Weishaar won the race with a blistering average speed of more than 71 miles per hour—a new record for a 200-mile event. Weishaar included his new friend, “Johnny,” in a post-race photo op, prompting journalists to start using the word “hog” in reference to Harley-Davidson® riders and their motorcycles.
And so the great race progresses. The 40th(finishing) lap nears. As Weishaar vaults over the crossroad, his strong grip on the handle bars keeping his front wheel steady, the crowd cheers him again and again. Signal men keep him posted on his position and the distance to be traveled. The 39th lap is completed. Everybody moves about, trying to conceal the nervousness that has taken hold of him. Surely the Jinx won’t camp on Ray’s time so close to the finish.
Cameras are set up. The movie men give a preliminary turn to each crank. The checkered flag unfolds. There are shouts of “Here he comes,” “He’s coming!”, “Hurray!”, etc. Weishaar flashes past, the checkered flag unfolds. There are shouts of “Here he comes,” “He’s coming!”, “Hurray!”, etc. Weishaar flashes past, the checkered flag dropping before him. It’s all over and the crowd lets loose in a thunder of shouts, stamping and hand clasping. Second man rolls in a lap behind. Jim Davis arrives three minutes later, taking third place.
Weishaar trundles slowly up to the Harley-Davidson pit and is hobsonized by lady friends and shaken and pounded by his team-mates and factory gang. What do you think were his first words after the race ended? No! Guess again. No, not that either. “Where’s my pig?” Was the question he flung at the admiring crowd. Piggy Mascot was led out and Ray and his porcine majesty retired to a grass plot back of the pits and enjoyed a bottle of milk.
Those races—that first one, especially—were about a rebirth of motorcycling, a triumphant return of the sport so many still loved. To quote one journalist in 1919, “The game is on again.”