Armando Magri Autobiography - "Then and Now"

[EricOlson]

Armando Magri, #2, behind Stillo and Austin at Bolado.jpg Armando Magri, #2, behind Stillo and Austin early in the race

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Capital City Motorcycle Club members at Hollister to watch their fello CCMC member, Armando Magri Race.

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Milton Iverson, Harrison Reno, Armando Magri, 1-2-3 at Hollister, 1938.

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The factory poster of the Holister race, where Armando Magri took 3rd.

[EricOlson]

Chapter 20(a), Motorcycle Chariot Racing, Yes, I did that!
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

During a three day rodeo at the California State Fairgrounds in May 1938, I took part in a very special race. In an effort to add glamour to the festivities, the rodeo organizers contracted with a Hollywood firm to stage chariot races using motorcycles instead of horses.

They called my boss Murray, and he got the job of hiring three racers and rigging up six Harleys to their chariots. There were not the motorcycle chariots you can see on YouTube. Ours were originally built to be movie props, with wooden wheels with iron straps around the outside.

Chariot motorcycle races were common in Australia, but they used automobile wheels and actually raced. As far as I know, this was the first and only time it was tried in California, and we arranged who the winner would be.

My job, along with shop employee Mac Johnson and Lerry Hesse (my roommate and fellow Class C racer), was to jockey one of these chariots around a dirt mile oval track designed for horses.
News of the chariots being shipped up to Sacramento created quite a buzz. To steer, we held onto long metal rods. The handlebars of both bikes were braced and working in unison. We could actually broadslide these things when going around corners doing 50 mph. The bikes held ground, but the wooden chariot wheels had little traction and easily slid.

The promoters promised to pay us $100 each for the three days of racing. Dressed in bright purple robes and a studded headband, I had so much fun, I would have done it for free. They ended up paying us $80, because of a rainout on day two, Murray got $125 for the use of the Harleys.

Considering we were performing at a rodeo, the chariot races created quite a sensation. I used the word “performing” on purpose. As much as the audience ate up the action, we were putting them on. Frank didn’t want his bikes or his employees injured, so he told us to rig the outcomes.

I won the first race, then Larry and Mac were to have their turns. But on Sunday’s very last race, we did mix it up a bit along the back straightaway. But these machines were too bulky and powerful to mess around with.

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[RichO]

Eric, A big thanks for printing this so the many AMCA members who never had the chance to know Ernie or Armando finally get the chance. I first met him in 1975 when I moved here to Sacramento from SoCal. We had many conversations in his office at his Arden dealership as well as riding with him on some of our early Chapter events. As you know the Capitol City MC still is active at their 1938 club house just some 8 blocks from my house. You ought to show the members yours and mine early Magri dealer license plate frames we have on our 40's.

[EricOlson]

Eric, A big thanks for printing this so the many AMCA members who never had the chance to know Ernie or Armando finally get the chance. I first met him in 1975 when I moved here to Sacramento from SoCal. We had many conversations in his office at his Arden dealership as well as riding with him on some of our early Chapter events. As you know the Capitol City MC still is active at their 1938 club house just some 8 blocks from my house. You ought to show the members yours and mine early Magri dealer license plate frames we have on our 40's.

Glad to do it Rich. I sure wish I'd had the chance to meet him in person. Like you, I'm glad to sport the license plate frame on my bike. I had some guys ask about my Magri shirt at Davenport. Thanks for having those made!

Here's a picture of my frame on my bike
Magri Frame.jpg

And here's a picture of yours
Rich O at Monterey road run blank out.jpg

And here's a picture of Armando's on his bike. I'd love to have that plate!
Red Bluff, 1973.jpg

[EricOlson]

Chapter 20(b), My first try at the notorious Oakland 200-mile National
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

The Oakland Speedway was a mile oval racetrack built in 1931 to promote American Automobile Association (AAA) national championship car races. It sat on a 26-acre angled lot at the corner of Telegraph road and East 14^th Street.

The dirt track was banked for high speeds, and regularly oiled to keep the dust down. Although designed for cars, there were six sanctioned American Motorcycle Association races on that track, and five of them were nationals, which brought riders from across the country, like Babe Tancrede, Tommy Hayes, Ben Campanale, and Billy Huber.

Unlike TT races or short tracks, these events involved pit crews for refueling, and spotters for keeping track of which lap each rider was on. Speed could get over 90 mph on the straightaways, so this was one of only two tracks (the other was Daytona Beach) where riders could practice during the week prior to the event.

The first Oakland 200 Mile National was won by Jimmy Kelly on a Harley, in 1935. San Jose’s Sam Arena won the next 200-miler in 1937. I entered the 1938 race with a 45 cu. in. WLDR owned by Dudley Perkins, the San Francisco Harley dealer.

Hap Alzina, the Oakland Indian dealer had an extra race bike and asked my brother Ernie if he wanted to enter. Ernie took it around for two laps, then brought the Indian back to Hap. The track was full of sand that flew up into your face, and little chunks of clotted, oiled dirt were missing along the straightaways. On warm afternoons, the top of the banked curves would sweat oil, which then oozed down onto the track’s lower sections, making some parts slippery while others buckled-up. You had to find the right groove, and stay in it. “I ain’t riding on that track for 200 miles,” Ernie told Hap. “It’s flat-out dangerous.”

Perkins had a motorcycle he wanted me to test ride by taking a couple of practice laps. It wasn’t my ride, but I agreed. This machine just didn’t feel balanced. But before I could put my finger on why, I took a spill going 85 mph. Perkins’ mechanics worked on the bike, and he asked me if I would be willing to give it another try. Sure enough, the same thing happened, and I went sliding. Miraculously, I didn’t suffer any major injury, but all the hide was taken off the arch of my back, and I had to visit the hospital. It wasn’t serious enough to keep me out of the race, but yeah, it was very painful. The hard part was sleeping on my stomach.

Perkins still wasn’t satisfied and asked Bruce Pearson, a top-notch rider from Los Angeles, to be his guinea pig. The test ended with Bruce spilling as well. He had badly skinned both of his hands, and declared the bike a “jinx.” The day of the race, Lu dressed my back would with layers of gauze.

Ed Kretz won the time trials on his Indian. But Sam Arena was riding a Tom Sifton racing Harley, and had the real speed of that day. I was staying with the pack, counting off the laps.

This was Joe Petrali’s first race in the Class C category of modified stock motorcycles. A veteran of flat tracks, boardtracks, and speed records, Petrali was born in San Francisco and raised in Sacramento. Ernie and I used to drive for hours to watch Joe compete in hillclimbs. He was possibly the greatest racer ever, and now I was racing him. But running with us in the middle of the pack, Joe got knocked around too much and almost crashed. He brought the bike in and retired from racing. Joe wanted nothing to do with this track or Class C competition.

Dick Ince appeared alongside of me on the right, then disappeared. After the race, Ernie said that Ince and I were coming out of the back curve when Ince flew off his JAP motorcycle and hit a guard rail post along the top edge of the track. He was 23 years old.

Richard “Dick” Ince was the son of Thomas H. Ince, a Hollywood film producer during the silent era. A millionaire in his own right, Dick rode stunt bikes for the movies. He raced speedway at Frank Murray’s Friday night events at Sacramento Stadium, and entered this 200-mile national for the thrills. His was the first motorcycle death on the Oakland Speedway track, but wouldn’t be the last.

I broke my primary chain on the 96^th lap, and that ended my day. But I would be back next year.

Armando Magri at the Oakland Speedway, 1938.jpg
Armando Magri at the Oakland Speedway, 1938

Armando Magri at the 1938 Oakland 200-Mile National.jpg
Armando Magri at the 1938 Oakland 200-Mile National

Joe Pertali, racing #5, in his first and last Class-C competition race, 1938.jpg
Joe Pertali, racing #5, in his first and last Class-C competition race, 1938

Babe Tancrede raced in the 1938 Oakland 200-Mile National. He was assigned the number 12..jpg
Babe Tancrede raced in the 1938 Oakland 200-Mile National. He was assigned the number 12.

Babe Tancrede and Dudley Perkins Sr. at the Oakland Speedway..jpg Babe Tancrede and Dudley Perkins Sr. at the Oakland Speedway.

[EricOlson]

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The notorious Oakland Speedway. In only five races, between 1935 and 1941.jpg
The notorious Oakland Speedway.

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Dick Ince was the good-looking son of Hollywood film producer Thomas Ince. He did stunt riding in films and raced just for the thrills.

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[EricOlson]

Chapter 21, The 1938 San Pedro National TT
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

At peak career, if I finished a race I generally placed in the top five positions. Any number of things, however, could eliminate your chances, and one of the strangest things happened at San Pedro.

On Labor Day weekend Lloyd Walton, Howard Newell and I drove south to enter the 50-mile Championship. This was a three-day event with motorcycle clubs coming in from all over Southern and Central California. The San Diego Motorcycle Club asked for 200 tickets, and the Fresno club another 50. Local residents were asked to consider putting up race fans in their private home, as hotels would not accommodate everyone.

All three of us made it into the main event. After I won took pole position with the day’s fastest time, all signs looked good.

Milton Iverson and I dueled for first place as the race began. By lap six, we were already passing slower riders, and this is where things got tricky. Rapidly approaching one of these less experienced riders, Iverson got past him safely, while I watched him spill right in front of me. It sent me down too, as the front wheel hit the back of his bike.

Still able to get up and ride, I noticed that the gas cap was missing, with gas sloshing all over the place. I never even thought about the bike catching fire. Iverson was way out in front now, but I was still holding on to second at the time.
Meanwhile a friend from Los Angeles motioned that he would find another gas cap and try to hand it to me on a slow pass-by. It didn’t matter because a few seconds later the front tire blew at 60 mph. Losing control, with spectators lining the track three rows deep, this caused quite a sensation.

I didn’t know whether to jump off the bike, lay it down in the middle of the track, or try to ride it out. I sure didn’t want to hurt anyone. That’s when group instinct took over with everyone involved. Just like Moses parting the Red Sea, the crowd separated while I rode straight through them, coming to a stop on a small hill.

Gasoline had soaked all the way through my riding breeches. Between the sun and the engine heat, it made for some very hot privates. I couldn’t change pants because Lloyd had the car keys, and he was still out on the track. Using sheets of heavy paper that were laying around, I stuffed folded sections down between my pants and skin.

Lloyd finally dropped out of the race, and I got into the car to change clothes. Howard finished tenth, so there was no glory for any of us.

All I got out of San Pedro was a silver medal for the fastest qualifying time, and that great photograph of the knucklehead going airborne.

Al Pierson, unidentified mechanic and Armando Magri at San Pedro, 1938.jpg
Al Pierson, unidentified mechanic and Armando Magri at San Pedro, 1938

Hap Jones catching air on his Indian at San Pedro, 1938.jpg
Hap Jones catching air on his Indian at San Pedro, 1938

o72IhM.jpg Armando Magri going airborne with the knucklehead, San Pedro, 1938.

Ray Eddy, #8, in front of Sam Arena, #79, at San Pedro, 1938..jpg Ray Eddy, #8, in front of Sam Arena, #79, at San Pedro, 1938.

Two unidentified racers at the San Pedro National TT, 1938.jpg
Two unidentified racers at the San Pedro National TT, 1938

[EricOlson]

A medal for winning pole position at San Pedro, to Armando Magri, 1938.jpg
A medal for winning pole position at San Pedro, to Armando Magri, 1938

[EricOlson]

Chapter 22, Heading to Marion, Indiana for the 1938 National Miniature TT Championship, Part 1 of 5
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

Days one and two: Howard, Lloyd, and I returned from the San Pedro TT at 6 am on Monday. Since I already had keys to the dealership, it took no time to open the place up and start preparing the bike for a long trip.

The National Miniature TT Championship in Marion, Indiana drew racers from all across the country.

They called them miniatures because the courses were built smaller, with tighter hairpin turns. But they were still tourist trophy races in every sense of the word, and this one was a national. If you win at a national, it means you are a big-league racer who can win against the best.

I prepared my knucklehead with saddlebags, a windshield, speedometer and lights. I was eentered in this race and had until Saturday to complete the 2,300-mile journey. The bike was ready to go by 1:30 pm, and my boss, Frank, let me take off early. I dashed over to the apartment to clean up, tossing clothes and spare parts into saddlebags.

At 2:00 pm I left for Marion, stopping for the night 300 miles later in Winnemucca, a non-descript mining town where my father worked after coming to America.

After a well-earned sleep, I stopped at the Bonneville Salt Flats, just to look around, then rode to Salt Lake City with plenty of daylight left. Somewhere just past the Wyoming border the primary chain started hitting the chain guard. I nursed the bike into a small town called Rock Springs at early evening, and found an all-night gas station.

The attendant, a nice guy, said it was okay to use their grease rack to inspect my chain. When the cover came off it was obvious the chain was worn out from insufficient lubrication. So, off came the clutch plates.

About this time a big dude came walking in and barked, “Who the hell owns this motorcycle?” I replied “I do, sir.” He responded with “Get that son-of-a-bitch out of here now!” Having no other options, I wheeled it out onto the curb and shoved the parts underneath.

It was dark now, but the bike would have to sit there for the night. While walking off to find a hotel, I could still hear that dude relentlessly bawling-out the attendant.

Up on the corner a railroad hotel had rooms for $1.50. Despite blowing a primary chain, I felt good about the considerable distance traveled. How could I know tomorrow would be worse?

To be continued…

Armando Magri photographed his knucklehead at the Nevada-Utah state line, 1938.jpg Armando Magri photographed his knucklehead at the Nevada-Utah state line, 1938

Armando Magri, on the way to Marion Indiana, checking out the Bonneville Salt Flats, 1938..jpg
Armando Magri, on the way to Marion Indiana, checking out the Bonneville Salt Flats

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Armando Magri, gassing up in Salt Lake City

[EricOlson]

Chapter 23, Heading to Marion, Indiana for the 1938 National Miniature TT Championship, Part 2 of 5
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

Day 3: At the break of dawn, I re-installed all the bad clutch plates, adjusted the chain and headed out of Rock Springs for the nearest Harley-Davidson shop, 240 miles away in Cheyenne. A whole lot of nothing lies between Rock Springs and Cheyenne. Not wanting to take any chances, I rode the bike 45 mph the whole way.

Outside of Laramie, I ran into two fellows on a tandem bicycle, and stopped to photograph them. Their bike was painted with a slogan borrowed from Charles Lindbergh. It read “The Spirit of Fun.”

These two, along with other folks along the route, suggested that the Indian dealership in Cheyenne actually stocked more Harley parts than the Harley shop. They were right, but a new chain and cleaning the clutch plates cost over six dollars. That put a big dent into my budget. Still, it was nice to have the bike running well.

North Platte, Nebraska was good for a gasoline stop, and that’s about it. From there, periodic rainstorms followed me all the way to Omaha on this day. Leaving Sacramento with a windshield turned out to be a good idea after all. I pulled in for gas at a town called Fremont at 11:30 pm. The attendant said Omaha was just 30 miles away. By now, however, my hand was sore and badly swollen, from a full day of grasping the throttle.

Misunderstanding the attendant’s directions into town, I managed to make things worse. I ended up on a gravel road, and had to ride up to a lone farmhouse, despite an angry dog, and admit I was lost.

A lady at the front door kindly pointed to the end of a streetcar line that would lead this weary motorcyclist into town. The streetcar tracks were right where she said, but the road was entirely cobblestone. This route couldn’t have been more than three miles. But, with my swollen hand, it seemed like an eternity.

Just after midnight I checked into a hotel in downtown Omaha, and found an all night pharmacy that sold Epsom salts. My day ended quietly in a dingy hotel room, with my hand soaking in a bowl of salts, while I fought to stay awake. Despite the hassles, I was happy to have logged almost 800 miles in one day.

To be continued…

Two guys from Laramie with Spirit of Fun written on their tandem bike, 1938.jpg
Two guys from Laramie with Spirit of Fun written on their tandem bike, 1938

[EricOlson]

Chapter 24, Heading to Marion, Indiana for the 1938 National Miniature TT Championship, Part 3 of 5
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

Day 4: It seemed like a good idea to stop by Omaha’s local Harley dealership for an oil change and chain adjustment before leaving town.

The dealership had just received a factory race poster from the 100 Mile National TT in Hollister. I took third in that race, behind Milton Iverson and Harrison Reno, and my photo was on that brand-new poster. The shop guys in Omaha thought I was some kind of VIP. They let me have full use of their equipment for anything.

Making pretty good time, for a change, I left Omaha and decided it would be worth the short detour to Chicago to look up my crazy cousin Ozzie Menconi. Oz was a great guy. You’ll see why I call him crazy later.

Pulling into the windy city, I got lost twice. It was intimidating, and can really get your adrenaline pumping. But it would be worth it to find Ozzie’s place, because it means a free night’s lodging. With Marion still 200 miles away, I was down to my last three dollars.

I found Ozzie’s place. By sheer luck, Oz remembered that he borrowed five bucks from me back in 1936, when he hopped freight trains all the way out to Chico to visit our family. That five buck note was like a gift from heaven.

Oz owned a new Harley 80 cubic inch and asked if he could ride along to Marion with me. “Hell yes,” I answered. It would be great to have the company. Tomorrow we would both head to Marion for the parade and town party the day before the event.

Day 5: The race is tomorrow. Oz and I just crossed the Indiana border, somewhere near Valparaiso, when my bike crapped out and I had to pull off the road. Dear Oz just kept right on going. I waited for some time, expecting to notice I wasn’t behind him and circle back. He never showed up. What a fix. The battery was dead and the points were burned out.

While trying to determine a course of action, a man from a nearby radio shop pulled over and offered to help. He said his friend owned a Harley shop and could fix me up. Then he hauled me and the bike to the garage where he worked. They charged my battery for free while I installed new points. I never got the man’s name. But because of him, I have stopped many times to help people in distress along life’s road.

Thirty miles outside of Marion the motor started to freeze. If there was a time to finally give up the whole idea of racing in Marion, this should have done it. But a young motorcyclist and his wife from Michigan pulled over to help. Such was a common courtesy among motorcycle riders back in those days, in much the same way folks in cold winter states help stranded strangers along the roadside. To save the motor, this couple towed me, in the rain, all the way to Scott’s Harley-Davidson dealership in Marion.

As I walked into Scott’s, the first person I saw was Ozzie. “Hey Mag, where you been?” he asked. I was so boiling mad. This is why I call him my crazy cousin. After I chewed him out on the subject of simple road courtesy for motorcyclists, it was time to get the bike prepared.

Frank Murray had arranged credit with Scott’s for anything I needed in parts. I removed all the unnecessary equipment, installed a new tire, and removed the rear cylinder to replace the piston rings. About halfway through, Mr. Scott asked me to ride one of his sidecars in the big parade later that afternoon. “Don’t worry about the bike,” he said. “I’ll have one of my mechanics help you with it in the morning.”

Hundreds of motorcyclists made it to Marion for this weekend, and the parade was huge. It began right in front of Scott’s store, with Indiana State Troopers and Marion City Police in the lead. Heading through the main part of town, the parade ended at the local Izaak Walton Lodge.

Oz and I were offered food and entertainment by local businessmen and the Entronuse Motorcycle Club. They introduced some of the more famous racers in the crowd. Then we all got instructions at a rider’s meeting about the morning’s events.

After dropping off the sidecar, I had to crawl into bed once Oz and I got to the hotel. It wasn’t from partying too much. After five challenging days of riding, the only thing that mattered now was sleep. The race was tomorrow.

To be continued…

Ozzie Menconi's flathead 80, and Armando Magri's 61 knucklehead at Lake Michigan, Chicago, 1938. 2.jpg
Ozzie Menconi's flathead 80, and Armando Magri's 61 knucklehead at Lake Michigan, Chicago, 1938

Armando Magri and his cousin Ozzie Menconi, Chicago, 1938.jpg
Armando Magri and his cousin Ozzie Menconi, Chicago, 1938

[ChiefTwoKicks]

Thanks Eric, for sharing this fabulous auto-biography !! I'm wondering who took the pics ? or at least most of them... seems like the Magri bros. may have had a paid photographer following along the adventures. There may have been several photographers, but so far no mention in the text of this wonderful story, that lasted for several years. I remember when I was a child, the cameras of the day were pretty much a full time occupation, in order to get the quality shots... and these are great quality for the time. anything to add ? Some of these photos are way better than some of the shots we see today... with our smart phones !! just asking for a friend.

C2K

[EricOlson]

Thanks Eric, for sharing this fabulous auto-biography !! I'm wondering who took the pics ? or at least most of them... seems like the Magri bros. may have had a paid photographer following along the adventures. There may have been several photographers, but so far no mention in the text of this wonderful story, that lasted for several years. I remember when I was a child, the cameras of the day were pretty much a full time occupation, in order to get the quality shots... and these are great quality for the time. anything to add ? Some of these photos are way better than some of the shots we see today... with our smart phones !! just asking for a friend.

C2K

C2K, I don't know who took the photos, but you're right, they are great and really add to the stories. Armando's son Ken scanned and posted them, and he also posted a lot more from his photo album. After I'm done putting up the autobiography I can add some more pictures. Sorry for the slowness in getting the chapters up, but I'm having to retype a number of them to be able to put them directly into the thread. As with everything, home and family responsibilities keep me tied up, but I find a little time here and there to get another chapter up. Speaking of... here comes the next installment. Enjoy!

[EricOlson]

Chapter 25, Heading to Marion, Indiana for the National Miniature TT Championship, part 4 of 5
From the Autobiography of Armando Magri

Day 6, Race Day: My cousin Ozzie and I were standing at the front door of Scott’s Harley shop when they opened it up. Scott never did provide me with the mechanic help he promised. I had to put the bike together myself, with Oz handing me wrenches and washing parts.

The engine still didn’t seem to run right, but time was short. One of Scott’s mechanics said he would help adjust the carburetor once we were out at Entronuse Raceway, but he never did. What a bunch of bullshitters those guys turned out to be.

After all of the hard times, lady luck finally helped me out in the 3rd elimination heat. Swapping win, place and show positions with a couple of Texans (Eldon Beer was from Amarillo, and Les Myers from Wichita Falls), we raced through this woodsy track within bike-lengths of each other. The crowd got quite a good show. I just happened to be in front when the checkered flag came down, but any of us could have won that heat.

With a great starting position for the main event, we were all lined up and waiting for the flagman. Like a fool, I was still fiddling with the carburetor, looking down when the starting flag dropped.

Everyone took off in a cloud of dust while I sat there with the bike in neutral. It felt like everyone and everything had been conspiring against me for almost a week now. There was nothing left to do but kick the bike into gear and head after everyone. I was 100 yards behind the last place rider, with 5,000 screaming fans watching me.

I remember thinking, “What the hell, Magri, might as well let it all hang out.” So, man, that’s what happened. Perhaps, while trying to stave off the embarrassment of that horrible start, a new sense of freedom overcame me. The course turns became fluid, and each lap more comfortable.

One by one, the other racers fell behind. Towards the end I got around Eldon Beer for third place, and began to challenge J. B. Jones for second. Jones was a local favorite, a transplant from Dallas, riding with more horse power than me.

A twelve-lap race on a smallish track doesn’t give you much time to pass riders, and neither one of us could catch another Texan, Tommy Hayes, that day.

Hayes had begun his own adventurous drive to Marion when his truck broke down. He unloaded his Harley, towed the truck back to Dallas, fixed it, then started for Marion again. Now he had just won the race with that bike. J. B. Jones took second, and I hung on for third.

Hayes and Jones got their pictures in the local paper. I got besieged by autograph seekers. An underdog’s journey from Sacramento to Marion, coming from last to third in a nine-minute national race, became the Cinderella-like sub- plot for many spectators. I signed helmets, riding belts, programs, all sorts of things. The local newspaper nicknamed me “the flying Dago,” and devoted a whole paragraph of their coverage to that third heat. For winning it, and for placing third in the main event, I won a total of $30.

Walter Davidson Jr., the son of co-founder Walter Davidson, was at Marion, representing the factory. He was also impressed by my last-to-third performance, and wanted me to hang around for another week, to compete in another race, the Wisconsin TT Championship in Madison. In those days, Harley-Davidson had a great rivalry with Indian Motorcycles, and Walter was anxious to beat a favorite Indian racer, Irv Tuskey, in a state where Harley should be reigning supreme.

Walter said the factory would overhaul my bike. I told him, “You will have to clear it with my boss back in
Sacramento, because I don’t want to be fired. Walter called, and Murray okayed the whole thing.

To be continued…

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The race course at Marion Indiana had a lot of tight turns and woods around, 1938.jpg
The race course at Marion Indiana had a lot of tight turns and woods around, 1938

Running in last place, Armando Magri quickly catches the pack, and manages a third place finish, Marion.jpg
Running in last place, Armando Magri quickly catches the pack, and manages a third place finish, Marion

Tommy Hayes, with head down, J.B. Jones and Armando Magri take 1,2,3 at the National Miniature TT Champ.jpg
Tommy Hayes, with head down, J.B. Jones and Armando Magri take 1,2,3 at the National Miniature TT Champ

[EricOlson]

The Motorcyclist Magazine article on the Marion race..jpg
From HD Enthusiast, October, 1938. Armando Magri meets Walter Davidson Jr. and become lifelong friends.jpg