Where Are You, Joe O'Rourke?

By Tom Garcia

It seems to me that to write interesting and informative motorcycle stories you should be closely involved with the racing scene or be the employee of a dealership or some combination of the two. Who wants to hear from someone like me, a guy who just likes bikes?

Perhaps this story fits into that small journalistic niche called the historical/nostalgia category and will bring back some memories if you date from my era. The younger riders may see some humor in what an old-timer has to say.

As a high school kid in New Jersey in the late 40's and early 50's, I was as anxious as any other young man to get a driver's permit the day I turned 17. That I did.

Soon after, $200 got me an oil burning 12-year-old Buick sedan. 1937-1938 cars were common commodities at the corner used car lot. Drag racing a straight eight Buick will soon blow the engine as I shortly found out. The junkyard gave me $20 because the glass and body parts were still OK. It was time to think about some new wheels.

A cool cat (does that date me?) named Joe O'Rourke hung out at the local ice cream/sandwich shop. He had a recent vintage Harley-Davidson and told me the advantages of riding a cycle from his point of view. According to Joe, the number one reason was this: When he and his buddies double dated, he was in someone else's car and, "Me and my date always get the back seat."

That sounded good to me but I needed something a little more convincing. After he took me for a short ride on the buddy seat I was hooked. Had to have a bike.

A gent who had been drafted offered to sell me his 1937 Indian Chief for $200. I'd never seen the motorcycle and told him I'd come over to look at it the following week. Thinking I would probably buy the cycle I took $200 with me. I’d worked all summer for that money.

His mother met me at the front door and said, "Bob's gone. He's in the Army. Left two hours ago."

We went into the back yard to see the bike. I gave her the money and she gave me the key. Remember, I'd never ridden a motorcycle except one ten minute ride on Joe's back seat.

All I had to do was figure out how to start it. Off came the chrome air cleaner so I could see how the throttle and choke worked. The tanks had gas and I turned on both gas line twist valves. The spark advance was something I'd have to experiment with. About 200 kicks later the engine still hadn't caught. I was exhausted and good for about two more shots before giving it up.

Eureka! It started!

This was so exciting I let the bike fall over on its side killing the engine.

At least I knew it would run. In another ten minutes or so I had it going again. Time to take it over to Bloomfield High School, which was about to let out for the day. I'd ditched classes to pick up the Indian.

On the way to school the bike ran OK but for the snag that every few blocks the engine would gasp and die. I didn't know it at the time but the problem was in my saddlebag. The air-cleaner. As I got going from a stop light and moved through the gears, got relaxed and comfortable, my left leg came down off the clutch onto the footboard. Then my pant's leg would get sucked into the carburetor air intake. It took me several days to figure that one out.

The old Indian was lots of fun over the next year. Joe O'Rourke wasn't around to ride with as he'd been drafted into the Marines. In my town of 42,000 I owned the only motorcycle. There wasn't another at the high school or at Seton Hall College when I started going there. I joined the American Motorcycle Association and bought Clymer's Cycle Magazine to keep up with the news.

The Chief was, to my way of thinking, a snazzy looking machine with its chrome gas tank halves and chamois-covered seat. The only time I drag raced it was once up a steep hill along side a fellow on a '38 Harley. To this day I think I would have beaten him if I hadn't missed a gear.

There were some interesting bikes around although we didn't realize it at the time. As an example, a fellow in Clifton had a Henderson and occasionally we rode together. To us a Henderson was a machine to be junked when we could scrape up money for something better such as a Harley-Davidson with all its modern features. A 45inch Model K was my dream bike.

Nearby Nutley was home to a big distributor and dealer for BSA and other English motorcycles. Well known in the business was the dealership boss, Ted Hodgdon, the President of BSA, Nutley, Incorporated. Their Sunbeam (owned by BSA) with its inline engine and shaft drive was an amazing thing to see. It has been said of the Sunbeam, "If it wasn't leaking it was because it was out of oil." Did anyone ever actually buy one? There was also an example on the floor of a brand new Arial Square Four. (The West Coast BSA distributor in Oakland, California, Hap Alzina, was another big name of those days.) BSA had a complete lineup of motorcycles of all sizes from quite small to the large and powerful. Not that I would (then) consider buying a "Limey" bike.

A dealer in Newark stocked Vincents and I once saw a Panther in his shop. Exotic stuff.

Once, out on the highway, I pulled up alongside a man and a woman riding a Matchless or maybe it was an AJS. We exchanged pleasantries as bike riders always did in those days. Deciding to show them my exhaust I rapped the left twist grip full on. He did the same and they pulled away from me.
Every time I told the story I said, "The lady just sat there, reading her road map. I couldn't believe it but even double-up that machine moved right on out and I never did catch it." Naturally, the episode completely turned my thinking around as to British vertical twins.

The Harley-Davidson ("Hot Dog" to Indian riders) dealer in Paterson was friendly even if I did ride the brand he called, "The one you spend more time fixing than riding." (Not far off the mark.) He usually had an ex-police bike in stock. I thought such bikes represented great bargains though I never had nearly enough money to buy one. The police motorcycles were ex-sidecar rigs, white, with three speeds and reverse. Someone who owned one told me, "You'd be surprised how often I use reverse, even with no sidecar."

Nearby, also in Paterson, was a group of rental garages we called "Motorcycle Alley." Guys hung out there, working on bikes. I wanted to buy an old 45 Scout a mechanic had for sale but $125 was more than I could afford then.

My Chief hit the end of its life one day out on the highway when a piston blew. I'm not much of a mechanic but I think a broken piece of ring became lodged in a valve seat keeping the valve from closing and the piston hit the valve on its next up stroke. The friendly gas station two blocks from my home lent me a socket wrench set and I removed the engine from the frame and tore it down. That's as far as I ever got. The parts were in my basement for another year until someone took the "basket case" off my hands for $20.

Eventually I got another Chief, a 1940 model. This was modern stuff! Pure luxury with rear coil spring suspension and skirted fenders. I liked the leaf spring front suspension. Indian used it for 20 years and it was a proven concept unlike the newfangled and complicated hydraulic forks Harley introduced in 1949 (Indian in 1950). As with the '37 Chief, I couldn't ride the new bike at night as it had a non-functioning electrical system. No battery and a generator not connected to anything. Both bikes relied on magnetos for engine high voltage spark.

Finally, another guy in my town bought a motorcycle. Phil got a Harley. A small model called the Hummer. Just 125cc. It looked like a joke to me, not much bigger than a Whizzer motorbike. I supposed it to be but slightly superior to the NSU Fox of 98cc. Then Phil let me ride it. It was a ball! Lots of fun and quite peppy. When Harley raised the ante to 165cc the Hummer was probably even better. I wish I had one right now, 40+ years later. Just for fun I went to the local Harley dealer in Tucson to see if any were still around and was told, "We never see any of those anymore.'

The 1940 Chief was still running and thus salable when I left for military service at the end of 1953. In those days everyone went into the Army or another branch of service. I had not a single friend who didn't put in two year's time.

Fast-forward five years. While my friends had done the minimum for military service, I decided to make it my career. In 1958 I was in Arizona, the ideal place for motorcycle riding so I started shopping. Indian, as I had known it, was out of business. After quitting Chief production in 1953 they imported various English brands. The used bike I picked was an incognito Royal Enfield 500cc twin wearing the Indian Tomahawk name badge. A fun and trouble free cycle. When an overseas assignment came up I sold it for just what I'd paid and to sweeten the deal threw in my leather jacket and hardhat.

My last Indian was a mint restored 1940 Four which I found in Montana in 1964. I rode it once for about five minutes. It was too perfect to ride so it spent all its time sitting in the garage under a sheet.

The Four cost me $700 and I wanted to get that much back out of it. At this point in my life, 1967, I was in Vietnam and the bike was in New Hampshire where the government had shipped it with my household goods. It was in a barn, along with one of my cars. You may hear that bikes such as the Indian Four are in great demand. That's what I thought, too. I advertised it in various old car magazines (motorcycle section) for a year and had exactly one offer. Actually, one inquiry. Lucky for me I made a sale to that person for the $700 that I'd been asking.

What's next? I'm looking at a brand new "Antique," a Russian copy of a 1950 era BMW. I'd love to ride it back to New Jersey and try to find Joe O'Rourke.

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