By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
It is always at the least practical time--with black-ice season just around the corner, with kids requiring hauling to school activities, with a heightened awareness of passenger safety--that anyone who is truly hooked on motorcycles suddenly needs a fix.
I want a new bike, and I want it now.
Although my new bike could be an old bike, I've finally accepted that it may not be the motorcycle of my dreams. It has taken me decades to accept the fact that Indians are headed for extinction. I have wanted to own one of these bikes--last produced in 1953--since I was nineteen, and that's when I should have saved up the couple thousand it might have required. Because now, twenty years later, I would still be the proud owner of the coolest motorcycle known to man.
But, of course, I didn't do that at nineteen, or even at twenty-nine. I squandered my fortune on lesser Japanese rides, one of which sits rusting under a nearby tarp right now, though it hasn't run in years. I should have aimed higher. I should have purchased an Indian.
Over the years, I have been periodically, and painfully, reminded of this. My hopes were once revived, however briefly, by a guy named Lonnie Labriola. He invited me to write down the whole story of how he and his business partners were on the verge of reintroducing the Indian motorcycle--brand-new bikes, but just as good as the originals. Better yet, they would be assembled by real Indians on a reservation in Oregon who'd put aside $3 million from their casino profits for the project. I could practically taste the test drive.
Instead, Labriola pontificated for hours about a business undertaking so complex that I lost the thread within five minutes. The gist seemed to be that more than one bright investor group had concluded that the sudden, extreme popularity of high-end motorcycles among the middle and upper classes constituted a perfect climate in which to reintroduce the Indian, as well as several associated accessories. So many groups got this idea at once that a nasty court battle ensued to determine who actually owned the copyright--which turned out to be someone in Australia. A judge in Boston assigned a law firm in Denver to sort out the warring parties, one of which included Labriola. He was about to win the contest, he told me, promising that the first new Indian would roll off the assembly line momentarily. (Another, crummier Indian had been unveiled at the Sturgis rally that year, Lab- riola said, but no one took it seriously.)
I dutifully accepted Labriola's file of important letters and documents but never found the strength to read through them. What I was waiting for, though, was an actual motorcycle.
Four years after I met with Labriola, I now notice, with great flagging of spirits, that assorted members of the media, both local and national, have managed to make their way through the Indian story, complete with its tortuous bankruptcies and disputed licensing agreements. But although articles about the businesses that want to build the bikes have finally surfaced, Indians themselves are nowhere to be seen.
Meanwhile, on Larimer Square, the sound of well-oiled Harleys continues to fill the air, mocking me and my motorcycle jones. This year's head-to-toe leathers come in distressed matte brown, as opposed to shiny black--Joe Camel to last year's bondage. World War I flying ace helmets are much in evidence. The accessory? Chewing tobacco, in cute little metal cans.
"There they go," I mutter. "The entire law firm of Holland and Hart."
Yeah, I'm bitter. The gleaming lineup along curbs from here to Morrison consists of spotless rebuilt Harleys, magnificently engineered BMWs, the occasional vintage Triumph or Norton. (Or Indian, which I don't even want to think about.) When I visit a motorcycle dealership, I feel like Rip Van Winkle--as if I've been asleep for twenty years, and suddenly all non-Harleyesque bikes have morphed into gargantuan crotch rockets covered in some kind of futuristic body armor.
Suddenly there are no cheap, reliable, uncool beater bikes on the face of the earth. And so I desperately want one.
But do I really? Is there a place for a motorcycle in my life? Does someone make a Snugli that fits on the back of a sissy bar? Can you drop an eight-year-old off at pre-Bat Mitzvah school on some old Honda? If I simply need a motorcycle, couldn't I wait a few years?
No, damn it, for two very good reasons.
1. Every family has its official guilt-inducing topic, such as, "It just breaks my heart that you don't you play your cello anymore, dear." Or, "I see you don't remember a word of your Serbo-Croation." In mine the guilt-inducer is my father, glowering as he asks, "Is your motorcycle running?" Oh, he knows it isn't, but he has to rub it in.
2. My father is bound to bring this up at Thanksgiving dinner, after which a brisk ride on a beater bike over black ice would be the perfect digestive aid.
But this is where things get complicated--and expensive. There is no way my husband is going to let me be the only biker in the house. Getting our two early-Eighties Japanese bikes to run again--if you could find the parts--would cost about $1,000. Far, far more than they are worth. (Our 125cc dirtbike would be a better investment, but who wants to ride down Larimer on that?) And there is not a Japanese bike made today that I can bring myself to covet. For close to $10,000, I might afford an entry-level Harley, but even if I had this kind of cash lying around (and remember-- I'd have to double it), I fear a new law has been passed that says all Harley owners have to keep their bikes spotless and, when riding them, dude up in the outfits Harley dealers call "motorclothes."