The Indian Springfield
appeared to be made out
of upmarket shipping-sized
componentry, making a
friend’s ‘Streetglide’ look
like a naked Sportster
here are not many times in
motorcycling that fear is the first,
fleeting emotion when arriving to pick
up a new bike. Excitement? Thrill? Yes,
even awe on occasion. But fear? No. Yet
fear arose this time.
The bike hulked on a driveway facing the
street. Battalioned with gobbets of chrome,
slick metallic paint and panniers, sporting a
swathe of lights, and had the proud ‘Indian’
legend picked out in cursive chrome on its
hefty tank. The headlight swooped back
to heavily raked bars, and the gauges and
switches were so unfamiliar they looked to
be a foreign country. The enormous low
leather seat looked well upholstered and
comfortable, good, but the overwhelming
first impressions were massive tell-tale
Indian mudguards, enormity, and a certain
glinting, weighty ‘fuck you’ kind of presence.
Awesome.
At well over two metres long the Indian
Springfield appeared to be made out of
upmarket shipping-sized componentry,
making a friend’s ‘Streetglide’ look like a
naked Sportster.
In the Tolkien stories there is a character
called Beorn, who shapeshifts into a huge
bear at night. It looked like Beorn’s bike.
I’m 6’ 1” and a bit in my boots and I felt tall
enough, but I haven’t manhandled enough
weights in my life to have arms like boar’s
legs – unlike some – and the bike’s sheer
size unnerved me for a second. I felt like
a hobbit, a hobbit with pretzel arms and
shaky pins. Definitively not Beorn.
Look, I am not going to pull punches -
manoeuvering this beast around gravel
carparks, grassy knolls and sloping
sidewalks is gonna give you a leg work out
of Herculean proportion, especially given
the running board length, which tends to
cramp my normal stance, and this was
where my fear originated – not getting
my legs down in time and... dropping the
bastard.
KIWI RIDER 59