It all started with a brainstorm between Bill Dragoo and me. We had the grand idea to write a magazine story about riding Indian motorcycles through the fall foliage of East Texas. With our pitch polished and our enthusiasm high, we approached Indian Motorcycles of Oklahoma, who were more than happy to provide us with a couple of brand-new bikes for the journey.
The fine folks at the dealership rolled out two gleaming beauties: a black Indian dresser built for the long haul, which I immediately claimed as my throne, and a red Indian Scout with saddle-tan leather that Kay and Bill would take turns riding. When Kay wasn’t on the Scout, she’d be behind me, holding on and whispering unsolicited riding advice in my ear. With our bags packed and our spirits high, we headed south toward East Texas, where autumn was putting on a show.
The moment we crossed the Red River, the scenery transformed into a painter’s palette of gold, orange, and deep crimson. Northeast Texas in the fall is a spectacle, with the sweet gum and oak trees lining the highways like nature’s own cheering squad. We rolled into Jefferson, Texas, a town that looked like it had been frozen in time somewhere between the Civil War and a John Wayne movie set. The brick streets, the historic saloons, and the old-timey general store all whispered stories of steamships and smugglers. It was the kind of place where you half-expected a mustachioed bartender to slide a sarsaparilla down the bar while a piano player banged out ragtime in the corner.
We spent the better part of a week chasing down the best roads and best barbecue northeast Texas had to offer. The serpentine highways of the Piney Woods twisted and turned like a rattlesnake on a hot skillet, making for some of the finest motorcycle riding a soul could ask for. Every stop turned into an impromptu photo session, with Kay and Bill striking heroic poses on the Scout while I leaned back on the dresser like a weary outlaw surveying the landscape.
At some point, someone—probably Bill—had the grand idea to take a side trip into Louisiana. Not content with mere pavement, we found ourselves on a boat, drifting into the cypress-filled swamps of northwest Louisiana. The Spanish moss draped over the trees like an old widow’s lace, and the water was so still it reflected the sky like a polished mirror. Somewhere in the distance, an alligator slid off a log with a lazy splash, reminding us that we were very much in his domain. Kay looked around and muttered, “If this thing breaks down, I’m riding one of those gators back to town.”
Between the ghostly beauty of the swamp and the hypnotic curves of the back roads, we lost all track of time. The days were filled with riding, eating, storytelling, and admiring the craftsmanship of those Indian motorcycles, which handled every twist and turn with the grace of a ballroom dancer and the power of a locomotive.
By the time we rumbled back into Oklahoma, the bikes were a little dirtier, our faces a little more windburned, and our hearts a lot fuller. It had been a ride for the ages, filled with history, adventure, and just enough recklessness to make it worth remembering.
And so, if anyone from Indian Motorcycles of Oklahoma happens to be reading this—feel free to call us anytime. We’re always available for another test ride.
