Indian Racer

Rex could ride a bronc and Rex could ride a bull,

   but he found that Indian Scout to be big handful.

The Wreckin’ Crew once raced it all about the land,

   and all they knew was winnin’ for the Indian brand.

Woodsie won the title back in Thirty-Five,

  Harleys ate their dust when the Indians arrived.

Three gears on a stick, shifter on the tank,

  stripped clean for racin’, lookin’ mean and rank.

Rocker foot clutch pedal, they called it suicide,

  with the pedal to the metal, it was hard to ride.

You didn’t have to clean its stall or feed it any hay,

  but it lacked one simple part sure to ruin his day.

This bike was made to go, it wasn’t made to stop,

  who the hell needs brakes at the green flag drop?

The experts slow for turns by pitchin’ to the side,

  and if you can’t do that, you shouldn’t even ride.

Somehow that racer wound up on the northern plains,

  waitin’ for a cowboy who’d like to take the reins.

Now Rex had made some dough, at the Wolf Point Rodeo,

  he had to have that racer, ‘cuz it could really go.

Big ol’ V-Twin motor, it was devilishly fast.

  people turned their heads when Rex came roarin’ past.

He set out from Fort Peck, on Highway Twenty-Four,

  from Milk River Hill, he could see the valley floor.

No speedo to show, how fast it could go,

  the power line row, told Rex it wasn’t slow.

One more car he passed, time to slow at last,

  easin’ off the gas, he’s goin’ way too fast.

The engine sort of popped, from his throttle chop,

  it’s too damn late to stop, and it’s too damn big a’ drop.

Then his iron steed starts pickin’ up some speed,

  he thinks, “Yes, indeed, brakes are what I need.”

Slidin’ ‘round a curve, makin’ gravel fly,

  startin’ to swerve, guardrails flashin’ by.

Still a ways to go, he oughta’ holler, “Whoa!”

  reinin’’ in the bars, ain’t gittin’ it to slow.

Another turn ahead, as down the hill he sped,

  his racin’ thoroughbred, fills him full of dread.

There’s an irrigation ditch, at the bottom of the hill,

  the bike begins to twitch, givin’ Rex a thrill.

Hangin’ on real tight, his tires get no bite,

  he took on quite a fright, where would he alight?

Slidin’ off the road, he’s prob’ly gettin’ throwed,

   this steed will explode, and he’s fixin’ to unload,

Buckin’ up and down, sunfishin’ all around,

   will he bust his crown, when he hits the ground?

His pony he can’t straddle, bouncin’ off the saddle,

   up the crick without a paddle, he’s gonna’ lose this battle.     

He hit the ground real hard, scraped, bruised and scarred,

   his senses badly jarred, while his dignity was marred.

He wound up in the ditch, mud from head to toe,

  no more motorcycle itch, he’ll stick with rodeo.

He never more will ride, that iron Quarter Horse,

   and apart from his pride, he suffered no remorse. 

LDT June 18, ‘22

Later in life Rex got a Honda Trail 90. He called it his Japanese Quarter Horse. He trained our dog to ride on the luggage rack. One day, they went off the little bridge on the way to our place. The dog never got on it again.

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