Also by Bob
The
Indian Allure
Undamped
Rebound
Fast
Lane Fossils
Flying
the Flag
The
Real Deal
In
the Spotlight
Bob is a contributing member, watch for more articles.
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If we’re honest with ourselves, we’ll admit our
Indians are relics, but that’s why they mean so much to us. How
refreshing when all that vintage character jolts us out of today’s
shrink-wrapped, bar-coded stupor. Yes, we’re truly alive, our senses are
soaking up the surrounding beauty and the bracing fresh air. Either the
machinery is instinctively doing our bidding or it’s the other way
around. We’re so attuned to the language of the controls’ feel and the
drivetrain’s mechanical chatter that it’s hard to tell which.
Thanks to Kiwi and the other reproduction parts
suppliers, once we have a solid platform in the form of a sound frame,
good cases and a few other durable essentials, we can and most assuredly
should be riding the bejesus out of these old bikes – well, as least as
often or as far as we want, respecting the performance limits. With
the assurance that new parts are out there for an engine rebuild on that
distant day of reckoning, our consciences are clear. If not abused, the
transmissions seem to hold up pretty well, and the clutches just shrug off
combat duty in traffic or slipping to avoid downshifts. We know all this,
but few others do. All too often, the highest compliment from other
motorcyclists is to be told we shouldn’t be out flogging something so
old and valuable. Still, the last thing we should do is take offense at
this seemingly meddlesome advice – the person is just in awe and poorly
informed.
So our Indians are cheating time, but what about us?
Are we the real relics? I sometimes wonder this as I park my bike in the
driveway after an afternoon ride when the nearby school is letting out.
Often, I duck into the garage for tools to make some minor and probably
unnecessary adjustment, and meanwhile the minivans are massing and
clusters of young girls are walking by smoking cigarettes and boys are
strutting and posturing in a style they probably learned from rap
recordings. I wouldn’t be surprised if a fair contingent of the students
and parents alike see the denim-clad form hunched over the weird old noisy
wheeled contraption, a jumble of tubes arching every whichaway, and think,
“There’s that nut case again.” Perhaps some of them don’t know
quite what to make of this tragi-comic figure on the stage of modern life,
maybe not trampled by progress but booted around a bit and perplexed by
where things seem to be going.
And they could have a point. A more reasonable person
could have the enjoyment of riding a traditional-style cruiser while
making a nostalgic statement on one of those Harley Heritage Springers, in
white with the low chrome exhaust, without having to waste saddle time
kneeling in the driveway to adjust the brake linkage or carb needles. Most
folks seeing one ride by could scarcely distinguish it from a nicely
restored postwar Chief .
So why must we have this full measure of antique
flavor, not just for display or gentle putts, but for regular riding? Are
we like the drinker with a powerful thirst who simply must have malt
liquor rather than beer? Or are we perversely rebelling against the
rational clearheadedness of technological progress, a sort of underground
Luddite Nation operating on the fringes of polite society? Well, hardly on
the order of the Unabomber – peeling paint in other area codes with his
body odor as he bicycled into town for provisions – but contrary just
for the sake of being contrary.
I fully appreciate the conveniences of modern-day
life and don’t feel repelled by the necessary technology that comes as
part of the package. At the same time, I’m strongly drawn to the
elemental involvement of coming to terms with simple old machinery. The
racing crowd may pass on this one, but I even relish the feeling of
opening the throttle wide coming out of a turn and having to exercise a
little patience as the engine builds speed gradually. It has its limits,
just as I have my own on how far I may want to lean in the bends.
Together, we fare surprisingly well in traffic where we should be
hopelessly overmatched.
I don’t see this hobby as being fueled by any sort of
flight from the mainstream. Instead, the motivation is a
timeless appetite for the undiluted mechanical essence of an antique
motorcycle – more immersing than a car or train because you’re out
there in the airflow balancing the thing, straddling the barking, shaking
engine, speaking face to face with startled pedestrians at a light. Flying
a biplane is undoubtedly far more intense, but then you’re completely
removed from the present day up there in the sky, lacking any brushes with
today’s bustling streets and storefronts to remind you that this
conveyance transports you much farther in time than it ever could in
space. Besides, even among the most fortunate hobbyist aviators, how many
can pull a radial-engined Sopwith out of the back yard and buzz the
neighbors for a half-hour before work?
It’s a refined taste we should all pride ourselves
on, a heightened appreciation. Think connoisseur, not cave man, even if we’re
more at home wearing animal skins than an ascot. Some folks will
always be happy with a cold Coke out of the machine, while others don’t
mind going out of their way for fresh-squeezed orange juice – and it
just wouldn’t be the same without the pulp and seeds.
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