Also by Bob
The
Indian Allure
Undamped
Rebound
A
Luddite Nation
Fast Lane Fossils
Flying
the Flag
The Real Deal
Bob is a contributing member, watch for more articles.
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I’m sitting in my local bar near closing
time when the bartender, another regular and I notice a police cruiser
idling right out front, looming ominously through the glass entrance. This
place has had more than its share of brawls on the weekends, as well as
drug activity in the bathrooms and parking lot that the owners would
sincerely love to stamp out, so the police keep an eye on all aspects of
compliance. Their collective memory is razor-sharp when it comes to a
place where they once needed two sets of handcuffs to reach around the
back of a huge, shaggy-bearded, woolly-haired patron, who bowed the
suspension way down on one side of the cruiser when they finally stuffed
him inside, eyes glowering within a tangled mass of locks and tattoos. The
register must be closed by 2 a.m., the last customers gone by 2:30. Since
I keep late hours and arrive stone sober at 1:30, two beers later, I’m
not too worried about riding home in a straight line at 30 m.p.h. But now
it’s only 2:20 a.m.
Suddenly the whole front
of the bar is awash in harsh light. We’re like flies trapped inside a
fluorescent tube. Maybe the police chased a fugitive to the doorstep, then
concluded he must have run inside. We expect to be stormed at any moment.
Finally the other customer ventures out and returns to report that “they
were just admiring your Indian.”
I always sit where I can
see the back wheel, but I had forgotten that the bike was anything out of
the ordinary. That can happen when you ride it nearly every day. I’m
sure there are plenty of other regular Indian riders out there, not to
mention the elite hardy souls who flog their Springfield iron
cross-country, but there’s one place none of us can ride our Indians:
under the radar.
Whether we like it or not,
when we chug past, those who appreciate motorcycles will see it as a
significant event, and others who are the least bit observant will
probably realize they’re seeing something very old and special. I seem
to be invisible to soccer moms in minivans, especially at intersections,
and most conspicuous to women in leather vests riding pillion on
chrome-laden Harleys, as the boyfriend acts too cool to notice.
Once late at night I was
meandering along some lightly traveled back roads, and even with no
mirrors, I kept noticing headlights illuminating the road from behind me,
continuing after I made a couple of turns. Finally I got tired of it and
detoured into a parking lot. It turned out to be a police car, and the
young officer could hardly contain himself as he asked about the bike. “Do
you have any idea of the heritage behind this thing?” he said. Then his
demeanor seemed to wilt a bit as he said, “Gosh, it’s so small.”
Before I could think of a clever reply along the lines of, “Sorry, next
time we’ll try a weathered Heritage Springer with a dummy kicker,” his
radio summoned him on an emergency call.
And I’m not safe even
within my lair. Recently I had started my new 45” with great difficulty
and had it up on the rear stand way back in my driveway, near the back of
the house and visible only if you looked from straight out. In shorts and
a threadbare, grease-stained T-shirt soggy with sweat, I was sitting on
the asphalt with some tools scattered around as I bled the oil feed for
air bubbles, among other minor tasks. A shadow passed in front of the sun,
and I looked up to see a stranger on a bicycle wearing one of those pointy
insect helmets, with his young son in an identical helmet on a smaller
bike. I didn’t mind pausing to talk briefly. He asked: “Is there a
place around here that sells these?” Ever since then, I have been
infected with the mental image of a used 101 lot along a commercial strip
with rows of pennants flapping in the breeze and a sign proclaiming: “BUY
HERE – PAY HERE!” The conversation wore on, and there’s only so much
light in the day, and if I had a lighted garage I probably wouldn’t have
been sitting on the asphalt. So I was relieved when the son said: “Daddy
– it’s too loud!” I fought back an impulse worthy of W.C. Fields to
reach over and unleash a fistful of throttle through the straight pipes (“You
want loud? I’ll give you loud!”), and they left on their own, with the
father assuring the lad, “I bet you’d love to have that man’s nose
full of nickels.” Well, he didn’t really say that, but if thoughts
were deeds I would have deserved it.
None of these incidents
should come as a surprise. Riding an Indian is a privilege, and that’s a
gross understatement. And with privileges come responsibilities. I believe
one of ours is to serve within reasonable limits as goodwill ambassadors
to those who admire the heritage these bikes represent, even if they lack
the wherewithal or commitment to pursue ownership. Of course, there are
two sides to that. I have to say it bothers me that not once has an
inquiring bystander appeared the least bit interested when I have
mentioned the easiest way to learn more about my bikes. The public library
a few blocks from my home has Hugo Wilson’s “Ultimate Motorcycle Book,”
with a large color picture of a much nicer 101 and some background
information.
In the face of this sort
of dunderheadedness, we should probably imagine ourselves as Miss America
in a parade waving to the crowd. Even when we feel more like Olympic
skater Nancy Kerrigan the day she was on a float with costumed stand-ins
for Mickey Mouse and other Disney characters and the crowd overheard her
saying: “This is the corniest thing I’ve ever done.”
It’s part of the gig.
Make your peace with it somehow. Don’t forget to wear the satin sash
next time you go riding. And then: Take it away, Bert Parks! |
