Nights were as cold in the mountains as days in the desert had been hot. But going down the western slope was much quicker than climbing had been. Once we got to the foothills, Bud and I stopped to look back at the muddy road we’d ridden. It looked like a snake winding its way down the mountain.
We arrived in Sacramento late on a Saturday and stayed through Sunday. It was late October already, so we’d missed the best season for fruit. But still, the lush, green valley was a welcome change after the desert and the mountains. On Monday morning, we rode toward San Francisco, thinking about Dad, and how good it would be to see him. I wanted to gallop all the way.
It never occurred to us to be frightened on our
trips. We were always focused on the road ahead.
We spent one last night on the road, and as we lay looking up at the stars, Bud and I thought back over the ride. We laughed about some of the things that had happened, wishing that Sam Bass could have finished the trip, and thanking each other for being a good companion.
The next day we rode into Oakland and caught the ferry for San Francisco. Dad was in the crowd when we docked, and he reached up for us, taking one of us in each arm. His big smile told how glad he was to see us, and how proud he was of us, and of course, we were overjoyed to see him.
Dad congratulated us repeatedly for having finished the trip. That was better than his racing car had done. Finding it just wasn’t up to desert and mountain travel, he’d sold it soon after Cheyenne, and ridden the train the rest of the way to San Francisco.
After a minute of greeting, he introduced us to some friends of his, and then set us back onto our saddles for the ride to the hotel. Once we got there, reporters crowded in on us, but we reminded them, and Dad, that our trip wasn’t over yet. Then we galloped down Met Street and through Golden Gate Park to the Pacific, where we looked out over the ocean from a high cliff.
“We did it, Temp, we did it!” Bud was ecstatic.
We picked our way down the steep cliff on a narrow trail. It was almost as bad as coming down the Sierra Nevadas. We rode along the beach, looking for the perfect place to go into the surf. When Bud found his spot, he smiled broadly and waved his hat as he rode Big Black knee deep into the Pacific. Then he ceremoniously poured the flask of Coney Island water into the ocean.
Naturally, I wanted to go him one better. “Yippee!” I yelled, waving my Stetson and running Wylie due west until he was belly deep in the Pacific.
“Look out!” Bud yelled, but too late.
A huge wave knocked Wylie off his feet, and I went down with him. For several scary seconds, I could feel Wylie kicking and fighting against the undertow, trying desperately to regain his footing. I thought we were both goners, but I clung to that saddlehorn as though it meant life. Finally, Wylie stood up again and struggled back to the beach, with me miraculously still in the saddle.
Once Bud saw that I was all right, he began to laugh. He said someday I’d learn not to be such a showoff. I was mad for just a second, and then I began to laugh with him. Our trip was over, and we felt pretty good. We hadn’t made it in 60 days, and we wouldn’t be getting the prize money, but we’d learned a lot.
I’d learned that bulls like Stetsons, that no horse lives forever, and that Post Toasties are a good cure for tomato fever. Surely such lessons were more valuable than money.
We had made about a 4500 mile trip in 62 days. The only previously known record was set years earlier by an army officer who’d ridden coast-to-coast in 182 days.
We’d ridden all across the country, but we got lost between the Pacific Ocean and the Golden West Hotel in San Francisco. It took us an hour or more of riding in circles before we asked directions and finally got back there. Dad was waiting.
Bud and I cleaned up, and we all went for dinner in the hotel dining room. There were white tablecloths, gleaming silverware, and a red rose on each table. That night, the featherbed felt good beyond description.
“If heaven is as good to my soul and this bed is to my body,” I thought, “it will be wonderful. Thank you, dear Lord.”
Then I thought about what Teddy Roosevelt had said to us at Sagamore Hill, before we left on the trip. “I want to see you game, boys. I want to see you brave and manly, and I also want to see you gentle and tender. Be practical as well as generous with your ideals. Keep your eyes on the stars, but remember to keep your feet on the ground. Courage, hard work, self-mastery, and intelligent effort are all essential to successful life. Alike for the nation and the individual, the one indispensible requisite is character.”
Yes, I thought as I drifted off to sleep, Bud and I didn’t quit. We must have character.
6
OUR LAST RIDE
After our cross-country tip, we didn’t ride again until 1913. That was when the Hendee Manufacturing Company of Springfield, Massachusetts, makers of Indian Motocycles (they spelled it without the “r”) offered to give us a custom-designed, 1913 twin-engine model, with two seats, if we would ride it from Oklahoma to New York City. At that time, Hendee was the largest motorcycle manufacturer in the world, making as many as 300 machines a day. We jumped at the opportunity of another adventure.
By then, our family was living at Cross Roads, the farm just outside Tipton, Oklahoma. One sunny day in June 1913, our cycle arrived in town, along with one for Anton, our older stepbrother. He was a good mechanic and planned to accompany us.
As we returned from the farm from picking up the cycles, someone sound the alarm. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”
The whole family took up the cry, converging on us from all directions. Greyhounds barked, and chickens cackled and beat their wings, trying to get out of the way. Bud and I drove Dad’s wagon slowly up the dusty road to the farmhouse, two huge wooden crates on the wagon bed behind us.
Anton spent all of that afternoon and most of the next day assembling the cycles. His had a rear luggage rack to carry our suitcases, slickers, and a set of tools.
These were the first motorcycles ever seen in our part of Oklahoma, and none of us knew how to ride them. Some folks doubted that Bud, at 13, could handle one of the 500 pound machines, but he was determined. And I was just as determined to help him as much as possible from my spot on the rear seat of the two-seater. Being the oldest, Anton got the first ride. He put oil in the crankcase, gas in the tank, started the motor with a deafening roar, and took off down the road.
It was a smooth ride, that is until he hit the first bump, and then he toppled right over. But he quickly set it back up and tried again, over and over, until he could ride it without falling.
Bud began to learn the next day. He was pretty awkward at first, and the cycle seemed too heavy. Anton and I ran alongside, supporting the machine until he could get it going. Finally, he got the feel of it. Like Anton, Bud rode up and down the road many times before he could keep from falling.
To my dismay, Bud wasn’t ready to handle the Indian with me on the rear seat, so he and Anton took a trial run to Tipton and back without me. After that adventure went okay, Bud decided it was time to add me to his problems. We fell several times until we finally figured out how to work together.
The motorcycle was a whole new feeling. It was faster and less tiring than a bicycle, smoother than a horse, and even more exhilarating than a car. What a thrill!
After a final test, riding fourteen miles to the town of Frederick and back, we were ready to start our journey. We said goodbye to the family and rode the first seven miles without a spill. In Tipton, we diplomatically bought some cookies from Mr. McWilliams at his grocery store, and then three strawberry sodas from his competitor, Paul Heff, across the street. As we enjoyed our snacks, friends came by and wished us well.
Five miles north of Tipton, we came to Otter Creek. We’d not ridden through water yet, so we decided to play it safe and walk our cycles across. Later in the trip, we would learn to ride right through shallow water.
Once across the creek, Bud and I ran alongside the motorcycl
e, pushing to get it started. He jumped on first, and I had to run as fast as I could to make the leap into my seat before he left me behind.
We rode in a northeasterly direction through Oklahoma, taking it easy until we had the machines mastered. Bud was having a grand time, and even though I couldn’t drive the cycle, I really got a kick out of it, too.
The Cimarron River, north of Kingfisher, Oklahoma, was our first major obstacle. The bridge was out, and the water was too wide and deep to go through on a motorcycle. I saw a long railroad trestle bridge a couple hundred yards away.
When I pointed it out, both Bud and Anton thought it was too dangerous. But it seemed to be the only way to get to the other side. We rode slowly over to the trestle and studied the situation. We would have to ride right down the middle of the crossties and hope no train came along.
I thought the bridge would never end. Bumpety, bumpety, bump, all the way from one bank to the other. Each cross-tie gave me a stiff jolt, leaving me limp when the rough ride was over. We heaved a huge sigh of relief when we reached the other end, and there was still no train in sight.
A couple of mornings later, in Kansas, we came upon a similar situation, but this was a shallow creek where the bridge was washed out. The railroad trestle here was more dangerous because we couldn’t see the other end. It was hidden in a thick clump of trees. Anton wanted to use it anyway, but Bud and I decided to push our cycle through the water.
First we undressed and waded across without the cycle, to test the water, and also, to leave our dry clothes on the other side. The water seemed about two-and-a-half feet deep in the middle of the stream, but the bank was steep and sandy.
We went back for the cycle, but it was really a struggle for the two of us to get it across, pushing and pulling. Then, it took us a good five minutes of hard work to get that machine up the sandy bank. Exhausted, we collapsed on the ground and looked back to see what Anton’s plan was.
Having seen our struggle, he chose a different path. The railroad trestle bridge was the kind that had a walking bridge about five feet underneath the railroad track. Anton stood studying the bridge and eyeing that footbridge. Bud and I cringed at the thought that he might try to cross on it. It was only two planks wide, with no railing, and it perched about 25 feet above the shallow water.
“Anton, please don’t try it!” Bud yelled, and I joined in his plea. But Anton was determined to ride across on those two planks, and he started toward us at a slow, but steady pace. Bud and I watched intently, praying he wouldn’t fall.
He was doing fine, and we were impressed. But then, at about the middle, Anton made a mistake. He looked down. As he did, he accidentally turned the wheel. As we watched in horror, down went the motorcycle, with Anton right behind it.
Anton stood up, spewing and sputtering, but obviously unhurt. Bud and I couldn’t help but laugh. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Anton laughed too. We helped him push his cycle out of the water and up the sandy path. It seemed the water, shallow as it was, had broken his fall enough that neither he nor his machine were hurt. We rested on the bank for quite awhile, letting Anton’s clothes and the motorcycle dry out.
Around Wichita, Kansas, we went through wheat country right at harvest time, and the roads were covered with a layer of fine, dusty sand. We’d hit soft spots and topple right over, but by then we’d learned how to fall, so that the cycle didn’t fall on top of us. We were still learning.
Part of our assignment from the Hendee Manufacturing Company, was to stop at the “Indian Motocycle” agencies in the bigger towns along the way and explain the virtues of the machine. Our first stop of this sort was in Kansas City, where we told people all the good things about the Indian Cycle, and why we “heartily recommended it.”
One day, crossing Missouri, we were clipping along at about 65 miles an hour when suddenly we came upon a freshly graded road. Hot, black oil had been poured all over the surface. When Bud and I hit it, the motorcycle went one way, Bud went another, and I went a third. The sticky oil was a mess. Neither of us were hurt, but our clothes were ruined by that black goop. We almost couldn’t pick up the motorcycle. Either it would slide away, or our feet would slip every time we tried to move it. After a mighty struggle, we finally managed to stand it up and roll it off the road.
Anton saw what happened to us and stopped before he hit the slick spot. As he came up to us, Bud and I were trying to get the chain drive back on our cycle. It had slipped off in the wreck. I was hot, sticky and irritated, and when Anton just stood there watching without making a move to help, I got mad.
“Come on, Anton, help us fix it,” I said. “You’re the mechanic.”
He just stood there, grinning at the sight of the two of us in our oily clothes, trying to get our grimy machine back together again. My temper reached the boiling point in nothing flat, and I bent down for my personal tool kit, filled with wrenches.
Anton backed off a few paces, still grinning.
I threw those wrenches with all the strength I could muster, made greater by anger, but he dodged them all. I was just about half way through my supply of wrenches, when we saw a hearse coming down the road, followed by a funeral procession. Anton, Bud and I immediately came to attention by the side of the road, and we held our caps over our hearts, paying our respects. By the time the procession had passed, my anger had passed too. Anton soon fixed the chain, and we continued on our way.
St. Louis was the next large town. Bud and 1 had told Anton about all the sights there, and he was eager to see the city. So, after we visited the Indian Motocycle agency, we looked up our friend, the Mayor. He invited us to a stage performance of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” that night.
The play was performed in one of the biggest theaters I’d ever seen. The aisles were crowded with people looking for their seats, but we showed our tickets to the usher and followed him to seats right near the front. We had a bird’s eye view, and when the house lights dimmed, I forgot about everything else.
The performance was excellent, and it wasn’t long before I was convinced that it was reality. At one point in the play, the dwarfs searched frantically for Snow White, convinced that she had been kidnapped. Actually she was just hiding under the table, but they couldn’t see her. The little men ran all over the stage looking for her, and the audience was breathless, waiting to see if they’d find her.
From my front row vantage point, I could see her clearly. Finally, I couldn’t stand the frustration any longer. I stood up and shouted, “She’s under the table!”
The audience roared with laughter, and people craned their necks trying to see who had yelled. The Seven Dwarfs took it in stride, bowing joyfully in my direction. Then they went to help Snow White from under the table. That moment is engraved clearly on my mind as if it happened only yesterday.
We stayed a few days in St. Louis, spending most of our time at the Indian agency, doing all we could to advertise the “Motocycle.” Then we went to Terre Haute, Indiana, and on to Indianapolis, where we had the thrill of riding our cycle on the famous Indianapolis Speedway.
Bud really opened up the throttle as we went around the track, both of us leaning hard into the banked turns. On the flat straightaways, the ride was so smooth, I didn’t think we were going very fast. Tapping Bud on the shoulder, I said, “Can’t you make it go a little faster?”
His head was bent low, down between the handlebars. Twisting sideways he shouted back to me, “I can’t go any faster. It’s wide open now.”
We went around the track three or four times at full speed before the track officials waved us off, afraid we might have a spill. What a ride! It took a long time for me to calm down.
Ohio was next, and between Columbus and Cleveland we had a good stretch of dirt road. It was recently graded so that it was smoother than most of the roads we’d ridden over. We cruised along, making 50 miles an hour, easily. Then we came to a house with a chicken fence around it, but the fence apparently didn’t do any good.
There were chickens everywhere, in the road, across the road, anywhere you looked. Before we even had a chance to slow down to miss hitting them, we ran into an eight-inch ditch across the road. At 40 miles an hour, the jolt knocked the motorcycle’s front forks down, bent the fender, and locked the front wheel. We skidded almost 50 feet, and then the cycle turned a complete flip.
I was thrown into a tree, hitting it hard with my shoulder. Bud said later, it was a good thing my hard head didn’t hit the tree. It might’ve broken a perfectly good tree.
Bud had it worse. The machine wound up on top of him.
I turned the throttle and cut the motorcycle off. But lifting the heavy contraption by myself was something else. Anton was riding far behind us and he hadn’t caught up, so there was nothing to do but try it myself. I’d never lifted the cycle before and I knew it was too heavy, but I had to try. Bud’s look of real pain gave me added strength.
Straining and grunting, afraid the hot cylinders would burn Bud’s leg, I surprised myself by lifting the motorcycle. I only got it up an inch or two, but that was enough for Bud to wriggle free, and scoot out from under it. Then, with my help, he managed to get to his feet. He was terribly hurt, but he wasn’t crying.
Almost at the same time, Anton rode up, and a man ran toward us from the house by the road. The farmer said he’d dug a ditch to slow down the cars that were killing his chickens. Now he saw the terrible thing he had done. He and Anton helped Bud into the house where the man’s daughter, a trained nurse, cleaned the dirt off Bud’s leg, and dressed it with a bandage. It was in bad shape, but, thank goodness, it wasn’t broken.
Anton fixed the motorcycle, and the farmer helped Bud onto it. I followed our usual routine of running behind it, pushing until we got up enough speed to get it started. Then I jumped on behind. But from then on, we had to go slower because Bud’s leg was causing him considerable pain.
In Cleveland, the cobblestone streets bounced us around, which really hurt Bud’s leg. It had become infected, so we decided it would be best to spend several days in Cleveland, at least until his leg healed, which it finally did.
Bud & Me Page 11