Also by Bob
Undamped
Rebound
A
Luddite Nation
Fast
Lane Fossils
Flying
the Flag
The
Real Deal
In
the Spotlight
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Why do we love Indians? I think it all starts
with the gorgeous, classic styling and the images it evokes of a
simpler time, when people probably had a better appreciation than we
do today of such innocent fun as exploring the countryside on a
motorcycle. In the period photos, the riders look dusty, but boy do
those grins beam through! Maybe people had less to prove then
through trappings of wealth and lived more fully in the moment. You
would almost have to with no credit cards, no e-mail, no
mind-numbing television, no grimly isolating, fortress-like
sport-utility vehicles.
Just the sight of an Indian rolling by seems to grab people on some
deep emotional level, judging by the spectators I get every so often
practically jumping up and down with enthusiasm, yanking others by
the arm and pointing. I make every effort not to be smug about my
status as the owner, reminding myself that I’m only the humble
custodian of a heritage we all share. My 1928 101 Scout stands out
in traffic because it’s so obviously very old, almost like an
insect with its spare proportions and clattering engine, but the
magic most people associate with “Indian” comes from the
guilelessly extroverted curves of the postwar Chiefs and the
deep-rooted heritage they conjure up.
It’s as if it never occurred to the designers to do anything but
broadcast “isn’t this grand?” to the whole world. The Chief
burbles along with the swagger of a guy who just won a sports bet
and bought drinks for the house, not that of someone who hit the big
time and came back to impress the old crowd. The illuminated Indian
head, a beacon of well-being in our collective memory, emerges from
the front fender as a natural and inevitable extension of the Chief’s
flowing, swelling lines.
And beyond all this visual and cultural allure, riding the Indian
has me hooked because it’s a simple, honest machine that rewards
intense rider involvement in the mechanical operation. In so many
respects, it just has a lot of “feel.”
As you kick-start it, you sense the engine
finishing the stroke for you , that is, if you’ve reached an
understanding with your bike on its individual preferences for
throttle and choke openings on the priming and starting kicks. You
bear in mind that if you manage to kill the engine somehow, you may
find yourself having to roll this attention magnet out of an awkward
spot in traffic to restart it. Riding along, you see a heave in the
pavement ahead and realize that might not be the best place to be
reaching down to change gears -shifting weight to your feet leaves
you at the mercy of the rudimentary suspension- so you hold the
speed down till you’re past it. Then with your fingertips,
you coax the shifter over till you feel a gear meshing directly with
another gear. If you can shift into second silently, congratulate
yourself as a properly functioning link in the mechanism, because
you had no help from the transmission in avoiding a clash. When
downshifting, you goose the throttle to approximate what the engine
speed will be once you release the clutch.
Through the curves, you think way ahead because the brakes are
spongy and you can’t lean the bike very far without scraping a
footboard. These may sound like simple shortcomings, but imagine
yourself in a cowboy movie where you’re the only one who can ride
this balky horse, which becomes the envy of everyone else once it
hits its locomotive-steady stride. With the stiff leaf-spring front
and rigid rear found on my 101, you feel the shifting of the
low-slung weight very precisely, not filtered through springs.
Then as you find yourself cruising effortlessly down a straightaway,
you turn your head away from the wind roar and cock an ear back to
hear the softly popping thrum of the exhaust. I suppose all of this
would apply to a Knucklehead or early Pan, but they look starkly
functional next to the rich curves and glowing paint and aluminum of
a Chief. So we’re right back to talking about the styling! But for
me at least, the passion for Indians goes way beyond that. It has to
do with recapturing a sort of innocence and a heartfelt pride not
corrupted by pretentiousness or deceit.
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