for theatrical
effect – thunderous bellow coming from its shiny chrome
headers, it seemed to turn the earth beneath it as it
ate up tarmac at an astonishing rate.
Having made my point, I
slowed and pulled into a gas station for yet another
top-up. The Boss Hoss’s adrenaline-pumping thrills came
at a heavy price at the fuel bowser, but one that I was
more than happy to pay.
“Mate, what the fuck is that?” I
heard as I removed my helmet. It was the young bloke
with the hot rod HQ. He’d followed me into the servo and
was standing there absolutely gob-smacked as he took in
the Boss Hoss in all its gloriously offensive black and
chrome throbbing majesty.
Like every cop, and pretty
much everyone else I came across while enthroned on the
Boss Hoss, my new mate was having trouble coming to
grips with the concept of a street-legal, 350 cubic inch
V8 motorcycle. And fair enough, too.
While at the time,
V8-powered motorcycles weren’t all that uncommon on the
streets of the US, here in Australia there was only one
American-built, street-registered V8 Boss Hoss. And for
two glorious – and occasionally hair-raising – months,
it was all mine to do with as I pleased. I’d cut a deal
with the Perth-based importer to keep it at my place in
Melbourne. The deal was I’d run a feature on it in my
magazine, Heavy
Duty and also arrange for other bike and car
magazine journo’s I knew to take it for the odd spin to
generate publicity. At least one scribe, upon
confronting it in my driveway, decided his plans for a
long and healthy life might be placed in dire jeopardy
if he were to take up the offer.
“Fuck off Beattie. There’s
no way known I’m climbing on that!” he said.
His refusal to take the
Boss Hoss for a ride was entirely reasonable -- as I’d
come to realise a few days later.
The term “agricultural” is
being kind when attempting to describe the engineering,
construction and safety measures incorporated into the
Boss Hoss, remembering that this was in 1994. V8 bikes
are a tad more sophisticated – and nowhere near as rare
as they were back in the day. Particularly in Oz. The
frame looked like it was made from left-over scrap from
the Empire State building, the custom-built front forks
did little other than connect the frame to the front
wheel, and the brakes, well … they were nice and shiny.
There was no gearbox as
none was really necessary. In the brochure it said there
was only one forward gear – Fast Forward. The direct
drive system relied on a conventional power-boosted car
clutch and a toothed rubber drive belt – of which we
shredded three during our time together – connected to
the fat rear wheel and 15in car tyre. Because of its
flat, rather than curved tread profile you’d normally
find on a motorcycle tyre, the factory advised owners to
run only 7psi of air pressure. This allowed riders to
lean through corners as the tyre’s sidewalls deformed.
Did I say “agricultural”? “Lethal” is probably more
appropriate.
Apart from destroying
drive belts and consuming vast quantities of 98 octane,
the Boss Hoss also ate tyres at a prodigious rate. We
went through three rear tyres and two fronts in our
relatively short time together.
This particular day we --
as in myself and Heavy
Duty photographer, ‘Doctor’ Ken S – were on a
mission to complete a photoshoot for the magazine. We
decided that a relatively quiet and straight section of
freeway on the Mornington Peninsula would suit our
purposes, those being to capture the stupidly fast and
truly violent nature of the Boss Hoss.
“Mate, let’s give it one
more try. Just hang on real tight and
I’ll let you know when to take the shot,” I said to Ken.
“Just try and get it as quick as you can before we run
out of road.”
We’d already wound it up
to the limit of the speedo, which was 240km/h (I
estimated it had at least another 60km/h), but every
time Ken, who was hanging on to me for dear life,
slipped out to take the shot, the wind blast almost
wrenched him off the bike.
With no traffic around, we
gave it one final try. With the speedo needle on the
220km/h stop I yelled to Ken to take the shot. This time
he stood up and shot over my shoulder. I felt the wind
buffeting him as I held the throttle open for as long as
I could. The sweet, unmuffled roar of the big Chevy was
almost intoxicating as the scenery swept by in a blur.
“I reckon I got it,”
yelled Ken as I eased off the throttle. I figured there
was no more point in pushing our luck, especially given
the local cop shop was just a couple of minutes down the
road.
“Good effort, mate,” I
said to Ken. “I’ll give you a lift home.”
We took it a lot easier on
the ride back, although as we pulled up in Ken’s drive I
noticed an odd squeaking noise coming from somewhere in
the back. We spent a couple of minutes inspecting the
rear wheel and brakes, but nothing seemed out of order,
so I waved goodbye and headed home.
The next morning, I
planned on a quick blat down the Peninsula just to blow
a few more cobwebs – and possibly other road users –
away. Just as I prepared to pull out of our driveway,
the Boss Hoss lurched violently to one side. If I hadn’t
had both feet planted firmly on the ground it would have
tipped over.
Gingerly, I lent it on its
sidestand and climbed off, looking to the rear when I
noticed the wheel seemed to be at an odd angle. As I
looked closer, and to my amazement, I realized that the
entire drive-side wheel bearing had disappeared! Fine
aluminium shavings were all over the wheel and tyre then
I noticed some shiny metallic shrapnel on the driveway.
As I bent down I realized I was looking at shattered
pieces of the rear wheel bearing, which we had only
yesterday relied on to support us as we wound the speedo
off the clock.
As Kenny Rogers sang in The Gambler:
Every gambler knows
That the secret to
survivin’
Is knowin’ what to throw
away
And knowin’ what to keep
I decided right there I’d
used up all my luck with the big black V8 hulk and it
was time to call the importer and have him ship it over
to his Perth factory.
Only a few weeks later, I
heard he’d ridden it into the side of a truck at high
speed. Both Boss Hoss, rider – and truck -- didn’t
survive the impact …
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