'You must be out of your head,' said Wut, and my father cast a wild eye around the garage.
'Lots of sidecars,' he said, 'but they're not motorcycles, really. And side-valvers,' he said, 'lots of low-speed torque, which is all right for the war, I guess, but you don't win races with them, do you?'
'Just a minute,' said Wut. 'I've got two six hundred cc overhead valves. They move along all right.'
'No rear suspension, though,' Vratno said. 'Centre of gravity was too high, and hurt the handling - if I remember '38.'
'Remarkably, you remember,' said Wut. 'And how old were you then, boy?'
'Just two '38 models, the side-valvers and the sidecar tanks,' my father counted scornfully. 'I'm sorry, Wut,' he said, 'I was mistaken. You don't have anything for me here.' And he started for the door. 'By the end of this war,' he added, 'NSU will be back to making nothing but mopeds.'
'And they don't even send me where the real driving is!' said Wut.
My father walked out into Smartin Street, with Gottlob Wut wincing behind, socket wrench stuck in his boot.
'Maybe,' said Vratno, 'they thought you were too old for the front. Maybe, Wut, they figured you had your action behind you. Lost your zip, you know?'
'You didn't see the racer in there,' said Wut, shyly. 'I keep it under a tarp.'
'What racer?' Vratno asked.
'Grand Prix racer of '39,' said Wut, and stood unbalanced with his feet too close together - his hands locking and unlocking behind his back.
'The one that was too heavy?' Vratno said.
'I can make it lighter,' said Wut. 'Of course, I had to put some trimmings on it so they'd think it was just a workhorse machine like the others. But I take them off for a run, now and then. You know - the kickstand, toolbox, pack rack, radio mounts and that saddle-bag crap; I had to fill it in a little, for the war look, but it's still the '39 Grand Prix racer, five hundred cc model.'
&nb
sp; My father came suspiciously back to the doorway. 'That's the twin, right?' he said. 'The supercharged double-overhead-cam twin? Got the duplex cradle frame, and the boxed plunger rear suspension?'
'Want to see it, huh?' said Wut, and he blushed.
But under the tarp was the racer disguised as a war bike, the camouflage paint a somewhat darker tone because of the black enamel layers underneath.
'What can she hit?' Vratno asked.
'Strip her down and she'll hit one-fifty,' said Wut. 'Her weight's still high at four eighty-six, but a lot of that's fuel. She puts it away; she's under four hundred when she's dry.'
'Roadability?' said Vratno, giving conspicuous little jounces to the front end, as if he knew all about the shocks.
'Oh, still a bit rough,' Wut said. 'Handles hard, maybe, but the power never fails you.'
'I can imagine,' said Vratno, and Gottlob Wut looked at the racing flags crossed over my father's ear hole. Then he sent one of the children to the barracks for his helmet.
'Javotnik, wasn't it?' he asked.
'Vratno. Vratno Javotnik.'
And Gottlob said, 'Well, Vratno, about this fear of yours ...'
'Overcoming it's the problem, Wut.'
'I think, Vratno,' Gottlob said, 'that good drivers have to transfer their fears.'
'To what, Wut?'
And Gottlob said, 'Pretend it's a different fear, boy. Pretend it's like the fear when you first learn to ride.'