Also by Bob
The
Indian Allure
A
Luddite Nation
Fast
Lane Fossils
Flying
the Flag
The
Real Deal
In
the Spotlight
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Finally, the bike and I have shaken off the stale
confinement of winter and greedily quaffed the sunshine and onrushing air
and brisk motion that somehow translate into a state of alert tranquility.
It’s puzzling that the itch to be out rambling – evoking images of
unrest and turmoil – could open the way to an inner repose. Maybe some
core part of me has always been in transit in a sense and it’s only when
I match its pace, throttling headlong into glinting rays and leafy smells,
that I achieve harmony within myself.
After taking the battery back outside and reinstalling
it, I gave the bike an extra priming kick because the 50-weight oil felt a
little gummy. Then with the first ignition-on prod, the 101 barked to
life, expelling winter’s somnolence as a gray puff of exhaust the way an
emerging retriever flings off water. For the first couple of rides, I
dressed warmly and stayed mostly on neighborhood streets, avoiding the
sand in the gutters distributed in previous months to give cars traction
in the relentless snow and ice. One time at a sharp turn where I was
watching for traffic, I let my guard down about the sand and took a minor
unplanned sidestep. Then came a day when the air was warm and the engine
found its sweet spot for relaxed cruising and I was leaning through the
bends with a gauzy glow coming off the nearby water, and I suddenly felt
light and free. The grimness of winter had lost its last trace of a grip
and was fluttering somewhere behind me, receding fast.
At this time of year, I feel more than the usual
kinship with the other motorcyclists I pass on my lakeside circuit because
I realize they probably magnify the change in seasons as much as I do. We’re
really a select group in terms of our immersion in the elements. Fishermen
may spend more time outdoors and truckers cover a whole lot more ground,
but who else takes in as much varied scenery while being out there fully
exposed to the sensory feast?
And I think Indian riders have an especially keen
appreciation of resurrecting a trusty steed from hibernation because it’s
a pale reminder of the far more emotion-charged undertaking of
transforming a neglected, rust-frozen old spider farm into a gleaming,
smooth-running prowler of the roadways. Each spring as we launch back into
riding, we notch another small victory against the grinding glacier of
time.
I have to admit I’ve never traveled the path of a
serious restoration. Not only did I buy my 101 in pretty close to rideable
condition, but even now, after a fair amount of refurbishing around the
edges, the paint is kind of rough in spots, as well as being an odd shade
of red bordering too closely on orange, and the engine seems a little
harsher than it should be, possibly due to gear whine in the magneto and
primary drives. Still, once I’ve accelerated through the gears, this
bike cruises down the road pretty smoothly within reasonable speeds, and
folks who don’t know much about old motorcycles tell me it looks sharp
to them.
So maybe I haven’t waded in myself, but I’ve been there many times in
spirit, thanks to inspirational magazine narratives describing each step
of infusing life into a seemingly hopeless pile of derelict components. My
heart swells when I get to the part about the owner turning heads on the
first ride, silencing in the sweetest way imaginable those who called the
whole project folly.
When you get right down to it, though, the splendor of
the results can’t erase the fact that restoring a basket really is a
form of folly, at least from an accountant’s point of view. It’s
almost invariably cheaper over the long haul to spend more in the first
place and buy a machine that’s complete and running. Even minor
shortcomings that shave something off the initial outlay may not be such a
great idea if they bother you to the point of having to correct them
later. It’s not unheard of in this hobby for someone to pay $1,000
for the right speedometer on a particular Indian model. The same
person may have bought the motorcycle unaware that this feature was
inauthentic, or thinking it would be a cinch to fix. As a broker once told
me, if you want a “10,” save a little longer and buy one, because the
“9” you thought was a better value will probably never be a “10.”
I would add, though, that for someone of my ilk who’s not that
particular, any roadworthy bike will pay huge pleasure dividends over a
nicer example you can’t afford until later. How do you put a dollar
figure on losing a season of riding?
As for the baskets and rolling baskets, maybe demand
from those like myself caught up in romantic notions of accomplishing a
gargantuan feat has driven up the prices. Then the real whammy comes when
you add up the costs of all the repro parts needed. We can’t blame the
suppliers for this in light of the low production runs and exacting demand
for correct details. Well, I suppose a person can always dream of
inheriting or stumbling across some faded treasure, then discovering that
most of the parts can be reconditioned or found at swap meets.
I hope the investment factor will not discourage people
from continuing to tackle basket cases. Each ground-up restoration
inspires tinkerers who need to do less comprehensive work on their bikes,
and those who draw fulfillment from giving form with their own hands to an
icon of the road should heed their hearts, not their checkbooks. Let’s
not forget what matters most: Each Indian back on the road is a triumph
worth cheering about. Especially when springtime arrives. |
