| The
Indian Motor-Sickle
by Ron Lupton
My dad, Ottis "Jake" Lupton, of Columbia, N.C.
wanted to be almost anywhere BUT there, I suppose. In the 1920's, he signed
up for and took and PASSED his master's license from a British mail-order
service, studying to be a ship's engineer. He said the postmaster and
he got a good laugh out of the parcels arriving in the tiny swamp town,
addressed to "Ottis R. Lupton, ESQUIRE".
His career as a merchant marine eventually led him all over the world,
but never satiated his deep thirst for knowledge. He described how he'd
curl up below decks in a favorite reclusive nook, on one of the huge piston
or cylinder heads of the great engine (hopefully, it wasn't operating
at the time!) and read. He tried to read an encyclopedia on one such trip,
but gave up because of tedium, I believe he said, after letter 'L' or
so! At any rate, the functional and breadwinning part of his life was
generally involved with mechanical things.
His adventures with his Model T and Model A Fords could fill a small volume,
I suppose. Ah, the tricks of the trail in the Dismal Swamp country of
long ago. Evening meant the dirt roads were black ribbons of hazard, with
pothole and log, and a driver who wanted to preserve his vehicle kept
it moving slowly, and in low gear. I recall him telling about how one
night, away back in the country and having only candles or something similar
for headlights in the auto, he'd not seen the cow asleep in the road until
he ran halfway over her and she stood up, overturning his car! He said
it was no real problem. He was able to set the car back upright and go
on, and the cow walked off, apparently unhurt, too.
Dad saved his money and ordered a big, powerful, cherry-red Indian
Motorcycle by mail in the late 20's. It came in several packages,
he said, but was no real assembly problem. That Indian was his 'gal magnet',
he claimed. My mom's prime memories of it were taking spills in the putty-colored
mudholes on the road to Elizabeth City while they were courting. "Wallowing
around in the road dirt with my pretty new clothes on." she'd say.
"I sure was younger then, though. Jump right up and get back on that
darned thing and go another mile or two." She was a tough gal, Jessie
Smith, daughter of sharecroppers in Roxobel. Had to be tough, dealing
with a guy like my dad.
Dad had the Indian out for a spin one day, showing off to relative and
stranger, when he came up on his shirt-tail cousins over at Bud Will's
farm. One of 'em, big old lanky Jack, came swaggering over to the motorcycle
as Dad pulled up. "What is 'at there thing, little bud?"
"My new Indian motorcycle."
"Kin I try it out?"
"Know how?" Well, by now all the young fellows had gathered
around to be witness to this jewel and its pilot, and Jack wasn't going
to lose face. He probably hadn't been any further than Kelford, but he
needed to be The Man on his own territory. He was tough. Bold. A head
taller than the rest. He ALWAYS had to prove himself.
"I rid motor-sickle before," he shrugged. "This th' gas,
ain't it?"
"Yeah, and here's the gearshift..." But by then the lanky farmboy
had swung his over-alled frame up and straddled the Indian.
"Psaw! I kin do this! Ya jis' give 'er th' GAS, an..." And that's
all he got out. As he grabbed the throttle the engine screamed and Jack
popped the clutch at the same time. Now Jack was a big old boy, but that
Indian was stronger than a team of horses. The rear wheel dug into the
soft earth and began to tear the ground apart. Lifted Jack up like the
bow of a ship hitting a deadly wave head on.
Too much gas, he must have thought to himself. He threw off the throttle,
and the bike did a lurch forward and down, almost tossing Jack over the
handlebars. That ain't ENOUGH gas, he must have thought now, hitting the
throttle anew. Again the Indian lifted him high in the air like a bronco
taking on a slow-witted wrangler. Then down again, and up, and down. A
comedy of over correction.
Dad said no one had time to laugh. It was all too quick, and Jack was
not just doing a STATIC insane rocking-horse act. He was taking vast forward
jumps each time, too, heading for the outbuildings. After four or five
of these monstrous bucks, he was out of range for anyone to shout advice
him or help him. The Indian leveled and rocketed into straight ahead action,
with Jack somehow hanging on. Jack was climbing toward terminal velocity
as he clung to the throttle, gangly feet seeking purchase on the vehicle
somewhere, ANYwhere. The barn loomed. As he neared it, it was all too
clear he didn't know where the brakes were, nor even how to turn. Jack
simply seemed to continue to gain speed and slowly, slowly lean the motorcycle
over sideways until he and it disappeared in a flurry of corn shocks and
dust and barn-wood.
The bike was trying to eat the rider when they found them. Just beyond
the barn and its bashed-out corner, and the fence section that had been
destroyed, the Indian was spinning around on the ground in great circles,
slowly absorbing Jack with its sprocket, which had found one of his suspenders.
So far, Jack had managed to out-crawl it, but there was no doubt. It was
gaining. Dad managed to leap into the melee and choke off the Indian's
gas.
Everybody was aghast, Jack included. He sat in the dirt for long seconds,
eyes bugging out, waiting for his head to catch up with him, but it was
obvious neither he nor the bike was hurt badly. Nobody spoke much. The
screaming of the stock had eased away. It seemed to be one of those solemn
times of great importance. John Henry might have been in a similar scenario
when he'd laid down his hammer and died, lord, lord, long ago at the base
of that devilish steam hammer. But at length Jack felt around and found
his hat, slowly stood up, dusted himself off and looked at the solemn
audience. What could he say? What he DID say, I suppose.
"See? Told yuh."
Ron Lupton makes jewelry in Colorado,
and has contributed several pieces in the
THE
POOR TOWN NEWS.
This is his third story for www.roanoke-chowan.com.
|