When Train Came, Charlie was just Hangin’ Around
By Kenneth Arline
Once upon a time, a motorcycle and a train had a near head on collision on the railroad bridge across the Salt River in Tempe. Charles M. Lewis, who will soon be 84, well remembers the near tragedy. He was piloting the motorcycle.
Before going into the details of how Lewis eluded the train, permit me to tell you something about the man. He was born in an adobe house east of Mesa on Sept. 13, 1890.
His father was a rancher and Charles Lewis’ earliest recollections are “working from sunrise, to sunset.” He also remembers Indians with their bows and arrows, riding across the desert on their ponies, looking for rabbits.
One of his first paying jobs was working in a cantaloupe field for $2.50 a day. “Five dollars pay every two days looked awful good to me,” Lewis said.
On or before Lewis was 18, he put together $225 and acquired a 3-horsepower motorcycle from a dealer in Phoenix.
“He took me out by the Indian School and tried to teach me how to ride it.” Lewis said. “I remember taking one big spill.”
By the time Lewis had driven the cycle to his home in Mesa, he “really knew how to ride it.” No license was necessary. He added: “They didn’t know what a driver’s license was in those days.”
When Theodore Roosevelt came to the Valley in March 1911 to dedicate the dam named in his honor, Charles Lewis and another Mesa'n rode their cycles over the Apache Trail to attend the dedication ceremony.
The trip to the dam was made without incident, but coming back, Lewis had trouble climbing a portion of the roadway about 10 miles west of Roosevelt. W.S. Dorman who lived southwest of Mesa, came by in his automobile and offered to help me with a rope, Lewis said.
“About 20 feet from the top a wheel of the cycle hit a rock and I fell off. Dorman dragged the cycle on up to the top but didn’t damage it.”
When he reached Fish Creek, Lewis bedded down for the night, on the ground about 100 feet from the Fish Creek Inn. “There was a big hotel there at the time.” He said. “People riding the stages between Globe and Phoenix would stop there for the night.”
The next morning, Lewis and two other cycle riders maneuvered their machines up Fish Creek Hill. “We got up the hill by dismounting while the machines were still in motion and running along side,” Lewis explained. “On reaching the top, we had clear sailing on into Mesa.”
Lewis then told about his “worst scare”- the near tragedy on the railroad bridge.
“I believe it was before the ride to Roosevelt,” Lewis said. “Riding across the bridge was easy if you were going fast enough—15 or 16 miles an hour. The spaces between the ties didn’t matter. It was like riding a plank.”
“This one time, I was headed toward Phoenix. When I got to the middle of the bridge, I saw a train coming around the corner on the north end of the bridge. All I could do was stop the cycle, jump off and climb out on one of those big concrete piers. I held on to the machine, while one wheel rested on the concrete. I managed to hang on until the train had passed, but boy that motorcycle was getting pretty heavy by then.”
Lewis said he gave up motorcycling when he married. He is the father of five children, who have given him 105 grand and great grandchildren.
By Kenneth Arline
Once upon a time, a motorcycle and a train had a near head on collision on the railroad bridge across the Salt River in Tempe. Charles M. Lewis, who will soon be 84, well remembers the near tragedy. He was piloting the motorcycle.
Before going into the details of how Lewis eluded the train, permit me to tell you something about the man. He was born in an adobe house east of Mesa on Sept. 13, 1890.
His father was a rancher and Charles Lewis’ earliest recollections are “working from sunrise, to sunset.” He also remembers Indians with their bows and arrows, riding across the desert on their ponies, looking for rabbits.
One of his first paying jobs was working in a cantaloupe field for $2.50 a day. “Five dollars pay every two days looked awful good to me,” Lewis said.
On or before Lewis was 18, he put together $225 and acquired a 3-horsepower motorcycle from a dealer in Phoenix.
“He took me out by the Indian School and tried to teach me how to ride it.” Lewis said. “I remember taking one big spill.”
By the time Lewis had driven the cycle to his home in Mesa, he “really knew how to ride it.” No license was necessary. He added: “They didn’t know what a driver’s license was in those days.”
When Theodore Roosevelt came to the Valley in March 1911 to dedicate the dam named in his honor, Charles Lewis and another Mesa'n rode their cycles over the Apache Trail to attend the dedication ceremony.
The trip to the dam was made without incident, but coming back, Lewis had trouble climbing a portion of the roadway about 10 miles west of Roosevelt. W.S. Dorman who lived southwest of Mesa, came by in his automobile and offered to help me with a rope, Lewis said.
“About 20 feet from the top a wheel of the cycle hit a rock and I fell off. Dorman dragged the cycle on up to the top but didn’t damage it.”
When he reached Fish Creek, Lewis bedded down for the night, on the ground about 100 feet from the Fish Creek Inn. “There was a big hotel there at the time.” He said. “People riding the stages between Globe and Phoenix would stop there for the night.”
The next morning, Lewis and two other cycle riders maneuvered their machines up Fish Creek Hill. “We got up the hill by dismounting while the machines were still in motion and running along side,” Lewis explained. “On reaching the top, we had clear sailing on into Mesa.”
Lewis then told about his “worst scare”- the near tragedy on the railroad bridge.
“I believe it was before the ride to Roosevelt,” Lewis said. “Riding across the bridge was easy if you were going fast enough—15 or 16 miles an hour. The spaces between the ties didn’t matter. It was like riding a plank.”
“This one time, I was headed toward Phoenix. When I got to the middle of the bridge, I saw a train coming around the corner on the north end of the bridge. All I could do was stop the cycle, jump off and climb out on one of those big concrete piers. I held on to the machine, while one wheel rested on the concrete. I managed to hang on until the train had passed, but boy that motorcycle was getting pretty heavy by then.”
Lewis said he gave up motorcycling when he married. He is the father of five children, who have given him 105 grand and great grandchildren.
