|
 It
took a couple of tries, but I finally found the right woman in my life:
Someone who actually understands what motorcycles means to me and, more
importantly, isn't threatened by the realization. This isn't just by
chance. Her father, Frank Hochmuth, rode Indians back before WWII. And
considers the 101 Scout, made in 1928-1931, as the finest motorcycle
ever.
The original one is long gone, so about twenty years
ago he got himself another, and set it up identical to the first one.
Now that I've admitted to my age on the opening
screen, and will say that Patti's very close to me in years, you can
figure where that puts Patti's father (and mother, for that matter).
Very much alive, very healthy, but no longer of the strength and stamina
it takes to run a pre-WWII Indian.
Previously, Frank had planned on giving the bike to
the Owl's Head Transportation Museum in Maine once he could no longer
ride it. Somewhere during Patti's and my marriage, however, he had a
change of heart, and it now resides in our garage.
I've been riding motorcycles for 27 years, and have
probably either owned or at least ridden a good example of every general
type of street legal motorcycle made in the last 40 years, and all the
technological variants that came during that time. This wealth of
experience didn't do one damn bit of good in preparing me for the Scout.
Start with the controls: Front brake - right hand,
rear brake, right foot. OK, those are normal. Throttle is the left
hand twist grip. LEFT HAND?!?!?!?! Yep, because the right hand twist
grip is the spark advance. Does just what it says, and you haven't seen
those in cars since Henry Ford brought out the Model A. Clutch is the
left foot, toe to disengage, heel to engage - not exactly the smartest
move assuming you want the bike to move out smoothly from a standing
start. That long forward-leaning lever you see in the picture above is
the gear shift. First gear is all the way back, neutral is one notch
forward, second gear one additional notch forward, and third is all the
way forward. It shifts like an automobile transmission, with the gears
coming in and out of mesh, not constantly meshing like a foot shift
motorcycle.
At this point, those of you who are reading this and
have experience with pre-WWII Harley-Davidsons have caught on to the
basic reality of this bike: All the controls are reversed in every way
from standard Harley-Davidson practice. Back in the good old days, this
was known as "keeping your market", aka, "making the competing make of
bike as difficult to ride as possible". This was a normal business
practice at that time, and given that Indian had a commercially
available motorcycle on the market (1902) about three years before
Harley-Davidson (1905 or 1906, sources I've read vary), it can be said
with a great deal of justification that Harley-Davidson got it wrong.
 Oh
yeah, there's two buttons on the bars. The right is the klaxon (aoogah!!!)
and the left is the kill switch for the ignition. Ignition is by
magneto, so you don't need a key to start it. No fork lock, either.
People must have been a lot more honest in those days.
So much for the controls, now come the real kicker:
All Indians up through the 1932 model year (and Harley's up through
1934) used what is called a total-loss oil system. Means just what is
says: Oil is pumped from the oil tank (a walled off section of the fuel
tank) into the engine crankcase. There, splash lubrication (just that,
internal action of the crankshaft, etc., splashes the oil around) keeps
the moving parts lubricated and the oil is used up, be it burned,
leaked, or just used through mechanical motion. An automatic,
mechanical oil pump would normally keep the oil level up to proper
levels - until you started cruising over 45mph or so.
Keep in mind that back in those days, 45mph was the
equivalent of running a bike today at a steady 70-75. Most back country
roads were still dirt, so you weren't going to be running much faster.
On the major, paved, roads you could do 55-60 - and the automatic oil
pump couldn't keep up. So you have a knob sticking on top of the right
side of the fuel tank. This is the supplementary oil pump, and every so
often you'd pump in a couple of strokes of oil to keep the sump level
up.
How often? Damned if I know. Frank's advice was,
"just watch the exhaust." I'll put that advice in there right alongside
trying to explain to a 20 year old with an new R6 about kicking the
clutch plates free and tickling the carbs on a 60's Triumph prior to
starting it. Some things come natural to one generation and are
inexplicable to the next. As I ride this bike very seldom, keeping it
to back roads and rarely going out of second gear, I'm probably never
going to find out. However, assuming I get more experienced and
adventurous I hoping to actually go somewhere more than my usual back
road test loop.
The biggest surprise on this bike is the handling.
Forget "cruiser", think "sportbike". The Scout is one of the greater
joys I've ever had on a twisty back road, and grinding the footboards on
the pavement is very easily accomplished. This was definitely the
sportbike of the Depression. Oh yeah, that funny looking pillion pad:
When Frank got the bike, he modified it to match the one he had back in
the Thirties. That pad and carrier was his method for carrying a
(usually female) passenger. As a lady in a dress (yes, dress, even
Marlene Deitrich was half a decade away from scandalously wearing
slacks, and she was among the first to do so) would have to sit
sidesaddle, the large square pad worked quite well.
This is going to be a long term adventure. I'm
looking forward to it. Now, if I can just find another pre-war bike,
but this time something that has a recirculating oil system . . . . . .
. . 
I'm a Biker. Yep, patch on the back, old lady on the pillion seat
of a raked Harley, flying in the wind. etc. Except that I've only ever
owned one Harley (although that shows signs of changing). Then again,
where I came from a Triumph is still treated with respect, and nobody
ever got in my face for not riding some over-chromed yuppie-wagons, so
my T150V Trident (Kennedy) was my ride of choice. First club was the
Brotherhood of Veterans M/C. Probated in 1991, rode with them through
1995, when the chapter president got drunk, stupid, and made a phone
call declaring war on the Allegheny County (Pittsburgh area) Pagans.
Yep, it takes real brains to declare war on a 1%er club. The BOV M/C
wasn't long for the world.
Got out of that one intact, and six months later, six of the
survivors of the BOV decided to reform as the Phoenix Riders M/C. They
had a good seven year run in Johnstown. Times, people, and
opportunities change, however. The Phoenix Riders M/C has became the
Johnstown Chapter of the West Penn Outlaws, and I had my chance to put
Charlie on my back. Unfortunately, living close to 300 miles away kind
of makes it difficult to make meetings, parties, keep up with club
requirements, expectations, etc., plus I don't think I've got the
single-minded determination to live up to the Outlaws expectations, so I
passed on the chance, not without a lot of regrets. The Phoenix Riders
M/C itself will continue as a legal entity, so both the name and patch
are claimed.
For myself, it's not a pleasant experience. I've had a patch on my
back for 13 years, and I didn't like hanging it up. As I found out at
Thunder in the Valley 2003, people now bump into you when you're in a
crowded bar. I'd forgotten what that felt like. Still considered the
Outlaw among my family but if one needs my help, they got it. No
questions asked. click image to zoom in... |
