Motorcycle Daze

The last thing that I wanted was to ride a motorcycle at Vintage Motorcycle Days. At 40, I have only a few years’ experience, and took my first motorcycle trip–a 500-mile jaunt–just last summer. The journey back was hampered by a severe thunderstorm that raged on a rural road. I made the grim calculus that I stood a better chance of survival on the move, dodging fallen trees and fighting for traction, rather than as a stationary object begging to be struck by lightning or a 2006 Buick. Since then, I had not touched my bike in a while, plus, half of the gear needed for a 2-man camping trip was mine. My car was still in service and my dad had made a deal to see me at Vintage Days.

For decades, my dad joked that he never knew how many skiing trips he had left with my grandpa, an eternally youthful World War II veteran who skied into his late 80s and passed a few years ago in his 90s. It’s my turn to make the same joke about my father, now in his late-60s. I had no choice but to ride.

The American Motorcyclist Association hosts

Vintage Days every year. It is an advocacy group for two-wheeled motorists. Liza Miller, host of the Motorcycles & Misfits podcast, likes to say that the weekend-long event cannot be described in words–you simply must experience it. My best guess is that this gathering of enthusiasts of older motorbikes is something like Burning Man, Boy Scout camping trips, a motorcycle sale, a garage sale, and live sporting events. The sprawling Mid-Ohio Sports Car Course is reserved by the AMA. It has paved tracks, campsites and woods as well as grassy fields.

The AMA says that the Vintage Days swap meets is one of the biggest in North America. There are endless rows of sellers selling riding gear, tools, parts and memorabilia. The bikes come in varying stages of completion, from old frames to fully restored vintages. The arrangement of these wares varies from elaborate merchandising displays once used in ’70s and ’80s cycle shops to loose bits laid as hastily upon tarps as they were previously strewn upon a garage floor. The AMA hosts seminars over high-pitched road race noises. Clubs display their bikes in the infield. Competitors race for victory in dirt bike motocross or other disciplines.

The main attraction is however the Mad Max atmosphere. The grounds are populated by people riding motorcycles, mostly children’s dirt bikes. Although volunteers do their best, there are limits to the amount of rationality that they can apply to traffic jams. Moin Khan (a Pakistani champion in motocross), attended Vintage Days to present a seminar about his experience leading tours for Westerners.

The frenetic pace doesn’t slow down with the dimming of the sun. The pace picks back up at the campsite. Riders engage in barrel racing, which is an unofficial sport that involves running circles on dirt bikes and scooters. Floodlights are used to illuminate the dusty chaos by those in close proximity. Security may intervene occasionally, but the race resumes when they are gone.

An outfit called Louisville Vintage Motorworks holds a competition for burnouts. The contestants are required to slide inside a beer-lubricated box, then drop their clutches on the restrained bikes and speed up as the rear wheels start smoking. The “captain”, a man in a novelty boating hat, presides over the contestants. He is kept at least as lubricated as the burnout boxes. He mutters, “Where are you from, sailor?” and chuckles at any rider offering chunks of burned rubber. He uses lasers to blast rock music.

Having been to this event before, I was ready for the chaos. It’s a bit jarring coming from an organization that spends 362 days a year reminding people to wear adequate safety gear, and that once introduced the slogan “Loud Pipes Risk Rights,” in refrain to the biker’s creed that “Loud Pipes Save Lives.” But that dissonance is part of the fun.

I was nervous about my ride. My unrequited passion is motorcycling, but I’m never completely comfortable riding a motorcycle. My father has ridden for over 60 years, competing in motocross as a young man, and later in grueling dirt races called enduros. My grandfather was a hobby-scale dealer of the British Triumph brand in the ’60s and ’70s. Dad, who successfully negotiated his first engine rebuild at 8 years old, was grandpa’s mechanic. But I was raised by my mother and didn’t take up this birthright until a fateful trip to the Harley Davidson Museum in my mid-30s recontextualized motorcycling as pure Americana.

If I had to ride to Vintage Days, at least I avoided having to ride a vintage motorcycle. My dad counseled me as I ventured into riding: “I know that you want a cool ’70s bike, but buy a reliable bike first. You’re not a good ‘wrench,’ and you want to learn to ride, not worry about mechanical issues.” I took his advice and bought a 2014 Honda CB1100, an air-cooled black beauty that is a spiritual successor to the CB750 of the 1970s, considered one of the greatest bikes of all time.

I love my bike but, as I pedaled the final mile to Vintage Days between two motorhomes up a hill, I felt cursed. Air cooling, a nostalgic but antiquated wink at the CB750, means that the bike easily overheats on summer days unless it keeps moving. The temperature was almost 90 degrees as I struggled to find the right RPMs to move up the incline without conking in traffic. I hate retro. Just as I reached the campsite, it stalled.

Soon after my father came, we had a lot of fun arguing about how to set up the tent. Sometimes we have trouble seeing each other. His technical skills have been a constant. My passion has always been to read. I am not able to do what he does naturally. It is always erroneous. You are fueling the bike with too much gasoline while it is being started! You have too many chokes! It’s being flooded!” It’s starving !”

As I watched the woods racers navigate, I felt sad that I would never be a great rider. He agreed, saying “Too late to do that.” He said, “Just accept it as it is and work on improving it.” It is up to me to choose which love I want and under what conditions. Over his declining years, my father expressed regrets. I want to go out into the woods. But at 67, my body won’t cooperate.”

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Seconds later, he rushed to help a stalled competitor ceaselessly kicking the starter on his ’60s Husqvarna like the one Steve McQueen raced. He yelled “Let’s bump it!” and he raced down the hill pushing both bike and rider. My pride was heightened by my father’s fierce competitive spirit. But the bike stopped working and its rider gave up.

” If I was on the throttle it would have started. Two strokes old! The oil he sucked into the case was hard to remove, so you need to crank slowly. He just replaced it. He also fouled the old one. I tried to tell him that, but he wouldn’t listen. The newer riders aren’t able to use the old skills they used.” I thought about it for a moment and then added, “Like you .”

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Later our tent was flooded by a severe storm. After we had bailed out 6 inches of water, I told my dad, “Dad,” and he replied, “I know.” I will try to be more patient .”