Demon Sighting
Written
by: George
It was a crisp day in cold January, the
kind of day that makes the natural response of breathing an arduous task. I
remember standing on the edge of Moosehead Lake looking over at the luminous
mountain. The whipping wind caused my eyes to water and my cheeks to burn. I
could hear machines in the distance and could smell the bacon from nearby ice
fisherman through my frozen nostrils.
I was thirteen years old and was waiting for my first snowmobile ride.
Jim’s Dad was getting the snowmobile started back up at the hotel. I was
curious to see it, as it had been under cover for the ride up.
I
had never been on a snowmobile in my life and was not prepared for my next experience.
As I was still taking in the scenery, the tranquility quickly became
a memory. The sound of an engine racing through the rpm range sliced the solace
like a guillotine. I quickly turned
to see what was coming and all I could see through my watery eyes was blackness.
An out of control stealth like object was approaching me at Maximum Velocity.
I rubbed my eyes and looked for the trademark headlight to ensure that
this was a snowmobile but one was never found.
The ice shook as this machine of darkness raced by my frozen body in
a rage of fury. This phantom menace shot up enough snow to cover my boots as
it screamed by. In a flash it was gone.
By
this time several innocent snowmobiles raced over to observe the instant insanity,
figuring that I was somehow related to this headless horseman as he chose to
buzz by me. The machine of darkness was on the approach again but at a somewhat
realistic pace. As the machine pulled up it looked like no other snowmobile
I had ever seen before. It was sleek, black, and deadly.
It
was non other than Mr. Sullivan, Jims dad. By now 3 or 4 snowmobilers came to
look at this mystery machine and they oohed and aahed at this specimen of speed.
I was still caught in its demonistic stare since it had come to rest. It moved
at over 100mph standing still, if you know what I mean. Jim’s dad asked
if I was ready for a ride.
He
pulled the rip cord and the sleeping menace came to life with fury and conviction.
The rpm range began to climb and we started to move. Jim’s dad tapped
my hands to ensure a tight hold and then he whacked the throttle. The motor
screamed reaching sonic decibels. I will never forget the echoing sound as it
raced through my body. The only verbiage that could describe the feeling would
be comparative to that of a high roller coaster decent.
The snap of the throttle knocked the breath right out of me and sent
every butterfly in my stomach into a fit of rage. Never had I experienced a
true adrenaline rush like this. I made a vow with my young self that I will
own this machine some day.
I
will never forget that day, or that 83 Vmax. I find myself standing in my shed
looking into the same sinister face on my 86, the same way I did 18 years ago.
I have owned allot of machines over the years but none has effected me the same
as the old muscle. Sure there are
plenty of record breaking lake racers today, but no other snowmobile has rocked
the era for which it was born into such as the Vintage Vmax.
