Valkyries I Have Known (and Sometimes Loved) A Modern Edda Chapter the First I was introduced the genus Valkyrii, in a way other than fable in the year 1961. I was just a "baby" engineer then and living in the UK (That's the British Isles... well, all right, then ENGLAND, for you Colonial types.) at a place with the rather Doylesque name Flylingsdale Moor. It's in Yorkshire, near Hadrian's Wall, and not far from the North Sea. It was a remote place, and not on any map I have ever found. I was posted there by my employer, to help emplace and test a gargantuan Cold War monstrosity known as BMEWS Site III. A radar site of stupefying size and complexity the purpose of which was to protect the "Free World" (read good ol' USA) from the threat of brutal missile attack launched by The Evil Bad Guys. (Read The USSR) I jumped at the assignment, eager to depart lest whoever made such decisions came to their senses and realized what a wart they were sending, and changed their minds before I was out of reach. My anxiety was intensified by the fact that I'm a life-long Anglophile, and a sportscar nut of the first water. In those days, to say sportscar, was to say British. Needless to say, having already owned the obligatory MGs, Triumph, BN-2 Austin-Healy LeMans, and even the Holy of Holys, a Jaguar XK-120M FHC, visions of E-Types swam mirage-like through my every waking thought. The grail was within my grasp. I even learned to pronounce it properly... jag-YOU-are! (ALWAYS with the exclamation point, of course.) I was an even more insufferable ass then, than now. I'll not bore you with the grim succession of tiddly little non-cars that came my way in the first few months after my arrival. Suffice it to say that used car salesmen in the UK are cut from EXACTLY the same piece of goods as their US counterparts albeit with slightly more polish on their microns thin veneer of supercilious unction. One such oily character, doubtless spurred on by my carefully nurtured attitude of "I know EVERYTHING about everything automotive." happily foisted upon me what was beyond a shadow of doubt the most malignant example of marginal motoring ever conceived by mind of man. A 1947 Ford Popular! "Perpendicular Pop" and "Sit Up and Beg" were, I believe, two of the more genteel references to the inadequate little beast. My first peek under the bonnet (hood) should've told I was in big trouble. I couldn't believe my eyes! The little flat-head engine and the battery were exactly the same size. I could have driven from John o' Groats to Lands End on the starter... and probably have made better time. The interior, tastefully done up in paper covered cardboard ersatz leather, was what was commonly called a 4-seater. Well, perhaps true for those equipped with the trimmer British style bum, but 1 3/4 more correctly described the accommodations for we over-fed children of the New World. The exterior was obviously styled by the architectural genius responsible for Winchester Cathedral, and had a drag coefficient about equal to. Something in the neighborhood of 1.5 or thereabouts, I should think. Not a great deal of help for the 28(SAE) horsepower engine when the tiny saloon (No, not THAT kind of saloon, Bubba) was peopled by close to a half ton of gel-brained young Yanks, doing their Stirling Moss impression, to the tune of gales of laughter over careening down what they called "the wrong side". Even worse, when this sport began to pall, we would lurch our bodies from side to side in unison, causing the poor wee thing to swerve and slew crazily, like one of those insane little cars at the carnival. I will never know why we weren't jailed. (Gaoled?) This was all great fun till I looked below the rocker panels and found the underside of the vehicle consisted almost entirely of one component. A mass crumbling red flakes instantly recognizable to anyone living in the northern tier of states in the US, where de-icing salt is measured in tons per mile.. Ferrous Oxide. You know... RUST. This disheartening revelation was only slightly less astounding than discovering, after weeks of blasting 'round the lanes of North Eastern England like a Viking Berserker, that the Salmon-colored MOT registration, so cozy in it's windscreen barnacle, was in reality a Guinness Stout Label! WHAT??OMIGAWD!!! Visions of dankest Dartmoor (the slam!) scrabbled crazily in my head. I had no doubt of my final reward if I got caught. I had heard the horror stories. Three things you NEVER mess around with in the UK, the MOT, Inland Revenue, and the GPO Telly Tax. Note What graces the top of the list. I was well and truly caught by the proverbial short hairs until other arrangements could be made. I was stuck without wheels in, arguably, the remotest spot in all of England proper. Complaining to the (nameless) dealer away over in Harrogate was to no avail. The Sales Hun had been given the gate, and it appeared the Pop had been his private sale, for there was not one shred of paper to mark its passage. Or so they said. Sorry, but I was learning to be a bit less gullible. What to do? Here I had an absolutely cherry-looking Ford Pop that was just as absolutely unsaleable because it wouldn't pass the MOT due to a terminal case of road cancer. I obviously had to find a bigger fool than I, and that did not promise to be at all easy since I was demonstrably the biggest automotive fool in the land.. At that moment the Gods began to smile upon me just a bit. A rather self-important individual at the site came to me and, so help me used these exact words. "Hey! How come you not drivin' that cute lil teacup no more? Jew wanna sell hit?" Still in a state of shock I mumbled something about it not being roadworthy. Then I caught myself. First, this was one of those upper echelon Yahoos with an IQ lower than the Pops RAC horsepower. And worse, but typical of the breed, he was so dumb, he didn't know he was dumb. "Oh, don't you worry none. I wanta take it back stateside, 'Sides. I can fix ANYTHING." Who the Hell, who was he kidding? I had seen that Bone Brain in action. He didn't know a King Dick spanner from a... well, never mind. He was not altogether bright. The Gods began to actually GRIN. I hemmed and hawed a little, but finally let him steal it for one hundred fifteen old pounds... about twice what I paid. That's what I call a good deal. The buyer went back stateside happy with his "Teacup" and the seller was ecstatic! Not to mention lucky. What made me even more pleased with the whole transaction was that I had been covering for his stupidity on the job for months. GOTCHA! Revenge was mine... for a change. Less than a month later the Gods began to laugh right out loud. The British Liaison Officer at the site, a Major Cranston, or Crandon, as I remember, put his beautiful little 1937 Morgan 3-wheeler on the block. I had watched and coveted the hairy-looking little monster from the first day I clapped my eyes upon it. His asking price, offered rather diffidently, was one hundred twenty old pounds. ONLY FIVE MORE THAN I GOT FOR THE SAD LITTLE POP! The gods were rolling on the ground, hurting themselves with laughter. I'm amazed that no one could hear them but I. I near tore the pocket out of my jacket getting to my bankroll. Not exactly Arab market level in bargaining, but I had to have that automobile. I just hope the ass back in the US enjoyed his "teacup" full of red dust one tenth as much as I did the Morgan. And you need not fret over the Major not having the enjoyment of his little trike. He was soon seen, a Cheshire cat grin splitting his freckled face, proudly motoring about in his shiny NEW Morgan 4-seater Seated next to him, his very blond, very lovely and VERY pregnant wife. As for myself, I began grinning uncontrollably the instant the car was mine. What has all this foolishness got to do with Valkyries, you ask? A fairer question is the converse. What do Valkyries have to do with this. Answer: In the following, almost everything. Morgans are Valkyries incarnate. Yes, I know Valkyries are immortal, so have no need for a "Place To Be" before birth, and after death. Valkyries simply ARE! But even the staunchest immortal has need of respite, and Morgans, amongst a VERY few other vessels are either abodes for the spirits of, or are owned by Valkyries. The list is very short. The Morgan, of course, Vincent "Black Shadow" motorcycles, Beechcraft "Staggerwing" biplanes.. (Over 200mph, and limousine comfort in 1938!), classic wooden Herishoff schooners, post WWII Hacker "Com- muter" Speedboats (The ones with the V-12 Allison engines), and a few, very, VERY few houses. I know of only one such on the Inside Passage, just north of Prince Rupert... ah, well. And, yes, one final item. The ABSOLUTE ULTIMATE Valkyrie machine (unless you're in the Air Force, and fly the SR-71) I speak in hushed tones. A perfectly restored, and skilfully flown WWII P-51 "Mustang" fighter plane. Fast, (over 450mph) efficient, dangerous. It can take control away from you in a split-second if you aren't gentle and masterful at the same time. It leaps to the sky with a fierce kind of joy that transcends most silly man-made things. The12 cylinder Rolls-Royce "Merlin" engine sings with a voice of such crystalline purity and clarity it easily rivals the tones usually reserved for the halls of Valhalla, or other celestial realms. WeeeeeeeeAAA AAAAAaaaaaa!!!!!!! Mezzo-Soprano-to-Alto. The fading, almost pure-sinusoidal a-flat leaves the strongest of men motionless with tears on their cheeks. A masterpiece briefly seen, but unattainable and lost. And yes, they are also so beautiful that it actually hurts to look upon them. In short, PERFECTION! But unfortunately, extremely rare. Even a Valkyrie is hard pressed to find one. And besides, being a Morgan isn't exactly second best, Especially a three-wheeler. What an absolutely outrageous motorcar. Huge, vibrating 1100cc Matchless V-Twin motorcycle engine hung between the frame rails, right up front, out in the breeze, so you could see everything. SU carburettor big enough to be a part of the London sewer system. Great silver exhaust pipes snaking down through masses of shiny black front end hardware and on back to chromed silencers with outturned outlets emitting, at idle, soft, lazy CHUFF-chuff, CUFF-chuff sounds from alternating sides. Two large, upstanding headlamps with three legged spider Lucas P-700s made it to look like a very large, but very friendly, insect. Almost hidden behind and below all this ironmongery hid the famous sliding pillar suspension, featured on all Morgans from #1 to the very latest Plus 8. The story is that old man HFSC invented it, but not true. It has been around since long before 1907, I think Ben-Hur probably had it on his chariot. A myth, just as is the Morgan's "wooden frame". Never the less, it was light in weight, but robust. Lightness, without frailty is a feature of all Morgans. It was simple, easy to build, and rebuild. That makes three more etc, etc, you get the picture. Best of all, from a driver's view point, it doesn't skew your front end geometry all to hell and gone every time you come to an undulation in the road. There is but one flaw with this sort of front suspension. When the car leans, as in a curve, the front wheels lean by the same amount, bleeding away grip. However, as any aficionado will attest, Morgans do NOT lean... EVER. Problem solved. As a matter of fact, Morgans are suspended so stiffly, someone once said, you could run over a Shilling and call it head or tails. Not quite, but damned close. Oh yes. Did I mention the two-speed gearbox? TWO speed? Yep, you bet. Simple, Strong, and Light. Remember? Actually, it kinda made lots of sense. There was very little room anywhere in the whole envelope for anything but a very minimal drive train, and the outlandish power-to- weight ratio made anything more rather superfluous. Then if that weren't enough to confuse you, there was not one, but two stubby bakelite- knobbed sticks sprouting from the floor. One was for the gear change. The other? Why, the other was for the rear wheel brake, of course. No, it made perfect sense. One brake operated by foot, the other by hand. One for each end of the vehicle. Just like on a motorcycle. In fact, for many years, all three-wheelers, and there were many manufacturers in the UK, as well as Europe, were called "Cycle-Cars" and were registered as motorcycles. Smart move. Lower taxation don chuno. You could just think of the Mog as a two seat motorcycle with a glandular disorder. The boat-shaped body, "Coachwork" says the manual, rather pretentiously, Begins directly behind the beautiful, alloy Matchless engine with a minuscule, but finely wrought chrome-plated radiator (liquid cooled models only.) passing the lovely louvered bonnet, bulging outward slightly at the middle of the chassis to accommodate the cockpit. Only one door there. on the passenger side. Doors cost weight and money, and besides, the whole thing was constructed so low to the ground, getting aboard was very much like stepping into your bath tub. From its mid- section, the body continues rearward tapering inward slightly over the rear wheel to be stopped by the almost perpendicular spare wheel. Oh, now don't bore me with the old tales of Morgans with no spare. There were a very few "canoe-tailed" models built, but these were for racing, or the occasional record-setting forays at the old Brooklands. As nice as those were, the standard body was a fine piece of work, elegantly efficient in it's simplicity, lines broken only by wings (fenders), and the split and raked motorboat style windscreen. Both very minimal, indeed. Once settled (driver only.) or squeezed (driver and passenger) into the narrow accommodations, you next discover your feet disappearing into a seeming Black Hole. Only if you are exceptionally long of limb will you be able to even touch the pedals. I, myself, punch a 6'4"hole into the local smog, and found the depth suited me as if custom made. What do you mean "Adjust the seat"? Morgan seats are not only completely innocent of any adjusting mechanism, but are also totally devoid of any other sort of confusing hardware, such as springs and so on. The seat squabs (cushions) are carefully handsewn leather sack sort of things. Hiding Inside are rubber bladders that look all for the world as if they had been nicked from your old Rugby ball. Oh yeah? Well, how do you know? Have you looked lately, The Rugby bladder is the key to the whole clever operation. Blow it up HARD, bleed it down SOFT, and you can almost simulate seat adjustment. The Morgan, as Valkyrie, does not adjust to accommodate mortals. It's the other way 'round, rather. The next thing you notice... You can't miss it .. It's only inches away from your nose. The steering wheel... it's HUGE...looks as though it belongs to a ten ton truck (lorry). And what the hell is all that hardware. There's a whole jungle of levers, and Bowden cables. Bowden cable? (Same thing ya call a choke cable, Bubba. Don't interrupt). Actually, there's only two of each, and their function is simplicity itself. OK, now pay attention. Once you've got the hang of sitting on the "Wrong" side, put your hands in the "ten till two" position (Like on a clock face, if you still know about analog time pieces.) That should to put your thumbs on the levers. OK so far? Good. Now, you just push up on the right lever for more throttle, down for less, Simple, again just like a motorcycle. Right? Hold on tight, now. This is where it gets a little bumpy. The left lever controls the SPARK ADVANCE. The WHAT? I heard you say. Well like so many things that are taken care of by tireless little centipedes on circuitboards these days, your automobile engine management system included, it was done in an altogether different way before the silicon chip, and microprocessor. Back in the dark ages there was a thing called Cognitive Reasoning. What that means is, you get inputs from all your senses, you evaluate the stuff, and you take the appropriate action. You know, as in manual transmissions. Are you still with me? Just barely. Back to spark control. Number one, just remember like the throttle, up is more, and down is less. Spark advance depends on the ...dare I say he word? algebraic sum of engine load and engine speed (and a whole lot more insignificant junk). Oh, don't like that...hmmmm. Ok. If the engine speed is low, and the load is low, retard the spark a little. I don't KNOW how much... it depends. If the engine speed is low and you're going to open the throttle wide, retard the spark almost all the way. If the engine is really revving up you want to advance the spark (Push the lever up) At top speed you... oh hell, never mind. You'll get the hang of it. All you've got to remember is up is more and down is less. Just make sure you get it right, or the preignition ping will knock a very large, very expensive hole in a very dear Matchless piston crown. Oh, and one other thing... if you've got the wheel hard over, the whole process is upside down and backwards. That doesn't happen too often. Morgan trikes have one to one steering. That's right. One turn from full left to full right. Just like a motorcycle. One to one steering? Yep, and now you know the reason for the monster steering wheel, and why it's tucked right up under your chin. And even with that help, parking a Morgan is guaranteed to develop your Hernia Muscle even if you ARE built like "Arnold". That brings me to another bit of advice. If you see a woman, I don't care how attractive and petite she looks, driving a Morgan of any vintage, at anything like a walking pace, and obviously ENJOYING the experience, do not, I repeat NOT, allow her to sucker you into an arm wrestling match no matter how badly she bruises your MACHO. Accept the challenge and your ego isn't all that gets bruised. Before the starter can finish saying "GO", she has already HURT you, BADLY. As you sit there contemplating the layout, you'll probably start thinking about weather protection. Stop worrying. For all practical purposes, there is none. The top is, shall we say rudimentary, offering virtually no protection at all, and when it and the side curtains are erected you can't see squat. The equipment was obviously only an afterthought. Why did the Brits, living in one of the nastiest climates anywhere, build so many roadsters with such minimal weather protection? Sure beats me. My only suggestion of what to do about the Mogs top and side curtains, is to fold them carefully with soft rags between the layers and store them at the back of the top shelf in the most disused closet in your home, then forget they ever existed. A properly driven Morgan (that is, at terminal velocity) has no need of such weakling's trappings. At speed, the rain simply blows off the top of the windscreen and over the cockpit. If you have to stop? Well, the British INVENTED the Macintosh. If you can afford the sadly over inflated price, a Burberry gives the same sort of hurricane-proof protection, and is a lot more stylish. Just remember to TIE, not buckle the belt in a overhand knot slightly to the the left, else everyone will know at first glance that you're a Yank. Side curtains? Oh, they are the canvas-and-nearly-opaque-plastic things all US cars had instead of real windows until about 1932. Naturally, the British, being British, held on until 1960, with the "Bug-Eye" Sprite. Morgan, of course allows you to struggle with these delightful (though somewhat modernized) anachronisms to this very day. But then, the Morgan family doubtless feel the Jolly Old Empire started sliding down the Toad Hole when the Royal Navy was barred from flogging. Sadly, that was also about the time Able Seamen lost their spirits ration. No flog, no Grog, I guess. Tradition goes down only after a mighty struggle in the UK. Besides, the Brits have got to be a race of hereditary Masochists. Someday, we'll speak of The Traditional Public School approach to guidance counselling. Before I let it slip my mind, there is one other delightfully idiosyncratic feature. The generator is NOT connected to the engine, except in a rather remote way. It is connected to the driveshaft. Naturally if you have no forward motion, you have no battery charge. Something to keep in mind. But Morgans are made to be driven, not left at idle. Right? Ah. the Ubiquitous-Voice-From-The-Back-of-the-Room. Please calm yourself. You are only allowed to be carried off by one of those wonder- beings if you fall in battle. Fretting yourself to death on the back row bench will simply not do. So, to resume. We're getting to the Valkyrie part right now. Not only are Morgans Valkyrie persona, but they are also frequently owned by Valkyries. And when they drive, they DO smile, and grin, and even laugh. And no, definitely NO, I would most emphatically NOT recommend getting sucked into an armwrestling bout with even the most innocuous looking of them. Unless, of course you have an overweening compulsion to be called "Lefty" STILL insist on making fun of the two speed gear-box, eh? Well OK then, try this on for size. Early Morgans had NO gearbox! They two chains, one on each side of the rear wheel driving a different sized sprocket. To change ratios, you fiddled a little lever on the driveshaft tunnel, and a latch mechanism called a dog clutch connected one. or the other (or neither) sprocket to the drive shaft according to which ratio you wanted. You like that, do you? There's more. There was NO reverse. The driver either had to push the whole thing rearward. (it weighed far less that a modern "full-dress" Gold Wing), or went 'round back, grabbed the purpose-built leather padded handle in gauntleted hand, lifted, walked 'round in a half-circle, put the tail back to earth, and regaining the cockpit, motored off whence they came. What used to be called "A real man's Motorcar". Of course in this day of Political Correctness, we don't say such things. BEST not! Remember the armwrestler? How can anything as dainty-looking as a Morgan Trike in any ways typify a Valkyrie? In more than a few, as we shall see. The first thing we must do is stop thinking of Heroic Females upon foaming grey chargers. This was a very playful little Valkyrie. A sassy little adolescent Valkyrie. Much given to capricious tricks and jokes. Headstrong, but not quite ready for the full rigors and responsibilities of the field. Loveable and loving, but at the same time often maddening with the weaknesses of a child, but the brute strength of an adult. One second, the ride of your life, the next spun helplessly end for end with terrifying swiftness. More than once at the Vintage Auto Races, I have witnessed a Morgan driver sweep past, tires smoking, completely sideways, wheels at full lock, saucered eyes out on stalks, struggling mightily to regain some thread of control,. You could tell, at that moment, he was nothing more than a passenger. Then you would see the self-same hero roar by on the next lap, having survived, for the Nth time his vehicle's abuse, wearing a foolish face-splitting grin of ultimate happiness. Is he some sort of motorized masochist? Not likely. His expression of contentment transcends even that of the pilgrim freshly returned from viewing some ancient and precious relic, for he KNOWS. He is of the cognoscenti. He is DRIVING his coveted relic. Actually, Driving a Mog, especially on a long trip, is more akin to being a small boy in the lower forms of that Great Grinder of Rough Edges: the British Public (PRIVATE to we Yanks) School. Your butt takes an almighty beating, but it's the sport that counts, and you soon discover you're having an almost indecent amount of fun. So much, in fact, that if the thin-lipped, stiff-necks of you local Decency (read anti-fun) League would soon, if they could, make if illegal. Someone who smiles as much as you must surely be up to SOMETHING. If you don't buy the establishment's anti-Morgan attitude, you should check on what the US Government's NHTS and EPA Nazis tried to do to them a few years past. The Three-wheeler really does epitomize the teen-age Valkyrie out for a little merriment in the local countryside. One minute all sweet, girlish and docile. The next charging wildly off in some totally unexpected direction, completely disdainful of your futile attempts to regain control. The more you fight, the loftier her attitude. Till finally if you persist in your effort to wrestle her into submission by main strength, she will, without the slightest hesitation, take you into the woods, and kill you. Joy is fear. Fear is joy. You are warned. -F I N - more to come