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The Last of the Mohicans: The Odd and Enduring Story of One of the Final Springfield Indians Ever Produced
This parts-bin Indian Chief was owned by Gene Townsend, owner of Indian Sales & Service in New Salem, Pennsylvania. Today, his grandson Eric Trow maintains this piece of history. (Photos by the author)
At the far end of the parts counter of Indian Sales & Service in New Salem, Pennsylvania, an old Bakelite rotary phone rang. It may have been mid-1953 or later that year. Or even 1954. By at least two accounts, it was as late as 1955. But by all accounts, a call came in from Springfield, Massachusetts, to longtime Indian motorcycle dealer Eugene “Gene” Townsend after regular production of Indian motorcycles had ceased. The familiar voice on the other end of the line was a friend from the Indian factory, likely Erle “Pop” Armstrong, who knew Gene and was responsible for Indian Assembly at the time. As the story was always told, the caller presented Gene with an unexpected opportunity: “Gene, we have enough parts left to assemble a handful of Chiefs. Do you think you might want one of them?”
The earliest known photo of one of the final Indians to be built in Springfield, Massachusetts, taken inside Gene Townsend’s cycle shop circa 1955.
Founded in 1901, Indian was once the largest motorcycle manufacturer in the world. The Indian Motocycle (no “r”) Company survived The Great War and the Great Depression when dozens of other motorcycle brands did not, but the years after WWII proved to be more daunting. A perfect storm of misfortune, miscalculations, and missteps put the legendary company on the rocks. Consumer confidence waned, and dealers began to jump ship in droves. Production of Indian motorcycles in America came to a halt in 1953, ending more than a half century of continuous motorcycle manufacture. Only the most loyal dealers held on to the bitter end – guys like Gene Townsend (my grandfather) and his Indian Sales & Service agency in rural southwestern Pennsylvania.
An old photo of Gene Townsend’s Indian Sales & Service agency in New Salem, Pennsylvania, where “the last of the Mohicans” lived for 45 years.
Gene had been associated with the Indian brand as far back as the 1920s. As a motorcycle flat-track racer and devoted Indian dealer for the ensuing decades, he had developed strong bonds with “the factory boys,” as he called them. He would regularly drive his shop truck to the Springfield factory, known as the Wigwam, to pick up new bikes and parts, attend events, and participate in dealer service schools. He even provided input when asked, and his engineering ideas were listened to and often applied.
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Gene poses with the Chief in front of his shop in the mid-1970s. The author (his grandson Eric) took this photo with his brand-new Polaroid SX-70 camera.
He knew the factory folks, dealers, and racers on a first-name basis. Names like Pop, Jimmy, Fritzie, Sammy, and Ed (Kretz, the legendary Indian factory racer) popped up regularly in his stories. He had a special reverence for Pop Armstrong, a man several years his senior who had been with the Indian factory for many years. Like Gene, he had been a racer, was a diehard Indian man and a critical thinker, and even had red hair like his (before he matured to “Pop” status, Armstrong was known as “Red”). Despite their age difference, the respect was mutual. I have little doubt that Pop helped make the end-of-the-line Chief available to Gene.
Gene’s prized Chief always brought a smile to his face.
I was fortunate enough to spend much of my youth in the shop under Gene Townsend’s tutelage. He fueled my passion for motorcycles and for the Indian brand. Although the factory was no longer producing American motorcycles by the time I was born in 1961 (they were pushing rebadged Royal Enfields by that point), I was hooked. More than anything, I established a lifelong fascination with one particular – and peculiar – Indian: the end-of-the-line Blackhawk Chief “Eighty,” the product of that telephone call from Springfield.
Erle “Pop” Armstrong (second from left) with Indian racer Brownie Betar (center) and Gene Townsend (far right) at the Indian Come Home Day Rally in Springfield in the early 1970s.
Upon accepting the offer to obtain one of the parts-bin Chiefs, Gene was informed that he would have few options. Like it or not, the bike’s bodywork would be painted orange, and it would be assembled from a hodge-podge of standard civilian model parts and police-spec components (likely left over after completion of an order of bikes for the New York City Police Department).
The author on the Chief in the early ’80s.
The machine was, essentially, a police Chief in civilian clothing. It was equipped with a large high-output generator and an oversized police-duty battery. It was fitted with the traditional Linkert carburetor and left-hand throttle/right-hand shift configuration as specified by the NYPD (civilian ’52 and ’53 Chiefs had English Amal carburetors and right-hand throttle/left-hand shift as standard equipment). Chrome handlebars were no longer available, so the bike was fitted with the earlier-style handlebar in black. The Chief had a police-style solo saddle instead of the civilian “bread loaf” bench seat. The rear fender had the distinct knock-out hole on the left side for siren fitment (thank you Robin Markey for pointing that out to me) and three drilled holes on the right-side fender skirt per police-equipped bikes. It also had the “telltale” speedometer with an additional indicator hand that would capture top speed traveled and mark the position as evidence.
Although it was mostly built to police specifications, this Chief was painted a very un-police color the factory called “Tangerine.” It sported Roadmaster badging, a factory touring windshield, and premium civilian-model leather saddlebags – complete with leather fringe and conchos (the right-side bag conceals the three drilled holes). While the powerplant in the Chief is the standard, lower-compression mill, Gene was also sent a spare engine directly from Indian’s engineering department that was, as Gene put it, “a hot one.” The performance-tuned spare engine remained on its wooden factory crate in a backroom of the shop for many years.
The inscription on the back of this photo, in Gene’s handwriting, says: “Gene Townsend’s Chief 1953-54, one of the last to be built by Indian.”
Until his passing in 1998 at the age of 90, Gene shared the story of the tangerine Chief time and again with trusted enthusiasts. Being a witness to many of those engagements throughout the first 37 years of my life, I can attest that his telling of this bike’s origins never changed. Even so, I didn’t want to rely solely on my own memory for this documentation.
Unfortunately, many of the folks who knew the story firsthand are long gone, and I didn’t have the forethought to record interviews while they were alive. But there are still a few people who were around the shop back then or knew Gene in his later years, had seen the Chief, and had heard the account firsthand. I reached out to my remaining family members. I reached out to Bob Nelson Jr., now in his 90s, who worked at Gene’s shop in the 1950s when he was in high school (his father, Bob Nelson Sr., was one of Gene’s closest friends and riding buddies). I talked with several highly respected and knowledgeable Indian motorcycle experts, including those who knew Gene well and visited with him regularly through the years. During these conversations, I never shared what I knew until late in our discussion, making certain not to influence their recall.
Today, the Chief holds a place of honor in Eric’s garage along with memorabilia from Gene’s shop, including a painting Eric made of Gene sitting on the Chief.
The consistency across the independent interviews was stunning. Each recalled that the bike was one of the final ones assembled by the factory from remaining parts. Several shared that they understood it was assembled after a run of police bikes were produced and that it had many police-spec parts. All recalled that the bike was always kept in the back of the shop and that it appears today as it did back then. The experts confirmed it is among the last Chiefs produced by Indian.
Gene actively rode the Chief for a time, accumulating about 2,600 miles. Nearly all the bike’s total mileage was clocked within the first year or two of Gene’s ownership. He stopped riding it after stepping out of a local hardware store and finding a stranger sitting on the bike. When Gene told him to get off, the man lazily dragged the heel of his boot across the top of the painted rear fender, leaving a deep scratch. Furious, Gene decided to park it permanently, knowing the bike could never be replaced. That likely occurred in 1955 or ’56. The Chief was relegated to a spot in a dark corner of the shop, chained to a post and hidden under a cover.
Original Dunlop Gold Cup tires.
A few items Gene left in the saddlebags.
For the most part, the bike remained in that dark corner for decades. As a kid, I was always anxious to pull off the cover and climb on the Chief. Eventually I was permitted to do so with supervision. As I grew, Gene encouraged me to stand on the wide black pedal and give it my all to swing the kicker arm through. He would laugh as I threw what weight I had into it but was barely able to budge the lever. As encouragement, he promised he would wheel the Chief out into the main part of the shop and we would fire it up once I demonstrated the ability to kick it all the way through.
During every visit to the shop, which was quite often back then, I worked on my technique and found ways to distribute my weight enough to move the lever a little farther through its arc. Finally, when I was about 12 years old, I had it nailed, and Gene gladly showed me the starting procedure. From that point on, I regularly gave the Chief a few assertive kicks to spin the internal engine parts and move the oil around. Occasionally, when he wasn’t too busy with customers, I talked Gene into letting me start it. Each time the bike emerged from the dark corner, we’d roll it out into the sun for pictures. A few of those photos are included here and go far in documenting the bike’s consistent state through its 45 or so years at the old shop.
The parts-bin Chief was assembled from a mix of civilian and police-spec parts.
When my grandfather passed away, the tangerine Chief was put in Gene’s daughter’s name (my mother) and moved to her home near Pittsburgh, where I continued to maintain it. Shortly after, it was transferred to me, and I’ve cared for it ever since. The Chief has remained in our family for more than 70 years. A mere 100 miles or so have been added since those initial miles were logged by Gene in the 1950s.
Today, the Roadmaster remains unmolested and unchanged from the day Gene parked it. It is not perfect, but it is all original and has never been apart. New spark plugs and wires were installed a few years back (we have the original set), and a shinier OEM header from Gene’s shop was swapped out about 30 years ago to replace the rusty one (again, we have the original). It still wears its original-equipment Dunlop Gold Cup tires that hold air faithfully.
Seen here with Gene in 1993, the author’s brother Rob – a successful studio singer and commercial actor in Los Angeles – used the Chief in his promotional materials.
The Chief is a time capsule – even down to the items in the saddlebags. Inside the right bag, where Gene left them when he last rode it, are a fresh set of points, a condenser, a pair of spark plugs, a new distributor cap, and a couple chain links. Most are in their original packaging or wrapped in newspaper (The Springfield Union, no less). A leather helmet, aviation goggles, a petrified canvas rainsuit, and period road maps live in the left bag. The complete toolkit, in its cloth bag, still lives in the toolbox, along with the original owners’ manual. The shop decal adorns the toolbox lid, and the ignition key is attached to a leather key fob promoting Gene’s Indian agency.
The only significant wear and tear is found on the kick pedal and on the right edge of the solo seat. Although it has very few miles, the bike has experienced more than seven decades of kicking the starter lever to churn the oil as part of its regular maintenance routine. Oh, and the bottom of the low-slung muffler is well ground thanks to Gene’s assertive cornering technique back in the day.
Gene, then 85 years old, shows his 4-year-old great-grandson and namesake, Parker Eugene Trow, around the old Chief.
As has always been the case, upon adding fluids and connecting a battery, the bike is eager to start. With the ignition switched off, give it two kicks of the lever to prime the carburetor, turn the ignition on, then give it a good kick. Even after years of dormancy, the Indian never fails to come to life on the second or third kick. Never more (in true Indian fashion, according to Gene).
When we hauled the tangerine Chief back to the New Salem shop to shoot photos for this story, it was its first time back there since 1998. I paused to stare at the bike in front of the long-quiet building. I thought about how so much of its life – and mine – was spent in this place. It struck me that the way this oddball Chief arrived at this moment could be traced back to an old rotary phone that rang 70 years earlier, just beyond that well-weathered front door. That single call began the story of one of the final Indian motorcycles ever produced by the Springfield factory. As Gene might have called it, the last of the Mohicans.*
Eric and his son, Parker, with the Chief today in front of Gene’s old shop.
*As the native American motorcycle company, its founders called their bike “Indian,” an homage to America’s native people. Coincidentally, just as the Indian Motocycle Company’s roots were in the heart of New England, the Mohicans were also native to the area. Gene Townsend, in addition to being an Indian motorcycle expert, was also a student of Native American history. I find it fitting that this story about the last of the Indian motorcycles is respectfully titled, “The Last of the Mohicans” in honor of both.
Eric Trow is a life-long motorcyclist, columnist, and motorcycling proficiency expert. He served on the Board of Directors of the Antique Motorcycle Foundation and maintains a small fleet of vintage motorcycles and memorabilia, including items from his grandfather’s old shop in southwestern Pennsylvania. He can be contacted at etrow@stayinsafe.com.
The post The Last of the Mohicans: The Odd and Enduring Story of One of the Final Springfield Indians Ever Produced appeared first on Rider Magazine.
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