31 July 2012
Motorized Fun in the Frozen North
By: Rob Sass
Proof that it’s possible to have a great time on noisy old machines in sub-zero conditions.
My only previous experience on a snowmobile took place in the
’80s as a student at the University of Colorado-Boulder. All it took was
some foolhardy hot-dogging on skis, and my reward was a snowmobile
pulling my young, unwise and unconscious (admittedly, that last
qualifier wasn’t so unusual during those years) self to a hospital in
Breckenridge.
I grew up in St. Louis, and while it snows there a few times each
winter, it rarely stays on the ground for long. Bad snowmobile country.
My first winter in northern Michigan, however, had me feeling as
though I’d joined the cast of “Ice Road Truckers.” the snow doesn’t melt
until at least April and, eventually, most parking lots sport a
2/3-scale replica of Mt. Kilimanjaro formed from plowed snow. Good
snowmobile country.
What little I did know about snowmobiles came from a vague
familiarity with their colorful names that I couldn’t quite place and
that struck me as things like “Permafrost Panther” and “Tundra Terror.”
Traverse City, Michigan, had been enjoying a relatively mild
spell in January with lows in the 20s, until my date with snowmobile
destiny arrived. An Alberta Clipper dropped the overnight low into
negative numbers. The thought of adequate clothing briefly had occurred
to me the night before and I made a half-hearted effort to prepare by
buying some long underwear at Old Navy.
The real snowmobile guys arrived in quilted jumpsuits. I was
reminded of stories I’d read about the Germans at Stalingrad
pathetically stuffing their inadequate uniforms with newspaper in a vain
effort to stay warm while Red Army snipers in white quilted jumpsuits
(not unlike the ones these guys were wearing) picked them off at their
toasty leisure.
After eating a breakfast of four eggs and every breakfast meat
known to man at Peegeo’s—gracious host of the day’s get-together for the
Traverse City chapter of the Antique Snowmobile Association—I was told I
would get a thorough check-out on snowmobile operation before setting
off on my own. And if I couldn’t ride with these folks, I could sure eat
with them.
I don’t know what I was expecting as far as the tech session, but
in actuality it consisted of showing me the location of the throttle,
brake and kill switch. I pondered the scenarios in which I’d use the
kill switch: “If I’m still on the thing, well, then I can damn sure
reach the brake, and if I’m tossed off and the throttle sticks open,
well, then the kill switch would be out of reach, now wouldn’t it?” In
reality, the brevity of the tech briefing was really a reflection on the
simplicity of snowmobiles. No gears, transmission or clutch like a car
or a motorcycle; you just start it and open the throttle.
And off I went on someone else’s beautifully restored 1973 Rupp
440 Nitro, into a tavern parking lot crowded with trucks, trailers and
other equally nice vintage snowmobiles. It was a quick lesson in
snowmobile dynamics and control. On the whole, it reminded me a bit of a
Detroit muscle car from the 1960s. Great throttle response, plenty of
power, with steering and braking that were largely theoretical.
After successfully circumnavigating the Peegeo’s lot, we set off
for a large open field where I could ride and compare several vintage
sleds, along with a brand new 2011 Polaris Rush. Upon arrival at said
field, I was urged to try a sled called the “Diablo Rouge,” a large,
articulated thing built in 1968 by Bolens. It looked less like a
traditional snowmobile and showed a greater resemblance to a
nuclear-powered snow blower attached to a Flexible Flyer, complete with a
lawn mower handle for steering. It proved every bit as difficult to
handle as it looked. It was not unlike driving a car with no power
steering, wide tires and a lot of weight over the front. Turning at low
speeds (which is all I dared on this monster) was nearly impossible, and
there was always the concern of having the back meet the front with one
of my legs in between.
Next I tried a Skee Horse. It was compact, light, and had a front
reminiscent of an Austin-Healey Bugeye Sprite or an old Subaru 360. I
actually got quite comfortable on it. So comfortable, in fact, that I
decided I’d try one of those tail-out, power on, low-speed turns I’d
been seeing all morning. I shifted my weight and got on the throttle but
didn’t quite account for the uneven ground. As I tipped over on the
sled (seemingly in slow motion), for some odd reason I heard the voice
of Howard Cosell repeating the iconic “Down goes Frazier! Down goes
Frazier!” call from the 1973 Joe Frazier-George Foreman fight. Ah, the
agony of defeat. At least the photographers and onlookers got what they
so badly wanted to see—snowmobile greenhorn city slicker tossing himself
off a sled.
My last sled of the morning was a 2011 Polaris Rush 800 with
about 120 hp. It had an exhaust note reminiscent of a superbike, rather
than the corn popper-like clatter of some of the older two-stroke sleds.
Throttle response was virtually instantaneous and acceleration was
positively vicious, accelerating from 0 to Scaring the Crap Out of Me in
about a second-and a half. This was obviously the Corvette ZR-1 of
snowmobiles. The contrast between the modern and vintage sleds I’d
ridden made me realize how compressed the development time had been in
the snowmobile world— from the Wright Brothers to an F-22 Raptor in
about 40 years.
The vintage snowmobile hobby is in a wonderful spot and my sense
is that the people involved in it realize it and aren’t anxious to see
it change—and for good reason. It’s not unlike the collector car hobby
40 years ago: Great restorable sleds are still available for free to
anyone with a trailer, and the holy grails of vintage snowmobiles are
hard-pressed to break 10 grand. It’s a real eye-opener for those of us
used to $700,000 Shelby Cobras and $1.7 million Hemi ’Cudas.
