Armando Magri Autobiography - "Then and Now"

[EricOlson]

It was requested in another thread that I post the autobiography of Armando Magri. The following was written by Armando, who lived and breathed motorcycles most of his life. It was uploaded by his son Ken to the internet, and I am reposting it here for y'all to enjoy. Although I grew up in the same area Armando lived and worked, I never got to know him personally. I got into old bikes after he passed, but nevertheless his name is spoken many places I go and his impact is felt long after he's gone. I'm glad he committed his memories to paper so we could all enjoy the adventures he lived. So here you go, Armando's Autobiography that he titled "Then and Now". Enjoy!

[EricOlson]

Chapter 1, The Beginning
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

Our mom, Zaira Pasquinelli, turned 17 as she passed through Ellis Island in 1911. In November of that year she married a man ten years her senior, who she knew only through correspondence, and settled in Chico, California.

Originally from Lucca, Italy, she didn’t speak English, had no work skills, no friends, and no relatives.

Ernie was born on December 31st, 1912. I showed up on April 14th, 1914, and Jody followed on April 13, 1915. We were delivered by a midwife named Ella Gretchel, in the house on 21st Street.

Dad started building the house before Mom came over. It consisted of two main rooms with an additional pantry and a preliminary basement. There were no electric lights, only smelly kerosene lamps. There was no running water, except for a hand pump in the pantry. The outdoor privy was on the corner of the lot, standing there like some haunted house of spiders, yellow jackets, and the famous Sears Robuck Catalog.

Everyone was glad when a new catalog came out, as the soft paper had already been used, and the only thing left were the slick pages; the harness section. It was no joy to use that privy at night. With winds howling and eerie shadows falling from the lamp, it always took a special effort to make that spooky bathroom run.

The first traumatic event of my childhood happened in 1917, when I got run over by a car at the age of three. I remained in Enloe Hospital for seven weeks, with my upper arm and shoulder severely damaged.

Some other bones were injured, but apparently got well by themselves, “except for your head” people would joke. I had to learn to walk again, but I never let this injury limit my dreams. I was never able to develop any strength above my left shoulder, as there were chunk of missing muscles, like the biceps and brachialis.

Dad came over to America through San Francisco Bay, somewhere around 1900, with a letter of Introduction. He worked in a mine near Winnemucca for a while, then came to California’s great Central Valley. In Chico, he worked for the railroad as a gardener, tending all of the train station gardens down to Sacramento.

But he didn’t make enough. I wore Ernie’s hand-me-down clothes, before mom passed them on to Jody. With three mouths to feed, Mom took a job at the Diamond Match Company, and when she came home with her paychecks, Dad took them.

After work at the match company, Mom would clean houses for wealthy families, and work the farms during harvest time. When she picked prunes, she took us along to save on babysitting. In-between playing, we managed to help Mom fill an additional box or two. A full lug box of prunes paid 10 cents.

We kids also collected cattle bones, which paid 20 cents per gunny sack. We never knew for sure what they were used for, but there was a rumor that they used the bones to whiten sugar. We also gathered black walnuts along the highway that harvesters had missed. We could earn 50 cents for a sack full of those.

Joseph, Ernest and Armando Magri in the back, with their mom, Zaira,.jpg
Joseph, Ernest and Armando Magri in the back, with their mom, Zaira

Brothers Armando and Ernie Magri.jpg
Brothers Armando and Ernie Magri

Joseph, Ernest and Armando Magri with their mother, Zaira Gheller, and brother Bobby Gheller, 1931..jpg
Joseph, Ernest and Armando Magri with their mother, Zaira Gheller, and brother Bobby Gheller, 1931.

[EricOlson]

Chapter 2, The Dunnigan Brothers
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

At the age of eight, I started hanging out with some older kids we called the Dunnigan brothers. Ernie didn’t like them and tried to keep me away from them, but I would sneak away from him. The Dunnigans taught me how to steal, for example. We took a box from the trainyard once, thinking it was filled with peanuts. Instead, we had swiped a box of corncob pipes.

In February of 1923, the brothers broke into a grocery store on 16th Street and stole cigarettes and gum. When they offered me some gum later, they told me that, if anyone asked, to say I was with them.

Before long a probation officer, Teddy Peck, came by the house and asked me if I had been with the Dunnigan kids. “Yes sir,” I told him, not realizing what was coming. I don’t know what happened to the Dunnigan boys, but Dad made the decision that night to send me to St. Patrick’s Orphanage with the Sisters of Mercy in Grass Valley.

A few days later, on a cold February morning, I began one of the most traumatic journeys of my life. Dressed in my Sunday-best knee-high pants with long black stockings, a white shirt and overcoat, Dad and I caught the Northern Electric train to Sacramento. From there we transferred to a Southern Pacific train heading to Colfax.

Dad was never a man of words. He rarely explained things, and this morning was no exception. As the train travelled South, through the rich farmlands of the Central Valley, we sat in silence. When you’re eight years old and in trouble, the cruelest thing someone can do is to prolong the mystery surrounding your fate. I had a feeling I was going to be dropped off somewhere, a reform school perhaps, for something I hadn’t done.

Beyond that, my future was anyone’s guess.

We got off the train in Colfax, a sleepy little town in the Sierra foothills. From there we got onto a Nevada County Narrow Gage train (NCNG, they nicknamed it “Never Come Never Go”). It was dark by the time we got to Grass Valley, and we were given a ride to the convent, just outside of town.

St. Patrick’s was a Catholic orphanage for boys, with a separate girls’ facility nearby. We were met at the entrance by one of the sisters, and a quiet chill overwhelmed the moment. I looked up towards my father. He knelt down, gave
me a slight hug, said a quick goodbye, and that was it.

I learned later that Dad arranged to pay St. Patrick’s $25 a month for my room and board. Was this an alternative to reform school? Was this Officer Peck’s idea that he forced onto Dad? Or with Mom gone, were three boys too much for a single parent to handle?

After the decades that have passed, I still cannot answer that question. All I know is that I was very frightened. The sister finally put me to bed in a large dormitory filled with strange boys. If I could just get to sleep, it would bring this
scary day to an end.

Armando, Jody and Ernie Magri, circa 1920..jpg
Armando, Jody and Ernie Magri, circa 1920

Nevada County Narrow Gage Rail, the NCNG, or as we called it, the Never Come Never Go.jpg
Nevada County Narrow Gage Rail, the NCNG, or as we called it, "the Never Come Never Go"

St. Patrick's Convent in Grass Valley, where Armando lived from ages 8-12 in the 1920s.jpg
St. Patrick's Convent in Grass Valley, where Armando lived from ages 8-12 in the 1920s

[EricOlson]

Chapter 3, Life in the Saint Patricks Convent, 1923-1928
From the Autobiography Armando Magri

I was at Saint Patrick’s convent for four and a half years, from the ages of 8-12. Looking back, I have to admit that it was far more rewarding that I thought that first night. I met boys from Fort Bragg, Marysville, Sacramento, Chico and various towns in Western Nevada. Together, there were 200 of us. Some were simply boarders and some were orphans. Others like me got into some kind of trouble that wasn’t severe enough for the reform school in Ione. Whatever the reason for being there, we were all equals. No kid had it better than any other.

We performed dozens of support jobs abound the convent. Most were maintenance oriented, like making beds, cleaning, washing dishes and wood-chopping. I was assigned to cut hair in the barber shop. The older boys taught me how to do a basic pompadour cut, which was a fad in the 1920s. My sense of fashion boiled down to that one cut, take it or leave it.

Sometimes I was selected to help a group of kids wax and polish the large downstairs hall. This task was a sheer delight, because once we applied the paste wax, the sisters didn’t care how we did the polishing. We would take off our shoes and wrap our feet in polishing rags. After the excess wax was off, we could slide 25-30 feet by charging down the corridor. It got competitive, but I was really good at this. When the sisters returned, they would make us go back and hit all the places where we hadn’t been sliding.

We never had store-bought toys, but managed to make things like sleds, hockey sticks and kites. We constructed the kites out of newspaper and reeds. If a kite ended up in a tree, there was quite an effort to get it back. It wasn’t that
the kite was valuable, but the string was! We couldn’t manufacture that.

Pillow fights were common in the dormitory, but one night, things didn’t go so well. We would shake the feathers to one end of the pillow, so we could better grab it on the other. We would count “one, two, three,” and let go. My buddy jumped the gun and the impact of his swing drove my head into a bedpost. It poked halfway through my nose, and a large blood clot formed, then broke. When a sister asked me what happened, I said that I jumped into bed too
quickly.

The next morning, I went to confession and said that I had lied. That made me feel better, but I never completely recovered from that injury. I still have breathing restrictions on my left side from the scar tissue.

We had a baseball team. I was the catcher. We played against other grade schools in the region. Let the record
show that we lost only one game while I was there. We never had enough equipment. But when the Pacific League’s Oakland Acorns bought new equipment, they donated their old stuff to us. Grass Valley had two semi-pro teams, the Empire Mine and the North Star Mine, and we got free admission to their games at Watt Park on Sundays. We always looked forward to that.

We invented a sport that we called “sink-sledding.” After finding an old kitchen sink, we hauled it up a mine dump hill of small rocks. We quickly learned on the slide down that friction would heat up that sink bottom, and our bottoms
too, so we put short boards in the sink for insulation. Sink-sledding down a hillside of rocks had to be one of the more dangerous things we did, but it sure was fun. And what a view! God must have been looking over us.

But our favorite game was tree tag. There were numerous cables laying around from the earlier mining days. We would string them up from tree to tree, on upper and lower levels, before starting the game. This is what made the game, because we could now swing from tree to tree like Tarzan. I know, it sounds crazy, but we never really got hurt. Decades later, when I revisited those old playing areas, I found traces of the tree cables.

One night I was going to the bathroom and ran smack into Sister Agnes, sitting on the throne without her hood. I was awestruck. Her hair was very short, like a butch, and I couldn’t wait to tell my buddies.

RUNNING AWAY
After a year at St. Patrick’s, my brother Jody was sent here too. We didn’t see that much of each other, because he was a grade behind me, and we had our own sets of friends. Nevertheless, one morning, Jody and I decided to run away from the convent. A kid named Casanova joined us.

We planned on making it to Marysville, where we could catch a ride to Chico. It was 90 miles away, but we had no concept of distance. We walked and walked, hiding in the bushes or a ditch whenever a car approached. Later we learned that we had walked over 14 miles. As night fell, we could hear coyotes howl. We were hungry, tired and scared to death. We figured that if we slept in a tree, that would keep us safe. But you can’t fall asleep on a tree branch. We just got more frightened.

Coming down from the tree, we managed to flag down the first car driving by. The man who picked us up, took us to his house, gave us a meal, and set us up with a bed to sleep in. Once we were asleep, he called the Sheriff.

After breakfast, the man drove us to Smartsville, and put us on a train back to Grass Valley. But when we arrived, nobody was there to meet us. Feeling pretty clever, we snuck back into the convent by climbing the fire escape. We


were planning on getting blankets and running away all over again. Coming down the dormitory stairs, however,
there stood Mother Superior. We were in a heap of trouble.

Mother Superior took us back upstairs and gave us crazy haircuts. With a shaver, she zig-zagged back and forth a few times. Then she made us wear girls’ dresses over our regular clothes. The other kids laughed like heck. But at the same time, we were also celebrities for breaking out. And it wasn’t going to stop me from playing baseball, but I kept getting my foot caught in the fabric. After sliding onto second base, the dress started to tear lengthwise. It looked like a shredded hula skirt.

After a day of this we took off the dresses, and they shaved our heads all the way, so we would be presentable for
confession. We never tried running away again.

Armando, Bobby, Ernie and Jody Magri, circa 1926.jpg
Armando, Bobby, Ernie and Jody Magri, circa 1926

Central Mine in Grass Valley.jpg
Central Mine in Grass Valley

Golden Center Mine in Grass Valley in the 1920s..jpg
Golden Center Mine in Grass Valley in the 1920s.

The grocery store in Smartsville, California, in modern times..jpg
The grocery store in Smartsville, California, in modern times.

[EricOlson]

Chapter 4, The Girl Who Taught Me and Ernie How to Ride a Motorcycle
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri


In 1928, the gas station at 21st and Park was purchased by a man named Boutin, who had a 19-year old daughter named Jeanne. During the daytime she operated the station, which was a block from our house, while her father worked at the Diamond Match Company.

Jeanne Boutin was a feminist before Feminism. Back at Chico High, she had been both an honor student, and starting center on the girls’ varsity basketball team. She owned her own car, a 1926 Chevy roadster, and was studying to get her pilot’s license when Ernie and I met her.

One day she asked Ernie to accompany her on a drive down to Sacramento. Jeanne decided she was going to buy a motorcycle.

“We went to a couple of places,” said Ernie, “but she didn’t like the selection. So we drove over to Pacific Cyclery on
5TH and J Streets, and Jeanne finally found a 1924 Harley-Davidson Sport Twin.”


Ernie said she chose the Harley because it had a seat low enough that she could stand flat-footed and hold it up. As with everything else, Jeanne was a natural on a motorcycle. She rode her new purchase back up to Chico, while Ernie followed behind in the car.

For me, age 14, and Ernie, age 15, that was our introduction to the world of motorcycling. It wasn’t long before Jeanne was teaching both of us how to ride her Sport Twin. On Ernie’s first solo venture, he hit a hunting dog and dropped the bike. It killed the dog, but Ernie endured only scrapes and bruises. The bike had very little damage, so Jeanne decided to let me have a try. I took to it like a duck to water.

Before too long Ernie and I acquired motorcycles for ourselves, and were riding alongside Jeanne. Ernie bought an Indian Scout, and I bought a 1921 Harley-Davidson 61 cubic inch JD. For Jeanne, motorcycling was just another exciting thing to do. But for me and Ernie, motorcycles changed the entire trajectory of our lives.

Jeanne was quite a gal. She had a cowboy friend who claimed to be related to the actor Gary Cooper. He came to visit her once, bringing along a bottle of straight alcohol. I drank a couple of shots, and it about took my head off. I was saturated. Jeanne told me later that I walked smack into a pear tree. That was the last time I ever tried straight alcohol.

“I should have married Jeanne,” exclaimed Ernie one day. He told me about taking rides with her through Bidwell Park, and stopping at a little bar, where they could get out of the rain and watch Mario Stillo, our old friend, play the accordion. While I was falling in love with Harley-Davidsons, Ernie was falling for Jeanne.

Jeanne Boutin's 1930 Chico High School yearbook photo.jpg
Jeanne Boutin's 1930 Chico High School yearbook photo

Armando Magri restored a 1921 Harley Sport Twin (Model W) just like the one h.jpg
Armando restored a 1921 Sport Twin (Model W) just like the one he learned to ride on, then he and Lu donated it to the Harley-Davidson Museum in Milwaukee

[EricOlson]

Chapter 5, My First, Second and Third Harley-Davidsons
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

After learning how to ride Jeanne’s motorcycle, I wanted to own one of my own. At the age of 14 I purchased a 1921
Harley-Davidson 61 cubic inch JD for six dollars. It was in running condition, with a battery-operated electrical system. The battery, however, was dead, wouldn’t hold a charge.

A new battery cost $16. So that was out of the question, considering how hard it was to raise the original six dollars. Instead, I removed the battery from my 1922 Chevy, strapped it onto the luggage carrier of my Harley, and hit the road.

One gorgeous summer day I rode over to visit my friend Carl Howerton. Carl’s sister, Babe, who was my age, started pestering me for a ride. We went up to Bidwell Park, over to the five-mile dam, then headed back home. All was
going well until we heard a sudden bang, and the rear tire had blown. I had no tools, nor mechanic’s knowledge, but just about everyone who had a vehicle in those days also owned tire-patching equipment. It was essential. So, we pushed my bike to a nearby country house and asked for help. With the help of two gentlemen who lived there, Babe and I were on the road again.

While cruising past Babe’s house and waving to her mother on the front porch, all hell broke loose and the engine came to a sudden stop. The timing gear screws weren’t tight enough, and the vibration caused the whole gear assembly to go flying into the weeds. Babe walked back into her house, and I spent the rest of the afternoon searching n the weeds for my timing gears. I got the bike towed home, and stayed away from motorcycles for a few years.

In 1931, I bought my second Harley, a 1925 JD for $30. Before long I raised another $30 and had the opportunity to get a third bike, upgrading to a 1927 model (see photo below). I wanted to make five dollars profit on selling the old JD, but the best deal was from a fellow who offered $30 and five gallons of homemade wine.

At a pre-selected time, he would hide a single gallon at a time in the tall weeds that surrounded a row of mailboxes.

Our friend Leon Ball, who we called “eight-ball,” had a paper route in this neighborhood, so we made him the pick-up
man. Most of the rest of us were unemployed, and bored, so we would ride along with Eight-ball on his route. We
would pick up the wine, and finish it by the end of his deliveries.

It was a bit sad, that day when we picked up the last gallon of wine. It turned out that the guy had been stealing
gallons from his own family wine cellar. Still, I considered the whole transaction to have been a profitable one.

93956784_853642791787303_7366851944754708480_o.jpg

[EricOlson]

Chapter 6, Some of My Crazier Riding Stories from the 1930s
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

The Running Hood Ornament

Our Chico Motorcycle Club members were returning from a Sunday ride to Oroville, when we started playing around on our motorcycles. I thought it would be real smart to show everyone how good I was by riding up the highway while standing on the seat.

All was going great, so I decided to step it up by standing on one leg and leaning forward with outstretched arms, like a hood ornament. That’s when the seat on my Harley tilted, just at the time I was lifting my foot up.

I went flying off the bike, doing around 25 miles per hour, and landed upright on the highway, slapping pavement like crazy to keep from falling down. Meanwhile, the bike veered into a ditch without any damage. I was also uninjured, except for my pride.

It didn’t stop me from mastering this trick in the future. II became quite adept at it, and performed in various stunt competitions throughout Northern California.

Mario Stillo’s Wild Ride

Mario Stillo was a friend of the family and a fellow member of the Chico Motorcycle Club. One afternoon, he and I were riding our bikes through Chico, when we wound-up trailing behind a school bus. The back of the bus was full of high school girls from Sterling City, who started noticing us following them.

Mario and I started waving. When they waved back, we started doing stunts on our bikes. This went on for a few blocks. At one point, Mario leaned back and rested on the fender, while steering the bike with his feet. The girls looked pretty impressed, until Mario’s foot slipped on the accelerator.

The bike took off without Mario, leaving him on his ass in the middle of Park Avenue. It crashed into a tree in the front yard of the grammar school principal, old lady Crumb.

The last thing Mario and I saw were the girls in the bus, laughing, I suppose, all the way back to Sterling City. Years later, Mario became a Class C motorcycle racer like me, winning the 1940 Pacific Coast TT Championship, riding an Indian.

Riding in a Sidecar with a Drunk Frank Murray

While hitchhiking my way up to Kyburz, to start working in a lumber mill, I stopped at Frank Murray’s mountain cabin, at the 24 Milestone tract along Highway 50. Milestone tracts were designated areas for summer mountain cabins, named after the actual stone markers that told a Pony Express rider how far it was to Placerville.

Frank was alone on this particular weekend. I found him loaded on bourbon. It was dinner time, and he offered me a bowl of beans. There was always a pot of beans simmering on the wood-burning stove. After dinner, he offered me a ride up to Kyburz in his sidecar.

I wasn’t too happy about riding with him in this condition, but needed to get to Kyburz for work the next morning. Frank gave me a wild seven mile ride. The road to the mill was dirt, and very crooked. I decided it would be safer sitting on top of the sidecar, with my feet on the seat, just in case I needed to make a hasty exit. I wasn’t sure we would even make the last four miles.

Frank was one of the best sidecar riders I ever met, but he sure gave me a scare that day.

ARMAND~1.JPG
Armando Magri (front, center, smiling) and other members of the Chico motorcycle Club, 1934. Mario Stillo is in the back shadows, in the middle.

ERNIEM~1.JPG
Ernie Magri hangs on for this stunt photo, with others holding the bike up from below, early 1930s

ERNIEM~2.JPG
Ernie Magri, top left, and other members of the Chico Motorcycle Club, goofing off, early 1930s.

Chico Motorcycle Club member Armando Magri, 1935.jpg
Chico Motorcycle Club member Armando Magri, 1935

Frank and Gladys Murray on their Harley-Davidson sidecar, at Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, 1920s..jpg
Frank and Gladys Murray on their Harley-Davidson sidecar, at Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, 1920s.

[gharper]

Great reading Eric! Thanks for posting this story. I'm looking forward to "the rest of the story"

[EricOlson]

1934 Hauling a Motorcycle in my Chevy
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

One weekend Ernie and fellow Chico Motorcycle Club member Irish McQuaide had planned a trip to Portola. During their trip, Ernie’s 1928 Harley 61 cubic-inch broke down near Emigrant Gap. To get home, Irish had to haul Ernie on the back of his 1929 45 cubic-inch Harley, which broke down in Gridley. From there, they had to hitchhike the remaining 30 miles back to Chico.

This is where I enter the story. Ernie asked if I would drive him and Irish back to their motorcycles. I said sure, but I was broke, as usual. Nobody ever got criticized for being broke during the Depression because almost everyone was in the same situation. Back then, there was no unemployment insurance to rely on.

The three of us decided to pick prunes to raise enough money. At eight cents per lug box, this wasn’t going to make us rich. Picking prunes was a back-breaking job that nobody wanted unless there was absolutely no other work to be found. But by 3:00 pm we had enough money for the trip.

Once we got to Portola, Irish had a girlfriend there named June Stevens. We wound up staying at her place for a couple of days. On the way back, we picked up Ernie’s bike first. With some difficulty, we managed to get that 375 pound bike up into my back seat. We made a few scratches here and there, but it didn’t make any difference to my old 1923 Chevy.

While on route to Grass Valley, we came upon a car that was stuck in a ditch. When I asked the driver if he needed assistance, he glared at my car and said, “With that thing?” I answered, “Do you want us to pull you out of there, or would you rather stay stuck in the mud?”

This demonstrated the awesome faith I had in my Chevy, which looked like a fugitive from a junk yard, but which never failed me. I used a skid chain for a tow rope, and without any need for pushing from the men standing around, pulled the car out on the first try.

The gentleman, now rather embarrassed, offered to pay. But I was full of pride and said, “That’s okay, no charge.” Ernie reminded me that we were broke again, and low on gas, so, before the man could change his mind, I made a grab for the coins he was holding out and thanked him. We gassed up in Grass Valley and had enough change left to fill our bellies with chili beans.

Once in Gridley, we found some rope with the help of a service station attendant, and tied Irish’s motorcycle to the rear of the car. With a motorcycle sitting in the back seat, one being towed in the back, and three of us up in the front seat, we were quite a sight. But we made it home with no further interruptions.

Armando Magri and his 1923 Chevy, coming down from Paradise.jpg
Armando Magri and his 1923 Chevy, coming down from Paradise

Armando Magri and his Chevy, 1934.jpg
Armando Magri and his Chevy, 1934

Irish McQuade.jpg
Irish McQuade

[1939wl]

Thank You Eric, this is fascinating material !

[EricOlson]

Chapter 7, Founding the Chico Motorcycle Club, 1933
From the Autobiography of Ernie Magri

Armando never wrote about his involvement with the Chico Motorcycle Club, which he helped form in 1933. But Ernie Magri wrote about it in his autobiography. Here is an excerpt:

Upon returning to Chico I got my old job back at the Diamond Match Company and, as soon as I earned some money, purchased a 1928 Harley-Davidson 61 cubic inch from a Chicago gent who had moved here. I started chasing around with a motorcycle bunch, guys who hung out at Pullens Cyclery.

There weren’t many at the time; Angelo Palmero, Carl Jones, Bruv Evans, Bill Smith and George Talkin. We started a motorcycle club, which didn’t last long because most of the guys had to work in the harvest, and unavailable.

On August 3, 1933, my brother Armando and I, along with a few other riders started the Chico Motorcycle Club. We met at our house at 4354 21st Street. Ernie Magri was elected President, Keith McQuaide as Road Captain, and Armando Magri as Secretary. Other new members were Bob Divan, Roy Jackson, Jim Foster and Shirley Wakefield.

We wanted to make a strict rule that no women could be members unless they owned a bike.

“No way,” said Armando.

Friday nights were his time for girls and dating, and he said he wouldn’t attend our Friday night meetings. So we decided to let in the girls as auxiliary members, and this worked out to everybody’s satisfaction. The girls were involved in all of our activities. Some even learned to ride, and a few marriages evolved from this.

Armando and Ernie Magri, mid 1930s.jpg
Armando and Ernie Magri, mid 1930s

Armando, Mom, Ernie Magri, 1930s, Chico, California.jpg
Armando, Mom, Ernie Magri, 1930s, Chico, California

Chico Motorcycle Club members in front of Pullens Cyclery in Chico, California, circa 1934.jpg
Chico Motorcycle Club members in front of Pullens Cyclery in Chico, California, circa 1934

Chico Motorcycle Club members in front of Pullens Cyclery, early 1930s..jpg
Chico Motorcycle Club members in front of Pullens Cyclery, early 1930s.

Chico Motorcycle Club members. Armando Magri is on the far right.jpg
Chico Motorcycle Club members. Armando Magri is on the far right

[EricOlson]

Photos from Chapter 7 continued

Group photo of the Chico Motorcycle Club at the Park Garage, early 1930s..jpg
Group photo of the Chico Motorcycle Club at the Park Garage, early 1930s.

Chico Motorcycle Club members in front of the clubhouse (Magri backyard), circa 1933.jpg
Chico Motorcycle Club members in front of the clubhouse (Magri backyard), circa 1933

Former Magri House 21st Street in Chico. The Chico MC meetings were held in a shed around back.jpg
Former Magri House 21st Street in Chico. The Chico MC meetings were held in a shed around back

RE-ENA~1.JPG
Re-enactment of Armando Magri accident while on a Chico Motorcycle Club run. Ernie helps while Armando's girl, unhurt, laughs, 1930s.

George and Elaine, Chico Motorcycle Club Members, 1930s. Photo by Ernie Magri.jpg
George and Elaine, Chico Motorcycle Club Members, 1930s. Photo by Ernie Magri

[EricOlson]

Photos from Chapter 7 continued

Chico Motorcycle Club member Roy Jackson at the 1935 CMC enduro competition.jpg
Chico Motorcycle Club member Roy Jackson at the 1935 CMC enduro competition

Vern Maxwell participating in the 1935 Chico Endurance Run.jpg Vern Maxwell participating in the 1935 Chico Endurance Run

Chico Motorcycle Club member Keith 'Irish' McQuaide..jpg
Chico Motorcycle Club member Keith 'Irish' McQuaide

Irish McQuaide.jpg

J. Pullens of Pullens Cyclery in Chico, California, 1930s.jpg
J. Pullens of Pullens Cyclery in Chico, California, 1930s

[EricOlson]

Armando Magri, working on his Harley-Davidson down in a ditch, near Chico, California, 1930s..jpg
Armando Magri, working on his Harley-Davidson down in a ditch, near Chico, California, 1930s.

Chico Motorcycle Club Snow Run, 1935. Ernie Magri is in the middle, holding a showball.jpg
Chico Motorcycle Club Snow Run, 1935. Ernie Magri is in the middle, holding a snowball

[EricOlson]

Chapter 8, Articles from the Chico Enterprise Newspaper
From the Autobiography of Ernie Magri

Armando’s brother Ernie Magri kept a scrapbook, which Armando’s son Ken inherited. Inside, he had several cut-out newspaper clippings from 1933-1936, mostly from the Chico Enterprise. “They would always put in a little something about us," said Ernie.

The last article is the funniest, and very cleverly crafted. Don't miss it. Here are the articles:

RIDERS ORGANIZE MOTORCYCLE CLUB

Motorcycle enthusiasm was brought to the top last night at the Chico Cycle Shop at 4354 21st Street by organizing a
new motorcycle club. Eight riders appeared. Officers elected were Ernie Magri, President; Keith McQuaid, Road Captain; and Armando Magri, Secretary. Others present were B. Diven, R. Jackson. H. Jackson, J. Foster and S. Wakefield. The club’s first run will be held Sunday at 10:30. All motorcyclists are welcome.

MOTORCYCLE HITS HORSE AND WAGON

Leon Ball, Chico youth, escaped injury when the motorcycle he was riding collided with a horse and wagon on First Avenue. Ball was traveling west on First Avenue, and the horse and wagon were traveling east. The wagon driver did not report any damage.

MAGRI INJURED IN BIKE CRASH

Armando Magri, local motorcyclist, had his left knee injured this morning when his bike collided with a car driven by Mrs. Bertha K. Jones, 3464 Ninth Street, in the intersection of Eighth and Wall Streets. Skid marks on the pavement showed that Magri executed a couple of loops in attempting to avoid the accident. Mrs. Jones’ car had one front wheel damaged by the accident.

RIDER NEARLY LOSES PANTS WHEN FLAMES MENACE MOTORCYCLE

Leon Ball, Enterprise carrier, was saved from an embarrassing predicament before noon today when the motorcycle he was riding burst into flames at the corner of Seventh and Broadway, igniting the seat of his pants and otherwise disturbing his tranquility.

Ball discovered his motorcycle was ablaze when his seat became warm. He leaped from the cycle and made known his trouble with vociferous yells for help. Tom Kelly and William McEnsy, operators of the Union station at Seventh and Broadway, were quick to respond. Seizing fire extinguishers from the station, the pair went to Ball’s aid, first extinguishing the flames which enveloped the rider’s pants, and then turning their attention to the burning motorcycle. It developed that the fire started when the float valve of the motorcycle stuck, allowing gasoline to pour onto the exhaust.

93648825_854387131712869_8950549374841126912_o.jpg
Members of the Chico Motorcycle Club