Author: J. Joshua Placa

The Indian brand has been in my bloodline for almost as long as the original was in business. Grandpa rode Indians, as did biker patriot Uncle Johnnie, who had the dubious honor of crashing a 1938 Indian Four. It sat literally in baskets, moldering in a New York City basement for decades before he decided to clean out cupboards and donated it to me some 2,500 miles away, but that’s another story. Motorcycle gods blasphemy aside, the wooden bins of what looked like nothing but centuries-old grime and grit-encrusted, disembodied parts looked grim. But there was priceless gold in that dirt, even if it needed some creative coaxing, sacrifice and bags of money.