The World’s

Coolest Indian

84 U LT I M A T E M O T O R C Y C L I N G • OCTOBER 2010
 Escaping on
Steve McQueen’s
1942 Indian Scout
Story by Mike Schulte
Photography by Don Williams

BARBARA M C QUEEN

OCTOBER 2010 • U LT I M A T E M O T O R C Y C L I N G 85
I t is an early summer morning and I’m an
hour north of Los Angeles, sliding down
the Conejo Grade towards Camarillo.The
usually sunny coastal town is buried under a
gloomy sheet metal sky—a downpour looks
servo drives in an immaculate workspace the
size of a basketball arena.
Upstairs, Schoenewald leads me through his
breathtaking collection of over 100 vintage
motorcycles, including ultra-rare Nortons,
annuated technology appealed to McQueen’s
rugged temperament.While most modern rid-
ers would flinch at the Scout’s counterintuitive
reins, “McQueen could get on and look like a
superhero,” he says, adding with a grin, “This
imminent. In the movies, this would read as Bimotas, Vincents, and a pair of Von Dutch’s ain’t no Sunday driver.”
grim foreshadowing. I am on my way to meet personal rides, just to spike the punchbowl. Perhaps sensing my nervousness at that cau-
motorcycle collector Daniel Schoenewald While the sheer scope of this aggregation tionary tutorial, Schoenewald attempts to put
and ride his 1942 Indian Sport Scout, once would be enough to unhinge the jaw of even me at ease with an anecdote: After McQueen
owned by Steve McQueen. I can almost see the most jaded collector, this is no trophy cave bought the Scout from noted Indian collec-
the legendary actor’s auroral blue eyes glow- full of pretty dust magnets; Schoenewald rides tor Bob Stark, he went to the DMV counter
ering down from the leaden sky in furrowed his bikes. Regularly. That becomes clear when to register the bike. Obviously not recogniz-
concern. “Don’t run my Indian into the back we walk outside where the 1942 McQueen ing the superstar, the clerk asked his name
of a Subaru, or I’ll be waiting for you pal,” he Indian is waiting for us in the parking lot. while typing up the form. “Steve McQueen,”
warns before taking a sip of Old Milwaukee “I didn’t buy it for an investment,” Schoe- he replied. “McQuinn?” she asked. “No. M-c-
and vanishing back into the clouds. newald says in a quiet drawl as we walk around Q-u-e-e-n. Steve McQueen.” “McQuint?”
It’s impossible to imagine an actor more the Scout’s big, skirted fenders. “I thought it Apparently this exchange went on for some
deeply embedded in the sport and culture of was very cool that it was Steve McQueen’s time before the actor finally gave up. The pink
motorcycling than Steve McQueen. Brando and I wanted to ride it.” Even without its slip lists the owner as one “Steven McQuenn”
and Fonda may co-own the screen rights to Hollywood pedigree, this Scout would be a of Hollywood, California. This scene took
biker-as-rebel iconography, place in 1975, one year after
but McQueen was an omniv- McQueen starred in The
orous gearhead in real life, Towering Inferno, for which he
riding everything from Husq- was paid $12 million—at that
varna dirt bikes to his prized time, the highest salary ever
vintage Harleys and Indians. earned by an actor.
In addition to financing and Schoenewald then walks
racing in the motorcycle clas- me through the Scout’s
sic On Any Sunday, McQueen launch protocol, a complex
joined a team of leathernecks mating ritual akin to prying
that included Bud and Dave a nun out of a whalebone
Ekins in the grueling 1964 corset. Open the petcock,
International Six Days Trial set the foot clutch, retard the
in Germany. advance grip, set the choke
Most marquee names switch one click up from the
wouldn’t dream of trying it bottom, open the throttle
today, but McQueen rou- halfway, jump on the kicker,
tinely raced while he was the set the choke one click down
highest paid actor in Holly- from the top, roll the advance
wood, using the droll nom de on, engage the foot clutch,
guerre “Harvey Mushman” to dodge contrac- beautifully preserved example of the level of give the tank shifter a good shove into first
tual prohibitions and jittery studio execs. For applied art that was rolling out of Springfield, and hold onto your ass. One false move and
McQueen, a one-time reform school delin- Mass. in 1942, when a lot of Indian bikes were the romance is off. Worried I might knock the
quent who dismissed acting as a “candy ass” being shipped overseas to aid in the war effort. bike over, I’m not kicking hard enough. “Kick
profession, motorcycles weren’t props to gild Radiating more dashing elegance than any- it like you’re kicking your sister,” Schoenewald
a sham macho image—they were his obses- thing being spat out of a factory today, the advises, demonstrating the proper technique.
sion. When he said, “I’m not sure whether I’m Scout’s legendary red paint still gleams on the The Indian fires up with a snort.
an actor who races or a racer who acts,” you grand bodywork and the chrome flashes like a After a few laps around the parking lot,
believed him. Klieg light. rewiring my brain so that heel/toe clutching
Libyan-born Schoenewald is the unassum- Examining the Scout’s elemental controls while hand shifting becomes as natural as eat-
ing co-founder of a thriving high technol- in an era when self-canceling turn signals are ing gumbo with chopsticks in space, I notice
ogy firm whose zeal for motorcycles stretches quotidian can induce a bout of Greatest Gen- the mid-morning sun has burned the clouds
back to the day he first laid eyes on a Norton eration envy—kick start, rocker foot clutch, away and the sky has transformed into a giant
Commando racing across the desert, where he tank shifter, left-hand advance/retard grip, blue iris, glaring down at me. I take a couple
worked as a young man. To walk through his unsprung throttle. Who were these men of more laps.
sprawling plant is to straddle the 21st and 20th Olympian reflex? Did they also juggle while On the street I open up the 45-cubic inch
centuries. Downstairs, a small army of engi- they rode these things? Spin plates? Tame lions? V-twin, uncorking the Indian’s booming hot-
neers and technicians labor over cutting-edge Schoenewald theorizes that the Indian’s super- rod rumble and churlish disposition. It is an

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RIDING STYLE
Helmet: Bell Custom 500
Eyewear: Ray Ban Wayfarer
Jacket: Schott Vintaged Perfecto
Gloves: River Road Laredo
Jeans: Levi’s 501
Boots: Wesco Boss

OCTOBER 2010 • U LT I M A T E M O T O R C Y C L I N G 87
awkward first impression. My hands and feet sets. The resulting sensation is that the Indian expect. The unsprung throttle doesn’t take
are constantly engaged like a one-man-band and I are often headed in different directions. much getting used to, once it has sunk in
tackling Stravinsky. Meanwhile, the bike begins As I lean into my first left turn, the seat tips to that I have to manually roll it off, but the
throwing me a succession of curve balls. The the right, threatening to buck me off highside. unfamiliar left hand advance requires some
first pitch nearly knocks me out of the saddle. Thankfully, I am not attempting to downshift focus to avoid making unwanted timing
According to Schoenewald, McQueen put through the bend and can haul my weight adjustments. Between monitoring my hands,
the oversized, sprung Harley-Davidson seat on back over the frame. Once I learn to anticipate footwork, and keeping an eye on the road, it
becomes apparent that in order to ride this
thing properly, I will need to subdivide my
brain into five uneasy pieces.
As I begin to get comfortable with the
peculiar dexterity required to shift and corner
the bike, the Indian reveals another picaresque
tic—the near absence of a front brake. I am just
starting to enjoy working through the gritty
gearbox when McQueen’s celestial admoni-
tion comes to pass, but rather than the foretold
Subaru, it is a Tahoe’s brake lights I see rushing
at me.
because he liked its profile. As a practical mat- this eccentricity, the bike corners and carves My technologically perverted instinct has
ter, the big mushy springs make the perch feel surprisingly well. me grasping for a non-existent clutch lever and
like one of those kiddy horses I used to flop Despite its misleading visual heft, the clamping down on the frail front stopper to no
around on in the park when I was far too old Scout feels light and has a low center of good result. My synapses recover; I remember
to have any respectable business around swing gravity. It also accelerates better than I where the clutch is and get on the rear brake

88 U LT I M A T E M O T O R C Y C L I N G • OCTOBER 2010
just as I’m able to verify that the Tahoe’s reg- repeatedly insisting the bike wasn’t “worth
istration tags are valid. The Scout sputters and a penny more.” Like two serious collectors,
lurches to a stop. I hurriedly reset the controls they bickered for weeks, each not wanting
as traffic begins backing up behind me and the other to get the better of him. Finally,
give the engine a few kicks. It finally catches the publisher relented.
and I shoot off, a swirl of Elmer Bernstein “Come down here and get your bike,”
ricocheting through my head. Chandler huffed over the phone. Schoe-
The heat of the day peaks and we take newald tore a single check out of his book
a break on a side road that cuts through and, in a prank worthy of McQueen,
an orange grove. We are sitting in the dirt deducted a cent from the agreed upon
beneath the spread of a large tree, discussing five-figure amount, ending the check
how accurately the Scout’s stubborn charm with “999.99.”
mirrors its famous former owner. I ask Schoe- Down in Los Angeles, he handed the
newald how he came to take possession of the check to Chandler, who looked at it and
bike. He smiles. I can feel another anecdote rocked back on his heels like he’d taken one
coming my way. in his granite jaw. “Oh, did I say, ‘It wasn’t
Schoenewald tells me the Scout was sold at worth a penny over?’” Schoenewald feigned.
a McQueen estate auction in 1984 to a doc- “I meant it was worth a penny under.” For a
tor. It eventually ended up in the collection moment, ownership of McQueen’s Indian
of former Los Angeles Times publisher Otis was balanced on the edge of that penny
Chandler, a friend of Schoenewald’s. Chan- before Chandler finally folded the check
dler, knowing his pal wanted the bike, quoted and handed over the key. Schoenewald pulls
him a price that was in the treetops. Schoe- a leaf off the orange tree and grins, “Want
newald countered with a much lower figure, to get some Mexican food?”

OCTOBER 2010 • U LT I M A T E M O T O R C Y C L I N G 89
 I get back on the Scout and point it down makes me wonder if McQueen would have Maybe I’ve been living in LA too long, but
the long stretch of highway toward lunch. I made it in this era of Disney Channel movie that startles me.Who leaves the key in his bike?
move my knee out of the shifter’s way, drop stars and computer generated charisma. I doubt Who leaves the key in Steve McQueen’s bike?
into third and open the throttle. Watching the he would care, as long as he had a few old bikes, Then it occurs to me that almost no one could
old speedo pulse upward, I forget all the sema- a couple racecars, and a grease-stained refrig- crack the Indian’s code and get it started. The
phore I’ve learned and just enjoy riding the erator full of beer. bike is its own anti-theft device.
Indian in all of its cantankerous glory. We pull up to a roadside Mexican joint that As I tear into my carne asada, I imagine this
In a Nicorette age, this bike is an unfiltered is tucked into an old green market. The dense, is exactly the kind of funky pit stop McQueen
Camel. As I blow through some open farmland peppery smell of chile verde spills out onto the would have dug—antojitos fit for an antihero.
that looks much the way it did in 1942, I pass sidewalk. We order burritos and grab a table. I can almost see him sitting in the corner on an
a couple of guys on fully rigged touring bikes, I hand Schoenewald the Scout’s key, which is old vinyl chair—sun-beaten face, dirty blond
fairings aglow with GPS and pipes drowned made from a Briggs & Stratton master. “Oh, locks, quiet, intent gaze. He gives us a little
in the drone of satellite radio. They look like hell,” he says, a little surprised. “I usually just nod, tips back a can of Old Milwaukee and
they’re driving their living rooms. The contrast leave it in the bike. I don’t want to lose it.” vanishes into the bright blue wall. <<

90 U LT I M A T E M O T O R C Y C L I N G • OCTOBER 2010
“

The McQueen Bookshelf

Steve McQueen’s brand of cool has no expiration date.
Thirty years after the star’s death, McQueen’s steely cha-
risma still holds our attention. While there are numer-
ous hardbound tributes to the actor, Marshall Terrill’s
“Steve McQueen, A Tribute to the King of Cool,” and
“Steve McQueen, The Last Mile,” by the actor’s widow,
Barbara McQueen (co-written with Terrill), stand as an
essential and complimentary pair.
The sprawling “King of Cool” tells McQueen’s story
via some 200 first-person accounts from friends, family,
biker pals and movie stars. Arranged in roughly chrono-
logical order, the varied perspectives examine McQueen
from every conceivable angle. The result is a 360-degree
image of a complex subject that a traditional biography
could not deliver. The volume’s exhaustive photography
paints a portrait of enigmatic cool in mosaic—there is
the elegant, Persol’d “Thomas Crown Affair” McQueen
beside the bearded, wild-eyed beer drinker in grimy Levi’s.
Throughout the book’s 381 pages you see a man entirely
comfortable in his own skin.
“The Last Mile” offers a more personal perspective
from McQueen’s widow, chronicling their relationship dur-
ing the last years of the actor’s life. As with “King of
Cool,” the book’s comprehensive photography is worth the
price of admission alone. Throughout, Barbara McQueen
offers intimate recollections of the couple’s time away from
the spotlight, along with a few surprising revelations.

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