Indian Moment
Submitted by Jim Greaney
Indian Moments...
There are so many I can’t just pull one up. All of the wonderful people I have met while riding or working is what life is all about.
I have been with Indian since the Gilroy start up. Working for a dealer part time, I have managed to be able work and ride and enjoy the Indian motorcycle, and other Indian riders.
In November of 2000 I got the marketing department to let me buy one of their used test market Chiefs.
It was a little ruff when I got it; I fell in love with the bike after a short ride. The low long stretched look, with plenty of power for an 88 cubic inch motor. I have had this bike for almost eight years now. Yes I have rebuilt everything on it, making it my bike.
Everyone strives to have something different. We all customize to our own style, the wonderful thing about Indian is the classic nostalgic styling from the factory.
I meet alot of Indian riders, and each and everyone has their own idea of why they think Indian is the best. I have other brands in the past, some were nice, some were not. The service I have got out of this bike is great, I would not trade for anything else, and this one will stay in the family.
Thanks,
Jim Greaney
Chino,Ca.
Submitted by William O. Eagle
It was early March of 2004 and I was on the quest to see one of the New Chiefs. So my wife and I visited a nearby Indian dealership where we laid our eyes on the 2003 Black Vintage Chief. The bike was set upon a pedestal that was tucked in a corner display. I immediately knew I must own this bike, there was no stopping me, even my wife didn't attempt to try...she knew too.
I took the bike for a ride and was in love with every aspect/detail. I had to have it. The way it rumbled after turning over was sheer perfection like none I had experienced (I had ridden a 2004 Harley FLT one week earlier and there was no comparison). I was going to purchase this bike at any cost. So, we drove back home that day discussing our finances and what we had to do to make this happen. I loved the black on tan Chief, it was gorgeous - that is until my wife stated she thought the Centennial Red Vintage was more 'Indian-like' and that 'everyone has a black bike'. I couldn't argue nor agree with her more. Red it was.
A few weeks had passed and I finally located a red and tan Vintage Chief in St. Paul MN. We live near Ann Arbor, Michigan, and in late March it's still pretty cold (~30F). So after hammering out the details with the owner, a week later I would fly into St. Paul on Saturday morning where he would pick me up from the airport and I would drive it all the way straight home roughly 680 miles. Saturday came, and we couldn't believe the weather forecast...it was going to be in the 70's in the entire Midwest! I couldn't believe it...it was meant to be. So my beautiful wife dropped me off at the airport at around 4:00 a.m. (I got no sleep in anticipation of my life altering event that was about to take place). I kissed her good bye, knowing I would be a changed person when I see her again.
So I caught my charter to Chicago, and was well on my way ...that is until the pilot came on the loudspeaker stating there was some 'turbulence' ahead and that we would be averting the supercell and going around Chicago. Well, we averted nothing...we went, what seemed, through the dead center of this storm. It grew extremely dark very guick and I watched nearby bolts of lightning out my window. The plane began to violently buck in every direction and to freefall drop...the noise was deafening and I thought this was 'it'. I seriously can't die before I get my Indian. Please..please...please let me get through this.....
About 20 very-long minutes had passed and we had made it through it. The sky broke open and it was beautiful...I made it into Chicago unscathed albeit extremely sea-sick. Now I thought, 'how am I going to make it 700 miles straight on a motorcyle after this?' I had recently started a new job and I HAD to make it back to work by Monday. I found some Dramamine and waited for my next flight. I arrived in St. Paul at around 11:00 a.m. feeling a little better, but not much. The current owner of the bike (Bill) picked me up from the airport and we drove to his house an hour West of St. Paul. We arrived at his house, and as the garage door opened, he had positioned the bike in the center of the garage, I began to see the fender..the warbonnet...then the headlight and I got all choked up and apologized to him for being speechless. We fired up the Chief and it roared unmistakably. I put my leathers and highway pegs on, thanked him and was about to set off, but before I could, Bill suggested I tweak my route home a little. There was a motorcycle rally taking place along the Missippi River called 'The Missippi River Run'. Which made sense to me because on the way to his house from the airport I noted hundreds of motorcycles on the highway heading in the same direction. I thought this was an awesome idea...what better way to enjoy my first ride on 'MY' Indian then to share it with fellow brethren riders.
So, I changed my route and headed due South instead of East to Chicago to see the 'Mighy Mississippi'. The sun was shining and there was not a cloud in the sky, the air temperature was around 74F ..it was truly perfect. I also decided to abandon my helmet for the first time as there are no helmet Laws in Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Illinois unike Michigan. I began to see more and more bikers..literally thousands of them. I was now riding amongst thousands of other bikers through the beautiful little towns along the Mississippi River on my gorgeous Indian. All along the way, other riders were pulling up next to me and admiring the iconic motorcycle and shouting positive statements to me, 'Beautiful Bike' being the most common. I continued on with the River Run for the next 80 miles in sheer zen-like bliss with a little disbelief thrown in for good measure. Each little town we entered there was a fesival atmosphere with parade onlookers set up along the streets. The attention an Indian Motorcycle gains is truly an amzing thing in and of itself...this was completely new to me and was quite incredible. The final leg of the run finished off in a quaint little village alongside the River. While the other riders were pulling off and parking their bikes on the downtown mainstreet, I noticed a group of isolated riders at the end of the town and as I passed them with their motorcycles backed in curbside, I noticed the fendered warbonnets.. several Chiefs, several Scouts and several Spirits. As if time stood still, all the Indian riders raised their drinks as I passed.. ackowledging in that brief moment 'our' brotherhood and love for the motorcyle.
As I left town by myself, continuing on my solo journey, towards Chicago.. I now knew what it was like to be a very proud Indian Motorcycle owner. I made it back to my home in Michigan exactly 24 hours later from the time I left, as a changed person. My wife met me at the door, after she heard me coming up the street.. and asked me how it was.
Words simply couldn't express 'My Indian Moment'.
Submitted by Rob Welch
This is what became of my 2001 Indian Scout after a guy pulling a trailer came in to my lane and I lost my left leg. There was no way I was going to stop riding so I made it in to a Trike .I should be back on it in a few weeks. I will be going back down to Florida to go back to work. My faith is what got me through all this and my faith will keep me going.
God's Speed,
Rob
Submitted by Tara Smith
After putting up my bike for the winter, I covered it up and lovingly patted the seat "See you on the next warm day" and sadly closed the garage door.
You see, I had put over 1500 Miles on my Scout this summer going from Utah to Sturgis and then on to Kansas without one minute of trouble from her. It was the adventure of a lifetime fom the Rockies to the rolling hills of Kansas and I can tell you I got plenty of people wanting to stop and take pictures or ask questions about the new Indians. My two buddies I was riding with were riding Harley's and were tired of everyone checking out the Scout. And as soon as I got home my granddaughter was excitedly asking when she could go for a ride. It was January 6th and about 60 degrees outside and I could take it no longer, I opened the garage door and unbeknownst to me my granddaughter was right behind me. I pulled the cover off and she said, "what are you doing Nan, looking at your ol Indian pal"? I turned the gas on and the key and of course it roared to life. Those little blue eyes looked up at me and she asked one more time for a ride and I knew right then she was hooked for life. We enjoyed a beautiful ride around the lake as she sqeezed my sides and held on tight and said "everything is prettier on your Indian Nan". I knew right than I had just had an Indian moment.
Submitted By Gene Auriemma
Heres a pic of me at Daytona Biketoberfest, 2000, with my just purchased new 1999 chief. When I saw my first chief, I was awestruck and had to have one. I found a dealer in Bradonton, FL. I drove there from Naples, FL and bought one...red and cream, # 973. Of course i still own it, and ride it with my Harley brothers. When I pass, it will stay in the family and be enjoyed and treasured by my heirs. What better way to keep me in someones memory than to have it said that....this Indian was handed down by my father, grandfather, great grandfather, etc....
Submitted By Lewis W. Carter
All Indian Motorcycles owners are somewhat of a lone wolf rider, as we were willing to step away from the crowd when we purchased our Indian Motorcycle. We were willing to take a chance on a dream that we would be a part of the rebirth of a legend and that’s what makes us different. Most riders have to follow the crowd, but us Indian owners are willing to take the less traveled road. Our dreams were not only to ride a legend, but be a part of that legend. And when we get old, we can tell our grandchildren that we didn’t follow the same old road as those other Motorcycle Riders. Like so many true Americans that had the sense of adventure in their blood we too took a different trail. I love to stop along the way when ridding my Indian Motorcycle and hear the stories about how their father had an Indian or how their first motorcycle ride was on the back of an Indian Motorcycle. When you ride up on an Indian everyone stops and takes notice, you not riding just another motorcycle, you riding a legend. Then when you start your engine and ride off, heads are still straining for one last look of a true motorcycle legend.
Submitted by Dr. Mark Stanley
The crisp October sky seemed to ignite in flames as we rolled through Carver’s Gap, and thundered down the mountainside. Perched at the peak of Roan Mountain, Carver’s Gap straddles Tennessee and North Carolina on Highway 143. The highway’s two lanes are carved from the vertical face of the one of the highest mountains east of the Rockies, at 6,200 ft, more than a mile in the sky. Aside from the Blue Ridge Parkway, and the Tail of the Dragon, it may be one of the finest roads in the Blue Ridge Mountains for motorcycling. The hues of the magnificent sunset spreading across the western sky, along with the brilliant fall foliage certainly reinforced that thought, as we wound around, and down, through cascades of falling yellow, red and orange leaves. The wind of our passage left tiny whirlwinds and cyclones of fall colors in our wake, as we plummeted down the mountain, through the state park, past the Ranger Stations, and the Old Mill, with it’s waterwheel. The clear, clean water of a rock-bedded stream rolls past the mill, where there are giant trout lurking in deep, crystalline pools.
We were bound, on this gorgeous fall evening, for the Cruise-In, held in Elizabethton, Tennessee, by the Carter County Car Club. On Saturday evenings, from April to October, tourists, gear-heads, car enthusiasts, aficionados of the ‘50s, and the just plain old curious, gather to ogle a staggering array of vehicles. They gather along the main street of tiny Elizabethton, which is closed off to traffic for this weekend event, from 5 until 9 every spring, summer and fall Saturday night. People gather from all over the southeast, and the eastern seaboard to see the cars, trucks, and sometimes, just plain strange vehicles that sometimes show up. Every kind of motor vehicle you can imagine can be found, from classic ’57 Chevy’s and hot rods, to exotics like Lamborghinis, Ferraris, and Aston Martins. My dad told me that once when he was there, and there was a huge, hulking, ex-German military Mercedes Benz Unimog with six enormous tires.
I’d heard about the event for years, but this would be my first visit. Main Street of Elizabethton is one-way, about ten blocks long, and is closed to traffic, unless you have a show vehicle. If you do, you are allowed to cruise, and park if you wish, on Main Street.
The people you meet here are true connoisseurs of fine machinery, so I have spent the majority of today with rags in my hand, cleaning my Chief: washing, waxing, polishing, detailing. There was no way I was going to bring my bike to this gathering unless it looked its very best. The Chief was, I have to admit (even if I am quite prejudiced) looking good. The paintwork glowed, the chrome sparkled, and the leather shone with that deep patina that only well-tanned, cared-for leather has. My wife accuses me of having a steel mistress, and she may well be right. I love my cycle, and when I got it, some years ago, I confess to having gone a bit overboard. I chromed everything but the wheels, added every accessory I could lay my hands on, and then the pie’ce de re’sistance, I had a well-known custom motorcycle seatmaker cover my seat and saddlebags in ostrich and python leather. It sounds a bit garish, but, in fact, matches the black and cream paint scheme of the bike quite well. It also collected the Chief the nickname of “The Snakeskin Cowboy”.
I wheeled onto the approach to Main street, and crept along toward the top of the street, where police officers, and car club marshals were directing the traffic down into multiple parking lots. Finally, I pulled up to the entrance…and the deputy and marshall rolled the orange barrels aside and motioned me to proceed down Main Street. I was more than a bit surprised…I wasn’t driving a car-this was a motorcycle. I toed it into gear and crept through the barricades. As I passed, the deputy grinned and flashed a ‘thumbs up’, and the car club official raised his voice over the exhaust rumble to say “Sweet bike, man!”
I smiled back, and gave them a return thumbs up.
I eased the Chief down Main, checking out the huge number of amazing vehicles. Woody station wagons, all types of classic cars and trucks from the 50’s, muscle cars from the 60’s, exotic sports cars, hot rods with wild bodywork and glowing layers upon layers of hand rubbed paint. It suddenly struck me…there were no bikes to be seen anywhere. None. I was it. Then I noticed that along the sidewalk, people were pointing, and waving, smiling and flashing the ‘thumbs up’. One of the orange-vested marshalls flagged me down, and motioned me to park my bike in an open diagonal slot, near the middle of town. I was feeling more than a little self-conscious now. Some of those vehicles must have been worth 50 or maybe even close to a hundred thousand dollars. This may have been a mistake.
I pulled just ahead of the slot, and walked the Chief backwards into it. I killed the engine, dropped the kickstand, and reached up to unbuckle my helmet. As I looked up, I almost fainted. There was a crowd around the bike 3 or 4 people deep…and growing by the second! Immediately, before I could even climb out of the saddle, the questions and comments began:
“Y’all, that is FINE!”
“What year is that?”
“It’s a 51 or a 52, I think…isn’t it?”
“What kind of leather is that…is that real snakeskin?”
“Man, I love that two-tone paint.”
“How long did it take you to restore that beauty?”
“Daddy had one a’ them, remember?”
“Isn’t that one of the new ones?”
“I thought the new ones looked just like Harleys…that ain’t no Harley, see the carb is on the LEFT side…”
I fielded questions like a shortstop for 20 or 30 minutes, and when they finally started to slow down a bit, I said “Excuse me, y’all, I’ll be back in a bit, I’m going to wander around some.” I eased off, with the crowd still examining every square inch of the Chief. I exhaled, and thanked my lucky stars I’d spent so much time primping the bike. There were even guys crawling around on the ground to look under it. The attention was cool, but a bit exhausting. The Chief usually drew attention…but never like this!
Downtown Elizabethton was very quaint, and looked exactly like the downtown area in the movie “American Graffiti”…especially now with the street choked with spectacular classic cars. At the end of the street, stands the original Carter County Courthouse from the 1780’s when the town was incorporated. There are plaques, laying out the history and founding of the community. The town plays a fascinating role in American history. It was the mustering site for an American Revolutionary War force called “The Overmountain Men”. Word had came from Charlotte, North Carolina, that the British forces had gathered there. Colonel John Sevier, future Governor of Tennessee, put out a call for all able-bodied militiamen to assemble at Elizabethton. When they had gathered, the American forces set out to surprise the British, by crossing the mountains, where they were least expected. They marched up the very same road that I had just ridden down, and crossed through Carver’s Gap. They marched on down into North Carolina, confronted, and defeated the British forces, at a place called…Kings Mountain.
I strolled back down Main Street to my bike. The crowd had pretty much dispersed, except for one elderly gentleman, standing, gazing at the Chief. As I walked up, still wearing my leathers, he glanced at me, and looked back at the bike. “That’s a real nice Indian you have there, young man. Piece of American history, you know. I don’t recognize the year model, but my memory sure ain’t what it used to be. I courted my late wife on an Indian though. Couldn’t afford me no car, back there before the war, but I got me a used Scout. I loved that bike. She and I used to ride all over these mountains on it.”, He said.
I smiled, “Sounds like you had a great time on it.”
We both introduced ourselves, and chatted a bit more.
“Well,” he said, “I gotta run. My daughter gets all a-twitter when I stay out much after dark. Thinks I got the Alzheimer’s or some such. But I thank you, young feller, you stirred up some mighty good memories. Mighty good.”
He turned to me. “You know, they supposed to start makin’ Indians again, over Charlotte way, I hear tell. Pretty soon, you might be able to buy you a new one.”“I had heard that, sir. I am looking forward to seeing one.”We both said good night, and I cranked the bike. I dropped it into gear, and eased out into the street, and down toward the highway. As I turned off main street, and headed up the highway, I glanced back up Main, the old man was standing half out in the street, watching.
I smiled, and turned my face into the October night winds, and followed in the path of The Overmountain Men, upward out of the Tennessee darkness, onto the moonlight mountainside, toward North Carolina.
Submitted by Howard
One spring day I was riding up in the mountains of Green Mountain Falls Colorado. I saw this teepee out of the corner of my eye and doubled back and naturally asked if I could take a picture. Not only did the owner agree but, suggested that I put on the headdress too. I laughed and said no. But, after a little more prodding by him...I just did it. I am part Indian and the picture turned out a little bit realistic looking. I get quite a laugh out of it and so do all of my friends. Just goes to show that you never know what kind of unexpected fun you'll have when out riding your iconic Indian motorcycle.
Submitted by KC
In my dreams last night.
I watched an Indian Motocycle.
Climbing slowly up the side of a mountain.
The road was rutted – the machine covered in dust.
The rider was slumped over in the saddle, his silhouette conveyed weariness.
His face wore an expression of sorrow and loss.
In my dream I watched.
As he reached the summit of the mountain.
Climbed off his machine.
Raised his arms to the heavens.
Tipped back his head.
And shouted into the 4 winds.
“Saint Peter!
Open your gates.
Throw them wide and hold onto your robes.
The Indian Riders are sending you another Brother!
We’ve lost another rider from our earthly band.
He’s riding the clouds on a phantom Chief.
No stop on the throttle on this ride.
No pain or fear or worry.
He left that behind when he departed his earthly body.
This is the ride of dreams.
Saint Peter!
That ain’t the Lords thunder you hear rumbling towards you.
It’s the rolling thunder of an Indian Motocycle.
Our Brother is belly down on the fat tanks of a phantom Chief.
He is on the perfect heavenly road to his reward.
He rides the clouds!
Eternally full tanks—and the perfect motocycle.
Our Brother is on the ride of dreams.
Saint Peter!
Hear that thunder getting closer?
You better get Lumpy, and Handy, Choctaw, and Inchief, Corky, Lil Bastard, 1BIGDogg, WhiteWinterWoman and Big Daddy.
Tell them there is a brother roaring towards the gates.
They will want to be waiting to join him.
As he rides into his eternal reward.
Saint Peter!
You better warn the Angels!
Heaven will be hosting an Indian Pow Wow.
These Brothers will have a celebration of the life they have left behind.
They will rejoice in being together in the place of dreams.
They will rejoice in the blessings they had in the world they left behind.
They will rejoice in the memories of families and the friendships they were allowed to share on their time on earth. Saint Peter!
Rejoice alongside them.
Do not judge them by their looks.
These are good men who lived good lives on earth.
They chose to travel an earthly path that took them down a different trail than most people follow.
They are among the best we have to offer.
We did not want to give them up this soon.
But the roll was called, and they followed the will of the Creator.
In my dreams last night.
I watched the weary rider climb back onto his machine.
His face had a look of relief, and joy.
He had done the task assigned to him.
He understood the loss we feel on earth is temporary.
He understood the rewards our brothers’ ride to are eternal.
In my dreams last night.
I watched the rider.
Roar down the mountainside.
On his dusty machine.
I saw him return to his brothers.
I watched as he conveyed his joy at sending another rider on.
He explained to his band that on the roads of Heaven.
Indian riders do not Rest in Peace.
There is no time for that.
The roads are eternally perfect.
The machines are built by the Creator.
The riders are blessed with eternal joy.
Submitted by Glen Henry
I had to trailer the bike from Liberty Hills Texas to Gainesville Georgia since it had been a while since I had been on two wheels and I felt like 18 hours was a little much for my break-in ride.
I had sold my last two wheeler in 1975 when I got married and decided to start a family and had not been back on one since. The kids are all grown now and have their own kids so it is time for me to hit the road again. There is no better way than on my Chief.
Submitted by Teresa Ascenzi-Hampton
(Left to Right: Lydian, Henry, and Victor Ascenzi)
My Dad and two of his brothers all rode Indians. They were hillclimbers, a sport that has taken on a whole new meaning in the last 30 years.
The three of them were called "The Feather Merchants", because they rode Indians. The three men were tops in the racing and motorcycle world in the '40's and 50's. Victor, Henry and Lydian Ascenzi, from Portland, Oregon.
In the 1920's, Harley came to Dad, trying to solicit him to help promote his motorcycle. He took Dad out for a burger! Dad always said, 'The cheap Bastard, took me out for a nickel burger. No way would I ride for him!' Of course, that was the going price then. But I suspect, even if it had been a steak dinner with all the trimmings, he would never had traded down for an HD. Hope you enjoyed a little past history on a more personal note.
Submitted by Lee Hambrick
Oh, it’s going to break. A throttle cable is going to snap just when you need it most.
You are going to pick up a nail so far from civilization that there isn’t a stick of lumber within a hundred miles for that nail to have come out of.
Or, out of the clear blue it fills your ears, the pop, pop, pop then nothing, just the sound of the wind as you coast to the side of the road hoping for enough momentum to get you to that shady patch. Better ratchet that hope up into a full fledged prayer because you do not want to be pushing one of these skirted anvils anywhere.
So, out comes the tool roll. The knot in the roll has made it a bear to undo but despite your miserable situation you tell yourself to take it easy. The tool roll is Indian just like the machine and you are not about to go nuclear on the object of your pride and affection. Even as you are reminding yourself to remain calm you have no problem cussing the day you took a sack of your life savings to buy something that you love and adore to the point of unhealthy obsession only to have it then take you so far from anybody and just leave you stranded.
You finesse the knot free and get the roll opened up on the seat. Taking stock of the available implements and roadside band aids you have amassed you review the repair flowchart filed in your head. If it’s a plug wire worked loose, no problem. Reseat it. If it’s a cracked coil, you have two or three likely fixes onboard to get you to town. If it’s a dead short, maybe you can find it. If you can’t, maybe you have enough bars to get a call out. If not, you can try that praying thing again only this time the request might be some kind of Blanche Dubois prayer for the kindness of strangers. If your god is listening maybe he’s amenable to providing a strong kid with a pickup that just dropped a riding mower off at Farmer Jones and has the empty trailer to prove it. If your god is in a really generous mood, maybe the lawnmower repair work is the kid’s bread and butter so he can work on motorcycles in his spare time.
No matter what the problem, no matter what the fix, sooner or later you get to the other side of it. You lay a leg over the saddle and hit the button ready to pick up where you left off. The twins roar to life and you look down at the tanks and ahead at the road over the risers wondering if this animal is done interrupting your life, wondering if the last thing to go wrong just did and now you can put on those trouble-free miles you started your journey expecting.
Still shellshocked from the downtime and the hoops you had to jump through to get mobile again, you glance over your shoulder to the road at your back and swing around in the saddle to check the oncoming side while easing it out into the highway. Adjusting your position you tell the machine telepathically just how much time and money you have wasted in this escapade and just how disappointed you are. You hit second and squeeze the throttle grip that way you do to tighten up the gloveleather around your fingers, then you hit third and the wind comes on and the motor telegraphs that Vtwin rumble of American torque right through every bone in your body and you smile, and the breakdown was a thousand lifetimes back and forgotten in an instant and the sun is shining and the tank is full and there’s only one thing on your mind in that moment, and that thing is grabbing fourth gear.
That moment, the dumb grin and the fistful of throttle, the sudden amnesia that forgives all ills, the wind, the power, the lengthening shadow running at your side that lets you see the rider and the long low skirted machine as one living thing, the shadow stretching in the late day sun and melting into the dusk as night comes on.
That moment. That Indian moment.
Pop.
Submitted by Hugh Whitsit
My 2002 Chief never left me anywhere. She always started and got me home in style. After 20K miles, I trailered out to Stugis for the third time to ride the Black Hills. I'd always thought how fun it would be to ride out from N.Y., but without a Dealer network that might be a little to risky. Our little group thought it would be great to ride to Wounded Knee to view the site of the massacre and talk to the locals. A great ride it was with the rolling hills and smooth roads.
I programmed my GPS with the exact coordinates of the site of the massacre so not to miss it - Off the main road a half mile it said. Just as I got to the spot, the GPS said "loss of internal power". I thought how strange this was, so without thinking I just shut the bike down. I went to start it again and nothing, dead battery. After finding a local custom shop to use the lift, the rotor and stator had failed. Changing the two parts, I was on the road again riding in style once again. Maybe my bike was truly the last Indian to die at Wounded Knee.
I promised not to upset my big Indian and take her there again.
Submitted by Danny Flucke
Here in Huntington Beach – My local voting place in inside a retirement community. So I rumble up to my parking spot – Go inside and wait in line for my turn to pick the lesser of all the evils.
I come out to find the usual crowd surrounding my ’03 Chief – Except this time it’s different…
There are two old timer community residents – Stan and Gus – Arguing over the year of my Indian. Stan says it’s a ‘48 and Gus demands it’s a ’51. They both owned one “exactly” like it…
The debate is getting heated now – With the families trying to keep these 80 yrs young scrappers from taking the fight to the ground.Gus’s oldest son Mike leans over and whispers “Isn’t that one of the new ones?”…
I step into the crowd and settle it in a second by simply saying “You are both right. It’s a ’48 with a ’51 front end.” Mike smiles and nods approvingly. They congratulate each other on being right, shake hands, and then take turns for the next hour telling adventure stories you couldn’t even dream up. Breaking down at midnight - Sneaking into a farmers field to borrow a few parts off an abandoned tractor to get your Scout back running – And seeing a shadow in the shape of a bull behind you… Jumping out a second story window when her father came home and then dodging rock salt blasts while trying to kick start the Chief…(Gus has a tendency to say “Pardon my French” and then cussing for a few sentences anyway…)
At the end of our time together – It brought a tear to my eye watching Stan say goodbye to the Chief – As he slowly patted the saddlebag and his voice cracked “Now you take good care of this young man…”
Three years later – I still can’t bring myself to wash that saddlebag………
Submitted by Fran "Joker" CurtisWe attended the induction of Branscomb Richmond into the bikers hall of fame.
An Indian moment, As soon as one of Oglala chiefs spotted my bike he had the press move everyone to the side and asked if he could sit on my 2000 Silver Cloud. I told him it would be an honor to have an actual chief on my Chief. Not one to take pictures of Native people in full regalia I had a friend take this shot. A Chief on a Chief. He returned from WWII after serving in the 82cnd Airborne and bought his first Indian.
I have many other Indian moments in my archives of over one hundred and fifty thousand miles on my silver cloud, from the start of the IRG to two trips around the country to several trips to Sturgis, the speed channel Yosemite ride, MDA rides in Oakland and LA. Our 2000 Chief has been the center of conversations from Brentwood Ca. to Lookout Mtn Tennessee. As you can tell Michele and I enjoy our Chief it has introduced us to Movie Stars, Politicians, CEOs and GOOD OL Riders. Love it.
I ride my chief practically everyday to my classroom, we have been members of the startup IRG, we are members of the American Legion Riders and the Patriot Riders, look forward to seeing more Indians on the road, sorry that you guys are not as close to home as you once were… Gilroy was a short putt away.
Keep your knees in the breeze
Fran “Joker” Curtis
MSG USA (retired)
Submitted by Lorie Schwartz
Kathi Arnold with her Centennial Scout#90. She fell off her first Indian Motorcycle before she was born. Mom was pregnant with her and took a spill. Her bike was her life. I've known her only a short time but she is a special friend to everyone she meets. She lost her bike to cancer and then her life November 16, 2005. I will miss her!
Long after midnight in a town far past its prime, you drop the kickstand next to a gas pump.
An old man shuffles from a clapboard shack leaning tired against a boarded up garage. You hand him ten bucks, he inserts a little crank in the pump and turns it. The mechanical digits reset to zero and you're good to go.
"I used to ride an Indian," he says. You look at him for the first time and see an image of a much, much younger man living in his eyes.
He tells you he was seven when his dad came home from the war and used his discharge pay to buy a Chief. "Looked about the same as yours," he says. Says his mom used to get mad because he got to pack behind the old man more than she did
It takes you a sec to flash that he's talking about the big war, War II as the Marines called it. You realize that his dad was one of the original wild ones, the restless vets who two-wheeled across America raising hell and creating the icon we now call "biker."
"Keep it between the ditches, son," he says as you start it up.
You roll out feeling five inches taller than you did riding in. You've just had an Indian moment.