There are brothers all over the world who dreamed of the return of the Indian Motorcycle. They hung on through thieves, vintage efforts, investment gurus, custom builders, and when Polaris finally stepped up, there was an audible sigh of relief. Finally an air of confidence filled vintage hearts and minds. But would they use metric fasteners, like on the Victory?
Indian represents so much to American motorcycling and business. It stands for a devastating plight through tough economic times, the struggle for companies to deal with changing technology, then all the struggles to make the strongest classic Harley-Davidson competitor stand tall once more. And finally, the brand represents the World’s Fastest Indian and everything Burt Monroe and all the historic racers and aficionados stood for.
In a remarkable one-year manufacturing conquest, Polaris didn’t let anyone down with three stellar models based on one platform, and tossed a glistening chrome gauntlet at the feet of Milwaukee. But let’s back off the broad strokes and run at this ride to Rockingville and the 15th SmokeOut, the wildest, wickedest, raunchiest event in the world. There’s nothing like the SmokeOut, nothing like the tight-knit family who work it all year long, between sending all the kids to college, and nothing like the rich green rambling roads leading into the area.
Other than the Long Beach Ultimate Builder Show, I hadn’t had the opportunity to study the new Indian. Something about the aura of bright show lights, the difference from the sun on the streets of Columbia, South Carolina in front of Edge’s home and the Smoke Out Headquarters with a drum set perched next to his desk.
I jammed out of his front door and down the steps to get a closer look at the bike I might ride for nearly a week. I was immediately impressed with the fit and finish of the handlebar controls, the styling and density of the headlight nacelle. I later discovered the thickness of this substantial piece. Then I looked at the frame neck. I’m constantly disappointed by frame elements of stock bikes, as if you might never see them.
The neck of a Harley has always been an important piece of the overall machine. It’s not just a chassis component under a Toyota body, but a frame element representing rake and trail, the link between the driveline and the front end and the visual quality representative of the overall chassis. Over the years, the stock rigid frame casting has been modified, altered, shaped, lead-filled, Bondoed, and covered. Some builders have trimmed and shaped this multi-curved area to give it a lighter, sexier look.
Many late model necks look like a chunk of a tractor chassis, which should be buried under sheet metal. They have no styling, yet they are located in full view and often right next to the VIN number boss. This Indian cast neck affording the front end 29 degrees of rake is as stylish as the pistol grip on a 9 mm Glock Gen 4. I was startled. To me, the smooth, strong styling with the teardrop element leading into the down tubes indicated substantial chassis strength, confidence in the brand, secure handling (6.1 inches of trail), and overall base elements styling.
I sat on the machine and immediately sensed a similar level of concentration on ergo dynamics to the Victory platform. It fit, although my 6’5” frame would have preferred lower footboards, maybe slightly extended. As it turned out, Paul Aiken of AeroMach recently bought an Indian and was firing away at designing much-needed aftermarket products, like a heel shifter, and plates to allow the footboards to be moved down two notches and forward around an inch.
His plates forced the removal of the front crash bar, which is also a piece of art from any crash bar prospective, but once removed, it adds a sleek stature to the big machine weighing in at 778 pounds, without fuel. We had a Vintage and the touring model, the Chieftain. Although the differences are slight, I was glad to ride the windshieldless Vintage, since I was beginning to consider the purchase of a Classic, and other than the bags and tan leather seats, the Classic is the same.
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The ignition is keyless and it took a minute to understand the procedure. A clue could have been the lock and unlock key fob switch on the Chieftain, the faired hard bagger. The fob actually locks and unlocks the hard bags. Wednesday morning, retired Major Edge loaded the Vintage, and then apologized.
“I thought we had switched,” Edge said, and moved his gear into the hard bags. Weather reports indicated constant rain for the week. The change could have been a very bad move on my part.
Keep in mind the Major just organized a massive event with multiple entertainment venues, competitions, hundreds of vendors, staff, and we were about to ride to said event. He had a couple of things on his mind, to say the least, plus his entire family was involved; yet he was taking the time to ride with us.
This 15th SmokeOut, the Major’s retirement plan, an annual organizational challenge and with his vast military intelligence background and devoted friends and family, he refined the procedure to a starched dress shirt edge. Every element was documented multiple times and delegated with careful consideration for team talents.
We fired up the bikes after a wet night and headed to the nearest Waffle House for breakfast. Our road captain, George, a retired Colonel, led the pack. Hammer, the boss of the Horse, kick-started his stretched Fab Kevin Shovelhead with a previously broken leg, and a new long narrow Sugar Bear springer and aimed it at the open road.
My Vintage hesitated momentarily before starting. Edge seemed to have a similar problem, but after waving his key fob over the large digital-age dash switch, it fired to life. Paul at Aeromach commented about the switches. Most elements of the new Indians have a Vintage appeal, but the switch was out of character, but not to worry. The Aeromach crew came up with the perfect solution, a contoured Indian head nickel in brass or silver with a double-sided sticky back. It covers the new-age digital element and you’re good to go in Vintage style.
Outside the Waffle House, I had the same problem, as if moisture was messing with the starter circuit. All the lights came on. I could hear the fuel pump spin up to the ready position, but the starter didn’t turn, then suddenly it did and we were on the road once more.
Our first mission was to ride to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina for a pre-party at the Suck, Bang, and Blow Saloon on 17 Business, just off the main drag. From Columbia, South Carolina to Myrtle Beach as documented by Rand McNally was a mere 147 miles. The road plan called for avoiding interstates and taking back roads, weaving in and out of tree-lined hills or through vast, bright green cornfields and small historic towns.
The subject of ethanol came up at dinner the previous night and how the corn fed fuel comes with water, which if left in a gas tank will rust components and the inside of tanks severely. There was also an issue of corn for food and cutting off export supply to augment fuel issues. For some naïve reason, I thought the ethanol issue would not become another government conspiracy against the beat-up oil industry and would sort itself out. It hasn’t and the Bikernet staff and the Brew dude will bring you a full series of articles on the ethanol issue in the very near future.
At the next stop, we gassed up after weaving through multiple winding roads boarded by lush green trees and southern estates. The roads are generally well kept and clean, as if someone mowed the areas along side the roads just before we rolled through the area. We avoided interstates, so our speeds revolved around the 55 mph range. I couldn’t keep up with the myriad of highways and numbered roads, like the combination to our travel safe was 262 right to 601 right, to 76 left, and 378, then 544 left to 17 south.
As the sun waned in the west, Hammer commented, “We have less than 50 miles to go, which should take us less than 4 hours.”
I was slow on the uptake getting ready to peel out from this gas stop. Just as the other five riders started to move, I hit the starter button, nothing. I tried again, nothing. I tried to wave the fob over the switch, nothing. A few minutes later, Edge called and we started to discuss the options. They pulled over just a mile or so up the road.
George, the road captain, returned to the scene of the crime and consulted with me on the options. We joked that the factory only allowed us two hundred miles then the bikes shut off. At that point ,Edge commented, “Now mine won’t start.”
It’s the electrical plaque. I looked at George and said, “Take my key fob to Edge.”
Sure enough as George approached Edge, the Chieftain fired to life. We had switched key fobs, but as long as he was close by, my bike would fire and run until I shut it off, and visa versa. Incredible. There was nothing wrong with the motorcycles, just a couple of loose nuts behind the handlebars.
We rolled into crowded, congested Myrtle Beach in the afternoon and slipped into a pizza joint while waiting for Julian, the pinstriper extraordinaire, with a smile capable of melting steel. I was already discussing the financing options of 1.9 percent financing, and the 5-year extended warranty program available from the factory. Damn, these bikes are sweet, and I wouldn’t mind owning one for many reasons.
During the conversation, a couple of nameless retired military guys started to discuss one of their duty assignments. They traveled around the country inspecting facilities, but during that time, they developed a social study of women’s nipple hues and documented their findings. From bar to bar, they discussed the study of the color of women’s nipples, their heritage, and their locale.
“We never ran across a women who wasn’t willing to participate and show her tits,” said one mystery military consultant. “We discovered no correlation between the location of a woman and her aureole hue, but a definite connection to hair color. Hair color due to dyes can be an issue, so it’s best to note eyebrow colors.”
The saloon was set up to have a cruise strip right through the massive wood-slat facility. You could ride into the parking lot around the bar and into the parking lot once more, or take a shortcut through the bar. There were burn-out pits out back, and later in the evening, after the clientele warmed up, the crowd stood on the balcony overlooking the rubber-laced track and watched mini-bike races, including Juliana and Rosa as they whipped around the building.
During the evening, a wild man and his tiny maiden, Megan, with a brilliant smile rolled into the lot on what looked like a rusting old Indian. Rich owns Charleston Indian or American Biker in Ladson, South Carolina. I’m glad Colonel George led the way. I was losing my sense of direction. We seemed to weave in and out of North Carolina, and I was beginning to sense the size of South Carolina. It was small. Of course, like Hammer said, “It may only be 125 miles, but it’s going to take us four hours.”
Rich Worley, the owner of Indian of Charleston, SC, which I immediately confused with Charlotte, NC, has a patina program at his dealership to give the new Indians a vintage look. His bike was painted two-tone, blue and cream. He manufactured a set of highbars and blacked out some of the covers and pipes. It looked like a 20-year-old bike Bean’re would ride, and Bean’re showed up moments later on his Ron Finch modified bagger or FXR. Something told me he broke the code and drifted from his love of FXRs, but that’s another reason for a supreme Bikernet Investigation. Bean’re will be subpoenaed shortly.
Once Rich’s connection sunk in, we started to ask questions about our shiny new Indians. A font of new Indian knowledge, we learned about the bag locking key fob, how to check the multiple digital trip settings, and the bike comes with a system for monitoring the miles per gallon. Throughout the high traffic day, I rolled along at 33.4 miles per gallon. As the days rolled on and speeds increased, my mileage grew to 39.7 mpg.
The Major organized a timely video meeting with the crew and explained how Rosa and Juliana were riding to the SmokeOut to partake in the Chopper prom. This was all about getting to the dance, dates, and outfits. Somewhere down the road, we will see how the planning session operation panned out. We had fun at the meeting. I bitched about not being the star, and Bean’re threatened to boycott the mini-bike races if his crew didn’t receive appropriate airtime. We were both told to pack our shit and hit the road.
The next morning, we did just that. Hammer wanted to peel out at the crack to dawn and Bean’re didn’t like to stir before 10:00 a.m. Serious negotiations took place until late in the evening and we decided to meet at Suck, Chrome, and Paint at 9:30. We gassed up and rolled just before 10:00.
Our first mission was an elaborate SmokeOut video shoot. “I miss the team from Choppertown,” Major Edge commented. Our local video team included Tyler, a Bikernet southern correspondent. Video looks smooth but often involves hours of footage shot numerous times.
An hour later, on a small green pastured side road peppered with cornfields, we blasted past our esteemed cameraman, and then spent an hour looking for him again. He was gone to a better place. The plan crumbled.
We pulled back into a small rickety gas station with only regular gas, funky tape over the other buttons and no restrooms. Grabbing something cold to drink, the team mounted up and peeled out. Earlier, at the same station, I noticed a click when I hit the starter, like a dead battery, but after the third attempt it fired right to life. I suspected a loose battery connection.
This time as the crew pulled away, it clicked again, and again, then I lost all power. The Major was with me and had a small tool bag, but after removing the stern Allen from the seat to the fender, the seat didn’t give up the ghost. The brothers rode up the road for 20 miles and finally figured out we weren’t behind them.
Rich returned, showed us how to pop the side covers free, retrieve the small tool pouch, remove the two metric Allens holding the seat firmly in place and presto, there was the battery, and yep, both connections were loose. No problem. We tightened them and never had another problem.
I heard one complaint about shifting, but didn’t experience any shifting issues with the six-speed transmission with a comfortable 2.2:1 final drive. At one time, there was a clink evident in the gear driven primaries of Victorys when throttling up and down, but I didn’t notice it on this Indian. The primaries get hot and a booted foot resting against the surface for an extended period will sense the heat. Another individual complained about the position of the kickstand. I have that issue with numerous bikes, but I could reach this kickstand without much a problem. Aeromach has addressed any kickstand concerns with a new product for the guy who wants a short extension.
We had only 114 miles to wind through to reach RockingWorld, NC.
“Or just over four hours,” Hammer said and peeled out, to ride alone after the video shoot. “I got lost several times, but met lots of interesting and helpful locals along the road.”
We tightened the battery cables and hit the road. Someone later asked, “Why does this weird shit happen to you?” You got me, but we always fix the bastard and keep rolling. Just adds to the adventure. Maybe it’s a kcKarma punishment for all the redheads I’ve left behind.
Rich taught me how to operate the cruise control and how to adjust the turn signals. The cruise control is a dream and once engaged, I could ride for miles hands-free. It’s as if the heavy duty Indian runs on rails. Actually, if you lose your key fob, you can start the bike using the turn signal switch to enter your personal code.
Through the myriad of highways like a creeping spider web laced over the South Carolina hillsides, the Vintage never walked, weaved, or felt unstable in any curve condition at any speed. It was solid as a rock and would pull with massive torque in almost any gear at any speed. At 3000 rpms, the peak torque is 119.2 ft-lb, powered by almost 4 inches of bore and a 4.5-inch stroke.
Maybe it was something in the pizza, but suddenly he stood and announced, “I’m not going to let anything disturb my last couple of hours on the road.”
The Colonel nudged him. “Relax, we’ll be there in a half hour.”
Brakes were smooth and confident with dual floating rotors and 4-piston calipers up front and a single floating, 2-piston caliper in the rear. I felt no issues with the brakes or with the wet multi-plate clutch.
Two years ago, this cruiser would have been out of its element at the SmokeOut, but more and more touring machines rolled into the grounds. I ran across nothing but positive comments for the new brand and the new machine. I encountered a lot of sincere curiosity.
The next morning, we were summoned to another staff meeting and given our assignments. I believe at noon, the gates opened and the games began. Although cell phone weather reports calling for rain never materialized until Friday night and we were securely in place. I brought the dry blessing of sunny skies from Los Angeles. That’s the least I could do.
The SmokeOut is the Renaissance Fair of motorcycle events. It’s non-stop action from the World Class bike show, to constant bands, contests, including the famous costumed mini-bike races, anvil toss, painted lady art competition, T-shirt dress making for the ladies, and finally, the crescendo event of the evening, the Chopper Prom in the Campgrounds Saturday night, including R&B artists and a prom master of ceremonies.
There wasn’t a minute without action, discussions with builders, raffles, wet T-shirt contests, barbecue, or a taste of white lightening to take the edge off the sultry afternoon. I’m sure we will see numerous reports on Smoke Out 15 as the week unfolds.
PRO WINNERS
DJ Jenkins – Court House Customs
Josh Cipra – TBC Hot Rods & Bikes
Pat Patterson – Led Sled
JOE’S WINNERS
Michelle Barinari
Doug Wothke
Wendell Turner
Terry Whitten
Thomas Heavey
Michael Harris
Chris Wade
Joshua Staggs
