Armando Magri Autobiography - "Then and Now"

[EricOlson]

Chapter 9, Magri’s Quick Delivery Service, My First Business, Part 1
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

My most intriguing job of all time was a motorcycle delivery service I ran in Chico. In the spring of 1934, I was out of work, out of money and getting hungrier by the day. America was deep in the Great Depression. Which made it harder to obtain off-season work.

In desperation, I came up with the idea of the delivery service. I owned a 1927 Harley-Davidson at the time. This would be my work horse. I acquired a 1917 sidecar frame that had wheels, but no body. It took a week to find someone with enough money to loan me the $1.50 I needed for lumber to build a box on the frame.

The box was five by two and half feet, and it wasn’t pretty, but I paid a local sign painter to put my name on the box. After scraping up $3 for business cards, this would be my only advertising. Newspaper ads were too expensive.

MAGRI’S QUICK DELIVERY Any article under 50 pounds
Delivered anywhere in the city for 10 cents
Phone 99-CHICO

I shared a very small office with a parking attendant at the Park Garage on 4th Street. All I needed now was a business license and some customers. One of my close friends, Gene Lewis, worked over at Clyde Bowman’s ice plant.

Gene was telling Mr. Bowman about me needing a license, so Bowman offered me a deal. He would advance me the eight dollars for the city license, and I was to pay him back, 10 cents at a time, by delivering ice cream or ice. If I was short on cash, Bowman would loan me some. If not, each 10-cent delivery worked off my loan.

On the first day of business I grossed 30 cents. Not discouraged, the next day I grossed 80 cents. On the third day, I grossed over a dollar, and was off to the races as an independent businessman.

Every Saturday evening after work, I would remove the sidecar, which took about 5 minutes, and I had weekend transportation for anything I wanted to do.

While running the service, I had some really wild experiences. In Chico, at that time, there were four houses of prostitution. These were often called “sport houses.” I was delivering groceries to one of these houses during the afternoon. I knocked on the door, and a nice-looking lady, very scantily dressed, opened it. As I put her groceries down, she tried to sell me her services for $1.50. “I get 10 cents for this delivery and you want me to spend $1.50 on you?” She didn’t say another word, but gave me a 50-cent tip.

There was another sport house, an old run-down hotel, on the corner of 8th and Broadway. I saw a woman sitting in the window upstairs, having a smoke. I called up to her and asked for one, and she threw the whole pack down. When tossing it back up, I deliberately tossed it low. So, I walked the cigarettes upstairs and handed the woman my card, saying I could run errands and make deliveries for her. Her name was Shirley. Over the months she and her madam, named Bee, gave me a lot of business.

I got a call from Bee once, asking me to pick up an order at the Aisthorpe Lumber Company. She had ordered two sections of plywood, each measuring three by six feet. After hauling these pieces up 50 steps to the hotel’s 2nd floor, I asked Bee what she wanted them for. Bee had me fit each one under a bed mattress. She said her girls had been working too hard.

Shirley didn’t have a car, but loved to go horseback riding a couple of days a week. I was hired to pick her up at 6am and deliver her to the riding stables. Shirley was the most unusual merchandise I ever hauled. I usually took back roads, because I didn’t want to be seen with a hooker. There was no hanky-panky involved. Shirley always gave me a nice tip, and would take a regular cab home.

Shirley wasn’t the only one who got a ride in my sidehack. I was also a favorite with kids in my neighborhood. They always hollered at me when I rode by, I gave one kid a ride, and before I knew it, was besieged with kids. I would pile them in and take a spin around the block. It was a lot of fun. There wasn’t a kid in Chico who didn’t know the Magri’s Quick Delivery guy.

I received a good amount of regular business from the town’s brothels, which makes sense when you think about it. They would want things delivered as much as possible. One day I had a call to deliver a box of groceries over to 1st Street. I kicked on the door, as my hands were full.

When the door opened, three prostitutes were standing there. I had never seen these particular “sport girls” before. One of them said, “Look at this nice young boy. Let’s rape him.” I said, “If you take this box of groceries off my hands, I’ll help you!”

They were so eager, they couldn’t decide who should go first, they said. I told them to “call 99” when they figured it out, and let me know. I’m still waiting for that call.

Another time I got a call from two new girls who wanted me to run an errand for them. When I arrived, they noticed my shirt was rather threadbare. They looked at one another and, in unison, ripped off my shirt. It was all in good fun, but “how am I going to finish deliveries this way?” I asked. They gave me three dollars for a new shirt, and a beautiful white shirt with pinstripes. It was a good deal, since I paid 59 cents for the original shirt. I found out later that Bee had told them about me, and they just wanted to have some fun.

I also delivered medical reports to Shirley, from old Dr. Mouton. He was the doctor who treated my crushed shoulder from the car accident I had at the age of two (a separate story, I was run over by a car and survived it, but forever lost the muscles that worked my arm above my left shoulder). Not only did I get paid by the doc, Shirley would tip me on the other end, usually 50 cents. All told, the girls were pretty nice to me, and generous with tips. We had a lot of fun kidding each other.

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[EricOlson]

Chapter 10, Magri's Quick Delivery Service, My First Business, Part 2
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

One beautiful day, our Chico motorcycle club had a swimming party at Nelson Bar, on the Feather River. While fooling around in shallow water, I stepped on some sharp glass that gashed the bottom of my foot. It was bleeding like crazy, so I wrapped a handkerchief around my foot. I didn’t think much of it, but Monday morning, I couldn’t kick over my motorcycle to start deliveries. After a week, my foot had swelled up and didn’t seem to be getting any better.

I saw Doc Mouton the next morning, when he pulled into the Park Street Garage. He said to come upstairs to his office. There, he found a blood clot that had interrupted the healing. He cleaned it out and put in several stiches. A week later I went to have the stitches taken out.

He took one quick look and said to the nurse, “This looks bad.” A moment later she returned with a scalpel and small surgical saw. He placed the saw right above my ankle and asked the nurse “What do you think, about here?” Man, my adrenaline was pumping and I broke out in a sweat. Just then Doc Mouton and the nurse broke out in laughter. “No charge,” he said, while pulling out the stiches. “This one’s on me.”

The largest load I ever carried was from the United Wholesale Grocers to Mulkey’s Market. It was ten 100-pound sacks of cane sugar, and a case of canned corn; 1020 pounds.

On my way up Park Avenue one day, I remembered that I had to make a stop at the meat market, which I had just passed. I hit the one-wheel brake too hard on a left-handed U-turn, and the bike flipped over into the opposite lane. I was thrown onto the sidewalk and landed upright. Fortunately, no cars were coming, so I turned the bike back over, reloaded my wares and headed off. I figured it was all in a day’s work.

Every morning at 9am, I had a regular delivery for the Grist Mill Bakery. I delivered pies and assorted pastries to a confectionary store on Broadway. I had built a shelf on the sidecar, to allow for two rows of pies in one delivery, as long as I went slow. This worked for nearly a year, until I once had to make a sudden stop. Guess where all the pies went? It was "pie-a-la-road."

Business was going pretty well, and in February of 1935, I purchased a 1934 Harley from a friend named Ivan Masterson. It was a red and silver job with 3,000 miles on it. I only had $25 in cash, but borrowed $225 from the People’s Finance Company. This was a twelve-month loan, and the interest was $80.60, or 37%.

I was able to find a factory-made Harley sidevan, with a lid. Now I had two vehicles, but soon after sold the 1927. It was hard to get good help, and my interest in racing motorcycles began to interfere with business. The payments on the motorcycle were coming up fast. When my step dad said he could help me get a construction job, I took the offer.

Paying off that loan was a little more than I could handle at the time. I figured to make more cash working construction for the winter. Since Ernie was out of work, he ran the delivery service.

It wasn’t long after that I received a letter from the Public Utilities Commission saying I need liability insurance. Another letter came from the Railroad Commission, Department of Transportation, requiring me to keep books, which I had never done.

Nobody would insure motorcycles. I couldn’t afford it anyway. This was the beginning of the end of Magri’s Quick
Delivery. I was too young to take on the responsibilities, and wanted to race motorcycles. But it was a great lot of fun, with business lessons that came along.

ERNIEM~1.JPG
Ernie Magri ran the business for a while, while Armando worked a construction job to make more money.

Armando Magri takes on a second motorcycle for his delivery service, early 1930s.jpg
Armando Magri takes on a second motorcycle for his delivery service, early 1930s

Armando Magri and an unknown friend, Chico, mid-1930s.jpg
Armando Magri and an unknown friend, Chico, mid-1930s

[JoJo357]

This is a Great read, even better than I ever expected~Thanks a million Eric.
These chapters of his autobiography will always relate to everyone who truly enjoys the 100% aspects of the entire realm of Motorcycles and its travels. I wish I could have chewed the fat awhile with Armando. I asked 'Springer' about his initial meeting of Magri, and Jay shook his head and said he was...''quite a guy''!
Another Major plus for all, is that this autobiography is a wonderful documentation of Americana.

*M.A.D.*

[EricOlson]

Chapter 11, Riding with the Skip Fordyce Motorcycle Thrill Show
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri


The Skip Fordyce Motorcycle Thrill Show came to Chico for a performance once in 1934. This was a fly-by-night outfit that travelled from town to town, performing at local tracks and drawing modest crowds. The show featured Skip, his wife Ruthie, his brother, sister-in-law and parents. You didn’t need permits or insurance back then. They just set things up, and were in business.

This thrill show performed some of the same stunts that Chico Motorcycle Club members could do, like spinning circles, doing it with a passenger on the back, standing on the seat, riding backwards. Fordyce also created his own tricks, like standing on the seat and shooting at eggs.

For some reason the Fordyce people seemed egotistical, not really friendly to us. So, when they performed a stunt in front of the grandstand, we tried to duplicate it in the parking lot behind them. It spoiled their show, to some extent, and they left town perturbed.

The next year they came back to Patrick Airport, a bigger space for a bigger show, and they asked us to perform with them. Man, were we flattered. We said yes.

Their new show featured a hot air balloonist and a parachutist. But the balloon caught fire during filling, and they cancelled that stunt. Skip had assigned me to shoot eggs that he would toss up in the air, while I rode by standing on the seat. Are you picturing this?

Now I was good at standing while riding. I practiced it. One time while standing on the seat with one foot back and arms spread like a hood ornament, the seat slipped and I actually fell off the bike in a standing position. It sounds crazy, but I had to slap pavement pretty hard just to stay upright. The bike went into a ditch and the only thing hurt was my pride.

Back at the thrill show, I got up on my Harley with the rifle and slowly cruised toward Skip and his eggs. I was doing about 25 mph, too fast to get off any kind of a good shot. It made no difference, because for reasons I cannot explain, I took a step forward while aiming and walked right off the bike. The audience didn’t know if it was accidental or a stunt, but they got a huge laugh out of it, and so did Skip.

After that event we all became good friends, Skip and Ruthie built a Harley-Davidson dealership in Riverside. Whenever we would get together.

Skip would say that egg stunt was the funniest thing he ever saw. It certainly ended my short career as a motorcycle stunt rider.

A Skip Fordyce pre-event press article from a Klamath Falls, Oregon newspaper, 1930s.jpg
A Skip Fordyce pre-event press article from a Klamath Falls, Oregon newspaper, 1930s

Armando Magri, spinning donuts somewhere in Chico, 1930s.jpg
Armando Magri, spinning donuts somewhere in Chico, 1930s

[EricOlson]

Chapter 12, Hill Climbing and The Fresno Hill Climb of 1935
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

In the 1930s, Ernie and I became hillclimb fans. These events were held throughout the Central Valley, including a site out on Jackson road, where Rancho Murieta is now.

Hillclimbing was actually a timed-race up a hill. But many contestants never got to the top of the hill, making spectators think that it was the only goal. The goal was to scale the hill with the fastest time. But some hills were so steep, nobody could get over the top. In that case, the highest climber won.

When I was competing, there were generally three classes of competition; 45 cubic inch, 80 cubic inch and an open event. If you owned two bikes, you could compete in three classes. Special chains were put on the rear wheel, to get better traction. I competed in both novice and expert events, and won a number of them. There was never much prize money. It was mostly for the challenge and fun.

Hillclimbs were a favorite with motorcycle fans because they were so spectacular to watch. Many times, the rider would loop his cycle, causing it to tumble down the hill in one direction, while the rider tumbled down on a parallel track. Crowds were well aware of the falling competitors, jumping out of the way if necessary. There were no grandstands. People just walked up and stood around.

In order to eliminate an injury to a rider or a bike, kill switches were attached to a rider’s wrist. If he got separated from the bike, the switch would stop the motor. Although a great many falls appeared to be dangerous, there were very few injuries at a hillclimb. You are out there competing by yourself, so you don’t have to worry about competing motorcycles crashing into you. In 72 years of motorcycling, I experienced episodes of woe, laughter and enjoyment. I’m not sure what drove me on, especially after a tale like this one.

In May of 1935, six of us Chico Motorcycle Club members headed out to see a professional motorcycle hill climb, 300 miles south of Chico and 30 miles east of Fresno. Included were Leon “Eight” Ball riding a Motoplane, my brother Ernie on his Indian Scout with Irish McQuade on the back. Shirley “Wakie” Wakefield rode his Indian Scout. I was riding Dick Clark’s 1925 Harley with Dick on the back, because I had more experience riding double, and it was a long distance.

Shortly after passing through Stockton, Wakie’s Scout broke down. We towed it back to Stockton and left it at Soapy Sudmeyer’s Harley-Davidson dealership. Wakie rode on the back of Eight Ball’s bike, and we were off again. But ten miles before we hit Fresno, Eight Ball’s Motoplane melted a piston, so we towed it to Harold Mathewson’s Indian dealership and left it there.

Wakie and Eight Ball piled on with Dick and I, and we managed a very dangerous final 30 miles to the hillclimb. There was no law back then about riding four on a motorcycle, but can you visualize this today?

The hill climb was an AMA sanctioned event with factory sponsored machines such as Harley-Davidson, Indian, Excelsior and Super X. There were great riders entered too, like Joe Petrali, and Al Lauer of Sacramento, Windy Lindstrom from Oakland, Gene Rhyne from back East, Joe Herb from Merced, Larry Ketzel of Salinas and local hero Harold Mathewson.

Joe Petrali won on a Harley. He had switched from Excelsior back in 1931. For a few years, Joe was winning everything, and this hill climb win began a streak of ten straight victories in 1935 alone.

After the event, it was time to think about the ride back to Chico. It was Sunday and Mathewson’s shop was closed, but we ran into him at the hillclimb and he agreed to open it up and sell us the needed parts. He also let Irish borrow enough tools to fix the Motoglide outside, then he locked up and went home.

It was getting dark, so we had to use the headlights of the other motorcycles to finish work. At 10:00pm, the bike was running again. We slipped the borrowed tools under the shop door and headed for home. It probably helped that we were club members, but that’s how motorcycle people helped each other out back in those Depression years.

We didn’t anticipate that it would get so cold in May, but the later it got, the colder we were. Eight Ball wrapped newspaper under his jacket, so we tried the same. It helped a little, but we had to think of something better or we wouldn’t be able to go on.

Somewhere near Chowchilla, Ernie spotted a canvas Atlantic Richfield sign and climbed up a pole to get it down. We all tried to make chaps, like cowboys, but that didn’t really work either. Then we stopped at a used car lot, thinking we might find an unlocked car we could sleep in, but to no avail.

We came upon a stack of railroad ties, as the train tracks ran adjacent to the highway. We thought that the ties could serve as some kind of shelter, because it was just too cold to go on. This is where we built a fire and hugged it close. We would occasionally doze off until the fire got low, then someone would throw ore wood on. But our 15 inch lace-up boots would get so hot we had to take them off, and this is how we suffered through the rest of the night.

On Monday morning, riding two to a bike, we made it to Sacramento. At the Tunnel Café we had a breakfast of ham, eggs, potatoes, toast and coffee for 15 cents. Tired, dirty and broke, but with our stomachs full, we made it back to Chico with no further problems.

But poor Wakie had to travel back to Stockton to get his Indian. Years later, when Ernie, Wakie, Eight Ball and I would get together, we would talk about that miserable ride and wonder why we continued riding motorcycles.

Armando Magri at the Fresno hill climb, 1948.jpg

Armando Magri at a 1948 hillclimb at Ospital Canyon, near Fresno, 1948.jpg
Armando Magri, hillclimbing at Ospital Canyon, 1948. Photo by Doc Edmunds.jpg
Armando Magri, hillclimbing at Ospital Canyon, 1948. Photo by Doc Edmunds

Windy Lindstrom at the Oakland Hillclimb, 1930s.jpg Windy Lindstrom at the Oakland Hillclimb, 1930s

Gene Rhyne, Sprouts Elders, Dudley Perkins Sr., Finnegan Speer, Soapy Sudmeyer and unidentified hillclimber, 1920s..jpg
Gene Rhyne, Sprouts Elders, Dudley Perkins Sr., Finnegan Speer, Soapy Sudmeyer and unidentified hillclimber, 1920s.

[EricOlson]

Chapter 13, My First Racing Win at a Field Meet in Colfax, 1935
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

The Fort Sutter Motorcycle Club hosted a field meet and Tourist Trophy (TT) race up in the Glen Alder area above Colfax, 65 miles southeast of Chico. Some of the club members rode over for the meet. But, before I say more, let me explain what a field meet is. Field meets are gatherings of regular motorcycle riders, who take part in as number of small competitions.

Each competition awards points to determine an overall winner. Events included things like “passenger pickup,” where you ride 80 feet, pick up a passenger, and ride back. In “run and ride” riders sprint 80 feet to their motorcycles, start them and race back. The “Australian pursuit” begins with several riders spaced around a large circular course. Everyone begins riding, and if you get passed, or drop your cycle, you’re out.

In “balloon busting” each contestant carries a passenger with a balloon pinned to their back. The passenger carries a rolled-up newspaper and tries to swat the balloons pinned onto another. This one could get aggressive at times, with balloons flying everywhere and passengers swatting away like crazy.

The “slow race” was exactly what it sounds like; who can finish last on a short, straight course, without putting their feet down. The “digout” was a short drag race in a grassy area.

I took second place in the field meet, and someone immediately suggested I enter the TT race, coming up next. “If it involves motorcycles, I’m for it,” I said, and entered. Tourist Trophy races are done on ¼ to 2-mile tracks, usually with left and right turns, a water hazard, or jumps, and a short straightaway at the finish line.

Much to the annoyance of several Sacramento riders, I won this race. The prizes were a handful of trinkets from the Sacramento Indian and Harley dealers, Al Lauer and Frank Murray. It was my first taste of racing though, and it felt great.

My elation dampened somewhat when I got back to Chico. Wilma Jean, my girl at the time, had just won a singing contest at KHSL, the local radio station. I told her I would try to come back a winner as well. Her sister said she was at a carnival down the street.

When I found her. She was taking in a lot more than just the carnival. She was smooching with Ernie in a rumble seat in the parking lot. That ended my relationship with Wilma Jean, but I had a new love now; racing motorcycles!

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[EricOlson]

Chapter 14, Ernie Magri Remembers the Madera TT, 1936
From the Autobiography of Ernie Magri

A Note from Ken Magri:
I found the above photograph in Ernie Magri’s scrapbook. I had never seen it before. It shows Ernie, Irish McQuaid, and Armando kneeling in front, with a man Ernie identified as “McMurray” standing in the rear. Ernie was blind when I asked him about this, but he remembered the photograph when I described it. The photo was taken by Mario Stillo.

Here’s the story Ernie told me:
“It was a rough oval course in Madera, south of Stockton. All of us were Chico Motorcycle Club members. We found a trailer that would fit three motorcycles, if you took the front wheels off. So, we loaded up my 61 cu. In. Harley, Armando’s 61 cu. In. Harley, and Irish’s 45 cu. In. Indian Scout. Mario Stillo rode my bike in the race. I was more of a lover, not a racer.

The trailer busted a bearing on the way down, but we fixed it in time, and got to Madera. In the main event, none of the three of them were doing anything. Hap Jones, fresh from a win in Arizona, was lapping the whole crowd. When he got to Armando, well, your pa didn’t want to get lapped, so he stepped it up and started really racing Hap.

Afterwards I told him, ‘You were doing pretty good at the end, Armando. Why didn’t you race like that at the start?’”
-Ernie Magri

333087585_697456245491150_2157720390164885164_n.jpg Ernie Magri, Irish McQuade and Armando Magri on their way back from Madera TT, 1936

Hap Jones, from a race in San Pedro.jpg
Hap Jones, from a race in San Pedro

[EricOlson]

Chapter 15, Racing with the Big Boys in Hollister
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

Winning my first TT race in Colfax gave me racing fever.

The next race coming up was the 1936 60-mile Pacific Coast TT Championship at Bolado Park in Hollister. I bought a 1924 sidecar that would hook onto the 1934 VLD I was racing with. We heard that the racers from San Francisco all used 21 inch wheels for better handling, so we threw one of those in, along with some tools.

My brother Ernie volunteered to be my assistant.

Class-C competition, or “run what you brung,” as they called it back in the Depression, required a street legal motorcycle with lights, fenders and brakes. The street components were removed before the race, and re-installed afterwards.

Ernie and I rode the 250 miles, from Chico to Bolado Park in six hours, and began to remove the sidecar. I was assigned the number “34” which we painted onto a tin plate and attached to the bike. The 21-inch wheel needed spacers, and a local machine shop came through for us. Ernie watched from the pits as I rolled my Harley out onto the track.

This race was laid out on a mile-long track that went in a clockwise direction, the only time I ever raced that way. With only one left turn that took riders through a fence and along a creek bed, this track meant broadsliding to your right most of the time. You could almost call Hollister an obstacle race, because most racers were accustomed to broadsliding counter-clockwise.

I did alright in my heat and qualified for the race in the middle of the pack. But I did even better in the main event. That 21-inch wheel made a big difference, and I took fourth place in the main event. I was just behind the first three racers, and I mean “just.”

After the race a group of San Francisco riders tried to cheat me out of my winnings by claiming I didn’t finish fourth. Were they jealous of me, a kid from Chico? Or were they trying to get some easy prize money for their friend, who had come in fifth behind me?

Right in the middle of the argument Ben Torres, a California Highway Patrol Captain, stepped in and backed me up. “The kid finished fourth,” he said. “Pay him his money.” A fourth-place finish payed $40.

Thanks to Ernie, we made it back to Chico late that night, while I tried to sleep in the sidecar. I resumed my motorcycle delivery service the next morning, knowing that I was good enough to compete at this new level of racing.
Five years later, I would win on this track. But that’s another story.

Bolado Park, outside of Hollister, California, 1936.jpg
Bolado Park, outside of Hollister, California, 1936

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[EricOlson]

Chapter 16, Working in Graeagle, and Taking on a Carnival Wrestler
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

In the spring of 1936, Ernie and I got jobs working at the California Fruit Exchange lumber mill in Graeagle, California, ten miles west of Portola. Our job was to take down lumber piles, separating the ones marked for the box factory versus the planning mill.

This job paid 43 and a third cents per hour. They charged 50 cents a day for lodging and food, but it was worth it to have steady meals again.

Ernie and I wound up renting a house in Clio, just outside of Graeagle, for $30 a month. There was no electricity, and only an outdoor toilet, but we were used to that. The river was a half-block away. It was our bathtub.

Our mom and brother Bobby came up for the summer, and one weekend we invited the whole Chico motorcycle
Club up to the house, including Irish McQuade, Carol Cavassa, Roy Graham, Bud Beal, and my girl, Margaret Miller.

One day a man approached Ernie and me, and asked if we would be willing to perform some motorcycle stunts at the Forth-of-July Quincy Rodeo. He offered five dollars, which we gladly accepted.

Ernie was spinning circles and figure-eights when his bike flipped over and the crotch of his riding breeches split open. Ernie took his bow with his legs shut closed, then ran around back and found some haywire to stitch his pants together.

After I finished drag-racing a horse on my 1936 EL “knucklehead,” Ernie and I were supposed to do a switch-riders trick. Well, we successfully performed the trick, but Ernie’s haywire scratched the top of my tank, much to my annoyance.

There were casinos (although not legal ones) and other forms of entertainment in Portola. The HM&J Club had roulette, crap tables, poker, a huge bar and live entertainment brought in from San Francisco. The acts would come out for a week or so. Ernie and I got to know a lot of the entertainers, and gave them plenty of rides on our Harleys.

Later in the summer, one of those parking-lot carnivals came to Portola, about ten miles away. One evening I invited Carol and Margaret to accompany me. Ernie, I guess, had other things to do. While strolling through the carnival we passed by a wrestling tent. We stepped inside and before long one of the wrestlers coaxed me into challenging him to a match.

Challenging locals is what traveling carnival wrestlers did. These were athletes with some basic wrestling skills, who all knew “hooks.” Hooks were illegal submission moves that would protect them from losing a match or a bet, even to a big guy. Holds like arm locks, leg locks, or the “full nelson” were common ones. Nowadays pro wrestlers have introduced complex submission holds with creative names. But back in the 1930’s, this was basic wrestling stuff.

The whole idea in my mind was to impress the girls. The wrestler and I walked back into his dressing room, and he handed me a well-worn pair of wrestling trunks. As I put them on, he asked me, “Do you want to wrestle legitimate, or put on a show?” Thinking about how silly I might feel losing in front of the girls, I told him, “Let’s put on a show.” Then he quickly taught me a couple of basic maneuvers, and we walked back out.

The girls were so drawn in. They cheered for me all the way. Pounding on the edge of the ring, they yelled, “Kill him
Magri, kill him!” It was hard to keep from laughing. We put on a great exhibition ending, as arranged, in a draw.
I earned $3.50 for my effort, and never told the girls it was staged. That ended my wrestling career.

Armando, far left, and Ernie Magri, far right, in Greagle, California, 1935.jpg
Armando, far left, and Ernie Magri, far right, in Greagle, California, 1935

Some of Armando Magri's many girlfriends in the 1930s..jpg
Some of Armando Magri's many girlfriends in the 1930s.

[EricOlson]

Chapter 17(a), From Lumberjack to Harley Shop. Frank Murray Hires Me
From the autobiography of Armando Magri

In 1937, I landed a job as a choker setter in Kyburz, California. A choker is a 20-foot steel cable that gets wrapped around the end of a newly cut log. My job was to set the choker, then hook it up to a tractor which would haul it down to a landing for loading onto a truck. While working up there, I also developed an infatuation with motorcycle racing.

I had kept in touch with Frank Murray, the Sacramento Harley dealer, and likewise, he showed some interest in my riding abilities. One weekend he convinced me to enter a TT race in Sacramento, using a nearly new 80” Harley I had just bought from him. So I asked my lumber yard partner Gus, instead of my supervisor, if he could handle things without me for an afternoon, and Gus was fine with it.

I won the TT race. But on Monday morning my boss asked where I had been Saturday afternoon. I told him Gus said I could leave, and he answered, “I’m the boss around here, not Gus,” then sent me to the office for my pink slip. This turned out to be the only job, in over 80 I held throughout my life, that I was fired from.

Shortly after, Murray offered me a steady job at the dealership. I started out as an apprentice mechanic, well, “flunky” is a better term for it. Frank also wanted me to race. He wasn’t exactly offering sponsorship, but his understanding and general support made it possible for me to race and hold down a job at the same time.

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[EricOlson]

Chapter 17(b), My brief love affair with speedway racing
From the autobiography of Armando Magri

During the 1930s Sacramento hosted Class A speedway races every Friday night at Sacramento Stadium (now called Hughes Stadium). It became one of the most popular sports in Sacramento. Even the Sacramento Solons baseball team knew better than to schedule their games on a Friday night. For 40 cents, you could watch a group of specialty riders from England, Australia, New Zealand and California.

Speedway racers go around a very short track, broadsliding almost the entire time. In 1935 alone, they broke all Sacramento attendance records with over 97,000 for 19 events. The largest was June 21st, with 8,788 spectators. The promoter of these races was my future boss, Harley-Davidson dealer Frank Murray.

I was a season’s pass as a prize from winning that TT race in Colfax. Every Friday night I faithfully made the ride down from Chico. After moving to Sacramento and working for Murray, I became a “pusher” for the racers. Let me explain. Speedway bikes have no clutch, because of the short circular tracks they are designed for. You have to push start them, so the strength of a good pusher at the starting line can be important. Later, the “flying-start,” with a running engine, was created. But riders still needed a pusher.

I pushed for racers like Earl Ferrand, Pete Coleman, Ray Grant, Ed Kotch, Leonard Andres (who became the San Diego H-D dealer) and Milton Iverson (who became the Marysville dealer). Working with them gave me a better chance to understand the sport from the inside. After the races, we always headed over to Brad’s Restaurant on North 16th Street, where Murray would typically pick up the tab.

I had a desire to try speedway racing myself, and managed to borrow a bike from Mark Lautier, a Reno-based racer. I couldn’t believe how awkward it felt, entirely different from racing stock motorcycles. Speedway bikes are lighter, skinnier, and more powerful.

Having no prior experience, it isn’t surprising that I came in last place. The Harley shop guys ribbed me endlessly, especially since a pre-event article in the local paper bragged that,”Magri will begin his career on the short track with the novice racers, but, with his experience, it is expected he soon will be riding in the handicap and scratch features.”

The next Friday night a delay held things up while Smitty, the track assistant, ran up to me on the starting line. He handed me a lamp to see the track better, and a map to find my way around, while pointing forward and making a circular motion with his other hand.

All this time announcer Bill Meyers told spectators over the loudspeaker what Smitty was telling me. Finally, Smitty handed me a sack lunch in case I got hungry during the race.

The crowd went wild. Not to completely disappoint them, I managed to finish second-to-last this week. Imagine how the one racer I beat must have felt.

Nobody ever told me who was behind the joke; maybe my work buddies, maybe the scratch racers thought it up. It wasn’t Murray’s type of thing, although he would have approved. He thought I was too big for speedway racing (true, speedway racers are tiny) and asked me to quit. He wanted me winning races on stock Harley-Davidsons that a customer could come in and buy.

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Armando Magri, sixth from right standing, was a volunteer “pusher” for racers at Frank Murray’s (far right standing) Friday night sponsored speedway races at Hughes Stadium in Sacramento, mid 1930s

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Armando Magri hangs out with speedway racers and gets his photograph into the Sacramento Union newspaper, mid 1930s

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Pete Coleman and Miny Waln, among the world’s best speedway racers, at Hughes (then Sacramento) Stadium in Sacramento, mid 1930s

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[1939wl]

Thanks again Eric for posting this.
I find myself almost living vicariously through the young Armando's adventures.
I've been riding for 51 years now, and the passion is still the same as it was for me in 1972.
I would help, beg, borrow, clean up, anything just to learn, and be on two wheels.
I see that same passion in everything Armando did, his entire life.
I still get so excited building and riding. I drag raced for about 20 years and built all of my own machines top to bottom.
I imagine there are many members here, who feel just as I do !!!! Gasoline in our veins!

[EricOlson]

Glad y'all are enjoying the stories as much as I do. I'm very grateful to Armando for writing all these memories down, and to his son Ken for sharing them with the world. Now, back to the story!

[EricOlson]

Chapter 18, The 1937 Saugus TT, My First Big Win
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

I had worked for Frank Murray’s Harley-Davidson dealership in Sacramento for about a month when news came in about a big TT race at an 18,000 capacity stadium in Soledad Canyon, at Saugus, California. It was held on a ranch once owned by western star Hoot Gibson.

Now it was owned by Paul Hill, who ran the western livestock yards. After 1937 it became Bonelli Stadium, and later Saugus Speedway. I asked Murray for Saturday afternoon off, because it would take a half day to make the 375-mile ride south, going over the Grapevine route. A friend, John Worley, asked if he could ride along, in part to try out his new 1937 61” knucklehead out on the open road. This worked out well because we both rode the same model.

John and I hummed along nicely until the outskirts of Fresno. An old jalopy in front of us dumped a big patch of oil at the north entrance of a cloverleaf and there was no way to avoid it. So, I went for a slide. The motorcycle jumped the curb and ended up on the sidewalk. I wasn’t injured, but my riding breeches were ripped from above the boot up to the belt. John helped me remove the clutch cover, and we limped over to Ott Wilson’s Harley-Davidson shop.

Ott’s mechanic, Oliver Clow, fixed the clutch, then my torn breeches with a staple gun. Don’t laugh, it worked, for a while. We made it to Bakersfield and visited Ross Wooten’s Harley shop before settling in Saturday night at a cheap roadside motel.

Sunday morning my body felt like it had been hit by a Mack truck. But we finished riding the last stretch to Saugus, and I started preparing my bike for the race.

Incidentally, I was the only one who rode his motorcycle to this Class C race. My competitors had all adopted the relatively new trend of hauling their bikes on two-wheeled trailers.

The fellow who promoted this race also worked as a sports journalist for a Los Angeles paper. In his zealousness for hyping the event, his pre-event article stretched the truth quite a bit. Hoping to make the race more exciting and promote a bigger crowd he wrote:

“Famous Italian road-racer Armando Magri signs an entry for the Saugus TT Race. Magri has returned from fresh road-racing victories in Europe. He will put an international flavor to the 100-lap event, to be held on the Hoot Gibson Ranch.”

That’s one way to become an overnight sensation. The closest I ever got to Europe back then was seeing it on a map.

During the main event, the lead changed several times. Then one rider after another dropped out due to a spill or mechanical failure. Ed Kretz was a heavy favorite to win, but his trusty Indian blew up on the sixth lap.

Towards the end Hap Jones and I forged our way to the front. Hap was in good form, fresh from a national championship race in Waco Texas. He was putting on a lot of pressure, trying to pass me. But I wasn’t the rookie who had raced feverishly at Madera, just to keep from being lapped by him. This was my race to win.

Somewhere during the race my breeches ripped open again. Thinking about that spill from yesterday, I put every ounce of energy into finishing this race. “Hang on to the handlebars, Magri,” I thought.

By the time I won, Hap was more than a lap behind. My friend Harrison Reno, the “Pomona Flyer,” took third. At the after-race ceremonies I had a big smile and a face full of sand and oil. Pathe News, a newsreel provider for movie theaters throughout the country, wanted my picture. Suddenly four guys hoisted me onto the shoulders of two others, as the cameras grinded away from atop a newscar.

It was a great thrill, except my breeches were still split wide open. I had to pull it together one more time just to keep my legs together. People told me later that they saw that newsreel, and my torn, stapled oil-stained breeches looked fine. Ed Kretz was always known as “The Iron Man,” but the media started calling me “Sacramento’s Iron Man,” because I raced in a shirt that said “Sacramento” across the front.

I was concerned about the ride home because my Harley had sucked in so much sand during the race. Hap Jones came up with an idea. He planned a stop in Bakersfield, on his way home, to repossess a couple of bikes at Vic Trent’s Indian shop. Hap had a trailer, and suggested I go with him, then ride one of the Indians to Sacramento. He would tow my bike to San Francisco, then ship it back on the Delta King riverboat. I was reluctant, but more worried about my bike, so John agreed to ride home alone and I went with Hap.


We started down the Grapevine with Hap, his wife Rose, and brother-in-law Dave in the front of Hap’s 1935 Pontiac. I was sitting on Hap’s motorcycle on the trailer. At one point the trailer went into a weave and damn near threw me off. We stopped, and now I had to sit on Hap’s back bumper, with my feet braced on the tongue of the trailer, all the way to Bakersfield. Was this Hap’s way of getting back at me for lapping him?

We got a room for the night. I called Murray to tell him I won and to ask for another travel day. The next morning, we picked up the two Indians at Vic’s. Dave rode the Scout and I rode the Chief. The Chief had no lights, so after dark I followed closely behind Hap’s car until a cop pulled us over at Delhi, near Merced. He didn’t ticket me, but the officer told me to get a room, which Hap paid for, and then Hap drove on to San Francisco.

Frank Murray gave me a pretty cool reception at 8:30 the next morning, when he saw me riding up on an Indian.
Riding to work on an Indian, after winning on a Harley, wasn’t good advertising to Frank, but he got over it.

Dave Golden, Armando Magri and Hap Jones after the Saugus TT, 1937.jpg
Dave Golden, Armando Magri and Hap Jones after the Saugus TT, 1937

Overhead view of the Saugus Speedway back in the 1930s.jpg
Overhead view of the Saugus Speedway back in the 1930s

[EricOlson]

Just like with Armando's brother Ernie, Ken posted some additional stories about Armando from different authors. Here's another one...

Chapter 19, "Motorcycling—Sport of Thrills"
1938 50-Mile National at Bolado Park in Hollister
By Arthur Grahame

Watching a string of sputtering motorbikes go crawling around a track in a long reliability trial wasn’t my idea of the most thrilling way to spend a fine spring afternoon. So, I grouched to my motorcycling friend who had sidecarred me in a hundred-odd miles from San Francisco to the Bolado Park fairgrounds outside of Hollister, California, to see the 1938 running of the American Motorcycle Association’s 100-Mile National Championship Tourist Trophy race. My friend grunted disdainfully. “Reliability trial, huh?” he said as we turned in at the fairground gate. “Crawling, Hey? That shows how much you know about TT racing! Where have you been hiding out these last few years? Just you wait until—Holy smokes! We’ll miss the start! Hop out! Hurry up!

I hopped out of the sidecar and we hurried up to our seats in the big grandstand. Five thousand motorcycle fans had got there before us, and they were all looking at the same thing—42 crash-helmeted motorcycle riders formed up in eight ranks behind the starting line. All their motors were running with their mufflers off, and their popping almost drowned out the exited buzz of the crowd.

“Take a look at the course,” my friend suggested. I took a glance at the loop of about a mile and a quarter that was marked with small flags. The first few hundred yards were on the bumpy-looking half-mile racetrack. Then the race route made an abrupt left turn, through a fence opening, and a dive down into the broad bed of a dry stream, its bottom treacherous with sand, and nicely cluttered up with rocks of various sizes and shapes.

At the far side of this hazard, the course became a narrow trail clawed out of the side of a steep hill which it climbed. On top of the hill there was a sharp turn, and the track plunged down a steep grade, with another abrupt turn at the bottom. After that, the course was straight for a way, but it was over a succession of little hills that gave it a sort-of roller coaster effect. Then it crossed a small stream on a narrow wooden bridge, swung around a turn deep with loose sand, and became a half-mile straightaway leading back to the starting line. “Well,” demanded my friend, after I had time to observe this varied assortment of potential grief, “What do you think of it?”

“I think,” I replied, “that whoever laid it out had a grudge against the fellows who risk their necks riding over it.” He grinned happily. “Oh no,” he said, “we don’t go in for grudges in motorcycling. It’s all in good clean fun; just a fair test of a motorcyclist’s skill, and one of his machine’s stamina, and his own. It’s the same sort of riding we get out West here when we leave the main roads and head into the big country.

“Say, there’s Ed Kretz. He won the 25-mile Pacific Coast TT Championship here yesterday. And there’s Babe Tancrede! He’s from back east, Rhode Island, and he rode 3000 miles to come out here and try to give our boys a going over on their home grounds. And there’s…”

The popping of motors crescendoed into an ear-splitting roar. The ranks of gleaming motorcycles moved forward slowly, and then more swiftly. As they swept across the starting line, an official waved a white flag, signaling a fair start. “There they go!” the crowd yelled. “Watch that first corner!” someone shouted. “There’s going to be a traffic jam there!”

There was a traffic jam at the first turn, but all the riders got around it without disaster. Bud Lowie, a San Francisco boy, was leading the pack as the machines plunged down into the dry stream bed. Then we lost sight of them for a few seconds. When they climbed out on the far side, Lowrie wasn’t in the lead. His reckless riding had resulted in a hard spill among the rocks. He wasn’t much hurt, but his motorcycle was, and he was out of the race.

Closely bunched, the riders went up the other side of the hill and down the other side in a cloud of dust. Their throttles were wide open when they turned into the straight stretch, across those little rolling hills, and their bikes leaped into the air as they hit each crest. Then they shot across the narrow bridge and plowed around the sandy turn.

As the leaders darted out of the sand-storm they had kicked up and headed down the straightaway, the hum of their motors rose to a whining scream. They were riding at such breakneck speed, that we had time to identify only a few of them by the big black numbers on the white disks fastened to their handlebars before they flashed past the grandstand and into the second lap.

Milton Iverson, an Oakland boy who has done his full share of winning in Pacific Coast competition, was in the lead. Martin Owens of Sacramento, was trailing him closely. Ed Kretz and Babe Tancrede, riders whom everyone was watching, were back in the dust, eating ruck. My friend peered at his stopwatch. “One forty-eight,” he said. “That’s going!” Considering the devilish difficulty of the course, it was going!

They rode that way for four laps, and then Owens had trouble with his motorcycle, and had to stop at the pits. By the time he got back in the race, the leaders were so far ahead, he was never really able to become a contender again. Henry Martin rode into second position, and stayed there for a couple of laps. Then young Harrison Reno passed him, and began to chase Iverson.

The popular Ed Kretz got a big cheer when he fought his way up to fourth place in the twelfth lap—and just a big a cheer when he was forced out by a broken gas line a few minutes later. Jack Cottrell, another favorite, got up with the leaders, only to be put out of the running by motor trouble. At the 50-mile mark, Iverson was still leading, and Reno was still trying to catch him. Only 27 riders were left in the race. The leaders were reeling off lap after lap in 1:50, and the hot pace and hazards of the course had taken their toll.

For the rest of the way, the race was a grim battle of skill, speed, nerve and physical endurance between Iverson and Reno; a struggle that produced daring and spectacular riding which had the crowd standing up and cheering all the way through the last 20 miles. Reno was never out of striking distance, but Iverson didn’t weaken for a split second, and it was he who got the blue-and-white checkered finish flag.

Armando Magri, a steady, hard-working rider from Sacramento, worked his way out of the ruck to finish third. Babe Tancrede, who started alongside Magri, was the East Coast’s only representative. He rode a good race, but could never get up with the leaders. Fans around me said that Tancrede’s only trouble was that he didn’t know the West Coast riders; which were likely to fall, and take him down if he pressed them hard at close quarters. Twenty-three of the 42 riders finished.

“Well,” my motorcycling friend demanded after we had watched them give the championship trophy to widely smiling
Milt Iverson, “what did you think of that reliability run?” “Tell me something,” I countered. “How long has this TT racing been going on? And how come I haven’t heard of it before?”

“Oh, you’ve been bitten by the bug, have you?” he came back at me. “It’s been going on for about three years--in the East, South and Middle-West, as well as here on the Pacific Coast. It packs more thrills into the minute than any other game I’ve ever watched. More sports fans ought to know about it. The reason they don’t, in my opinion, is that the wrong label has been pasted on it. “Tourist Trophy Race,” a term that started with the Isle of Man race in 1907, sounds kind of mild. It doesn’t give you anywhere near the true picture of the sort of show these boys put on.

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Armando Magri's buddies working on his racer, Hollister, 1938.jpg
Joe Bianchi and friend working on Armando's racer before the race, Hollister, 1938

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Armando Magri and Babe Tancrede at the starting line of the main event, Hollister, 1938

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Class-C racer Ray Eddy, at Bolado Park outside of Hollister, California, for the 1938 50-Mile National. Photo by Armando Magri