Also by Bob
The
Indian Allure
Undamped
Rebound
A
Luddite Nation
Fast
Lane Fossils
The
Real Deal
In
the Spotlight
Bob is a contributing member, watch for more articles.
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Returning from an afternoon ride one day, I told
my wife I had capped things off by trolling the length of the
central business strip near our home. After a few miles of spirited
carving along the riversides, it’s nice to kick back and glide on
the overrun past storefronts and pedestrians, bathing in the glow of
confidence in the machine and your mastery of it. No big deal, just
a routine pass.
“I’m not exactly showing off,” I started to
explain, and Andrea jumped in with: “I hope not!” She knows it’s
not my nature to try to impress people, and a sudden turn in that
direction might suggest I have come unhinged.
Then I started wondering what exactly the
distinction might be. The key thing is that I’m not out to cause a
sensation among onlookers but rather to take my rightful place in
the thick of things as a legitimate presence in traffic. With the
narrow buildings’ 1930s architecture and the leisurely traffic
flow on the concrete street, I can imagine myself in the original
setting for a 101, an ordinary motorcyclist passing through. Because
I occasionally do raise a stir among those shocked at seeing such an
oldfangled contraption out navigating the currents of jellybean cars
and gargantuan sport-utes, it’s refreshing for a change to instead
get a calm, admiring look of acceptance.
I do take intense pride in the Indian and want
people to see that “our flag was still there,” as the line in
“The Star-Spangled Banner” goes. I think of this sort of display
as “flying the flag.” Run it up the flagpole and see who salutes
… or shoots, as they might have said back when the rivalry with
Harley was still going strong. U.S. patriotism may enter into it,
but I would probably feel the same righteous fervor in my gut on a
British Brough Superior, an angular apparition from the V-twin’s
glory days in black and chrome, with feeble brakes and a
bone-rattling ride and a handshift (well, some had a sprung rear and
footshift) to weed out all but the most worthy riders – kind of
like King Arthur pulling the sword out of the rock, but this time he
has to kick-start 1000cc fired by a fittingly medieval magneto.
The real issue is the timelessness of a classic
machine that looks as poised and well integrated today as the day it
was built, because its designers were so rooted in the long view of
handsome, dignified aesthetics. Seventy years from now, will
collectors be sifting among trends in the colorful plastic fairings
on today’s sport bikes? I doubt it, though I would like to think
the manufacturers could eventually find their way back to styling
that exudes integrity. I’m not talking about shameless
re-creations of the classic Indian Chief or Triumph Bonneville.
Soon, you will be able to choose between the original brand name and
country of origin or a more practical Japanese copy for either of
these models, thanks to bankrupt creativity circling the globe. A
design that stands on its own is so much harder to achieve. Here’s
hoping someone comes through.
Meanwhile, I can dream of “flying the flag”
farther afield. My 37” 101 really isn’t fast enough for
sustained highway runs. Within easy riding distance from home, I
have three peaceful parks built up around bodies of water and about
the same number of traditional town centers, so by varying my
circuit, I can avoid feeling like a tropical fish in a tank circling
the same deep-sea diver ornament every so many strokes of the tail.
I count myself blessed to be situated so nicely, especially since I
had no plans to buy a motorcycle when we moved here. I didn’t
think we would need the old garage out back. When it comes to
venturing out and really covering some ground, though, I’m looking
at a web of high-speed highways in every direction. It would take
some very creative use of a map and back roads to find the tiniest
crack in this wall. It’s like being surrounded by a moat, but in a
huge castle compound that’s self-sustaining and really nothing to
complain about.
So the serious rider’s prime object of contempt
– a trailer – might ironically allow me to do more riding, not
less. I picture myself eventually getting a bare-bones open trailer
that would hold two bikes, teaching Andrea to ride, then taking day
trips to several scenic spots in the area that come to mind. New
Hope, Pa., is a charming little town perched between the Delaware
River and a steep uphill grade. Many bikes are parked along the main
street on Sundays, outside a couple of bars, and even while trapped
in stop-start traffic, it would have to be a rush to make your way
through the festive throngs there. Then in either direction outside
of town, there are quaint country roads loaded with curves,
corkscrews to dramatic sweepers. Another destination would be the
Jersey Pinelands, flat and sandy and downright otherworldly where
the pygmy pines stretch out across the horizon, many no more than a
yard tall. The main routes are too fast for my 101, but I’m sure
there are back ways that would work, though the one I’m thinking
of has pavement on the harsh side.
A trailer is a good idea anyway when something as
routine as a blown tire or head gasket could sideline you. Take it
from one who once had a back wheel lock up three blocks from home at
3 a.m. and returned to the scene with a lawnmower, hoisting the bike’s
rear end up in the air with no help, then back down atop the
makeshift dolly. Andrea steered as I forced the rig into motion with
massive foot pressure down low, eventually shedding a plastic tire,
and the crowd of police on hand did their part by keeping harsh
lights trained on us the whole time. Even compared with loading the
bike into a pickup truck, a teeter-totter carrier with the rail
opening tipped to ground level looks like a snap.
Of course, the main advantage to all of this is
to justify having a second vintage bike. It should work in the
reverse order – you acquire two, then you need a trailer to deal
with them – but I see it as a sort of jigsaw puzzle, or as a
matter you either keep simple or allow to become complicated all at
once. As a second mount, something bigger and more highway-worthy
would make the most sense, with comfort payoffs even on the
moderately paced AMCA runs. I’ll have to think about whether I
would want to foist a handshift machine on Andrea. There’s no
denying those awkward moments in traffic before you’ve got the
hang of it. But where is the logic in putting her on a footshift
bike if it’s bigger than what I’m riding?
This is all probably way in the future, so there’s
plenty of time for the insanity to continue festering. There will be
no peace in my soul until I hear the ragged snarls of not one but
two antique motorcycles reverberating off into the still, empty
expanses as far as the eye can see.
Returning from an afternoon ride one day, I told
my wife I had capped things off by trolling the length of the
central business strip near our home. After a few miles of spirited
carving along the riversides, it’s nice to kick back and glide on
the overrun past storefronts and pedestrians, bathing in the glow of
confidence in the machine and your mastery of it. No big deal, just
a routine pass.
“I’m not exactly showing off,” I started to
explain, and Andrea jumped in with: “I hope not!” She knows it’s
not my nature to try to impress people, and a sudden turn in that
direction might suggest I have come unhinged.
Then I started wondering what exactly the
distinction might be. The key thing is that I’m not out to cause a
sensation among onlookers but rather to take my rightful place in
the thick of things as a legitimate presence in traffic. With the
narrow buildings’ 1930s architecture and the leisurely traffic
flow on the concrete street, I can imagine myself in the original
setting for a 101, an ordinary motorcyclist passing through. Because
I occasionally do raise a stir among those shocked at seeing such an
oldfangled contraption out navigating the currents of jellybean cars
and gargantuan sport-utes, it’s refreshing for a change to instead
get a calm, admiring look of acceptance.
I do take intense pride in the Indian and want
people to see that “our flag was still there,” as the line in
“The Star-Spangled Banner” goes. I think of this sort of display
as “flying the flag.” Run it up the flagpole and see who salutes
… or shoots, as they might have said back when the rivalry with
Harley was still going strong. U.S. patriotism may enter into it,
but I would probably feel the same righteous fervor in my gut on a
British Brough Superior, an angular apparition from the V-twin’s
glory days in black and chrome, with feeble brakes and a
bone-rattling ride and a handshift (well, some had a sprung rear and
footshift) to weed out all but the most worthy riders – kind of
like King Arthur pulling the sword out of the rock, but this time he
has to kick-start 1000cc fired by a fittingly medieval magneto.
The real issue is the timelessness of a classic
machine that looks as poised and well integrated today as the day it
was built, because its designers were so rooted in the long view of
handsome, dignified aesthetics. Seventy years from now, will
collectors be sifting among trends in the colorful plastic fairings
on today’s sport bikes? I doubt it, though I would like to think
the manufacturers could eventually find their way back to styling
that exudes integrity. I’m not talking about shameless
re-creations of the classic Indian Chief or Triumph Bonneville.
Soon, you will be able to choose between the original brand name and
country of origin or a more practical Japanese copy for either of
these models, thanks to bankrupt creativity circling the globe. A
design that stands on its own is so much harder to achieve. Here’s
hoping someone comes through.
Meanwhile, I can dream of “flying the flag”
farther afield. My 37” 101 really isn’t fast enough for
sustained highway runs. Within easy riding distance from home, I
have three peaceful parks built up around bodies of water and about
the same number of traditional town centers, so by varying my
circuit, I can avoid feeling like a tropical fish in a tank circling
the same deep-sea diver ornament every so many strokes of the tail.
I count myself blessed to be situated so nicely, especially since I
had no plans to buy a motorcycle when we moved here. I didn’t
think we would need the old garage out back. When it comes to
venturing out and really covering some ground, though, I’m looking
at a web of high-speed highways in every direction. It would take
some very creative use of a map and back roads to find the tiniest
crack in this wall. It’s like being surrounded by a moat, but in a
huge castle compound that’s self-sustaining and really nothing to
complain about.
So the serious rider’s prime object of contempt
– a trailer – might ironically allow me to do more riding, not
less. I picture myself eventually getting a bare-bones open trailer
that would hold two bikes, teaching Andrea to ride, then taking day
trips to several scenic spots in the area that come to mind. New
Hope, Pa., is a charming little town perched between the Delaware
River and a steep uphill grade. Many bikes are parked along the main
street on Sundays, outside a couple of bars, and even while trapped
in stop-start traffic, it would have to be a rush to make your way
through the festive throngs there. Then in either direction outside
of town, there are quaint country roads loaded with curves,
corkscrews to dramatic sweepers. Another destination would be the
Jersey Pinelands, flat and sandy and downright otherworldly where
the pygmy pines stretch out across the horizon, many no more than a
yard tall. The main routes are too fast for my 101, but I’m sure
there are back ways that would work, though the one I’m thinking
of has pavement on the harsh side.
A trailer is a good idea anyway when something as routine as a
blown tire or head gasket could sideline you. Take it from one who
once had a back wheel lock up three blocks from home at 3 a.m. and
returned to the scene with a lawnmower, hoisting the bike’s rear
end up in the air with no help, then back down atop the makeshift
dolly. Andrea steered as I forced the rig into motion with massive
foot pressure down low, eventually shedding a plastic tire, and the
crowd of police on hand did their part by keeping harsh lights
trained on us the whole time. Even compared with loading the bike
into a pickup truck, a teeter-totter carrier with the rail opening
tipped to ground level looks like a snap.
Of course, the main advantage to all of this is to justify having
a second vintage bike. It should work in the reverse order – you
acquire two, then you need a trailer to deal with them – but I see
it as a sort of jigsaw puzzle, or as a matter you either keep simple
or allow to become complicated all at once. As a second mount,
something bigger and more highway-worthy would make the most sense,
with comfort payoffs even on the moderately paced AMCA runs. I’ll
have to think about whether I would want to foist a handshift
machine on Andrea. There’s no denying those awkward moments in
traffic before you’ve got the hang of it. But where is the logic
in putting her on a footshift bike if it’s bigger than what I’m
riding?
This is all probably way in the future, so there’s plenty of
time for the insanity to continue festering. There will be no peace
in my soul until I hear the ragged snarls of not one but two antique
motorcycles reverberating off into the still, empty expanses as far
as the eye can see.
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