Motorcycle Extravaganza
August 13, 2007
This coming Sunday is the annual Motorcycle Extravaganza Vintage European and Japanese Motorcycle Show sponsored in part by NYC VinMoto. As a member of NYC VinMoto, I subscribe to their email list and read that they were looking for people interested in showing their bikes. Jason told me that he was going to enter his 1975 CB550 Four, and suggested I enter my Triumph as well. Neither one of our bikes is anywhere near a flawlessly executed concourse-correct restoration — we wouldn't have been riding around yesterday, thrashing our bikes on a 200-mile burn up if they were — but that's not the point of the show.
"Absolutely! Bring it down!" wrote Rosko, the man in charge of NYC VinMoto, when I emailed him to inquire about entering my bike. "I wanted to shy away from the term 'show' just for that reason," he said. "Let’s say it is a showing of vintage and classic machines. The majority of the bikes will be well-used riders, some show bikes, but mostly just old bikes. So YES, bring yours down! Just to give you an idea of the condition of the displays— I have been co-ordinating a display of different active vintage racers, they are well used and beaten, but to me these are always the bikes that I love to look at."
I agree. So if you're in Greenpoint next Sunday, swing by Bar Matchless and see if you do, too.
The rides that Jason and I take upstate are punishing. While my little 500 T100C desert racer is a blast through the narrow twisty roads of Harriman State Park, it wasn't designed for the stop-and-go city traffic, the sluggish congestion of the George Washington Bridge, and the long highway cruise to get there.
While riding, we passed a group of people walking through the cattails, trying to get to the edge of a lake to swim in an area where you aren't allowed to swim. A middle-aged woman dressed like a 14 year-old tripped and fell face first into the muddy bank. Jason honked his horn and pointed as we passed.
Although the bike performed like a champ, I can't say the same for me. Cruising with the traffic on the Palisades Parkway at a steady 60 miles an hour is like riding on the back of a bumblebee. My shoulders and hips get stiff, my hands and feet get numb, and as soon as I got home, I immediately fall asleep.
August 20, 2007
As I locked my apartment door, I could hear the party down the hall still going strong: Coke-heads still awake and telling fascinating stories at eight a.m.
I drove to Bar Matchless, where the motorcycle show was being held, to see what I could do to help set up. Along the way, I stopped at a McDonald's drive-through for a cup of coffee. I paid at the first window, and a man in a suit handed me my coffee at the second one. I drove several blocks before I hit a red light and had a chance to sip it.
Cologne.
The guy was heavy-handed with his cologne and had managed to smear his stink all over the lid. I took the lid off, but the stench lingered. It was all over the cup. "Who the fuck slathers on that much cologne for a Sunday morning job at a McDonald’s drive-through?" I wondered.
I made a few more attempts at drinking the coffee, turning the cup, trying to find a sweet spot untouched by Mr. Slick, but it was useless.
A block away from Bar Matchless, a guy was sitting in a chair on the sidewalk, watching television. I stopped to take his picture, and then found a garbage can to toss away the coffee cup, but the smell had gotten into my nose, and I couldn't shake it.
I didn't do much to help, and before I knew it, the block was lined with bikes. New, old, shiny, rusty, quiet, loud. It was billed as a show of primarily vintage European and Japanese motorcycles, but there were a few oddballs in the mix. One of them, which we took to calling the boob bike, was a gold chopper with an airbrushed portrait of a naked lady on its gas tank. On its fender was another topless woman chained to a wall. I overheard the bike's owner flirting with a young Japanese girl. "You're beautiful," he said. "You can get whatever you want."
I don't know what that was referring to, but then he began trying to impress her by telling her about his custom bike shop.
"You know Anna Nicole?" he said.
The girl cocked her head.
"Anna Nicole," he said. "She's an actress. She died—Anna Nicole, you know, she's famous."
I could think of more precise ways to describe Anna Nicole Smith other than as an actress who died, but eventually, he managed to trigger the girl's recognition. She nodded her head. "Oh yeah," she said.
"Yeah, Anna Nicole. We did a bike for her."
Deborah and I were standing inside the patio area of Bar Matchless with Jason and Erica, only partially sheltered from the drizzle that had started to fall, while outside, a couple of artists did their best to make a mess and a racket. One of them had a small Casio-style keyboard wrapped in a clear plastic bag to protect it from the rain. It was plugged into a medium-sized amplifier, also wrapped in plastic. While he plunked on his keyboard, his art pal tinkered with a motorcycle that was electronically rigged and amplified to make loud grinding, whirring, scratching, and generally annoying noises at obscene volumes. At the same time, a third culprit was standing over a large canvas tarp, splattering it with paint —or maybe grease — and lighting small fires. I'm not sure what he was burning, but the ashes were getting blown into the bar, dusting a few of the motorcycles with a layer of ash. One of the motorcycles was a pristine 1950s Velocette racing bike owned by an unamused old man. I don't know who the old man was, but he looked serious. He had trailered his bike to the show and had a placard describing its racing pedigree. He sat behind it, arms folded, with an expression of percolating annoyance.
"That's what you get when you enter a motorcycle show in Williamsburg," I wanted to say, but I didn't dare go near him.
I ran into a friend of mine who told me a story about an art show that was nothing more than a room where the artist had partied with a group of people. There were remnants of the debauchery -- bottles, puke, et cetera -- and that was the exhibit. "No kidding," I said. "My neighbor has one of those exhibits up right now, too."
I managed to win the People's Choice Award for my Triumph. I have to admit I felt a little guilty accepting it since I don't think many people even knew they could vote for a People's Choice Award. But I did, and I told everyone I knew. A political victory, more than anything else.
The prize included a couple of T-shirts, some stickers and patches, a plastic model of a Honda CB1100R, and two gift certificates — one was a dinner for two at Moto, and a second for a case of beer from a local distributor. I gave the patches to Jason, earmarked the model for eBay, and handed the gift certificates to Deborah for safekeeping.
"See," said Rosko, one of the show's organizers, "I told you that you should bring your bike down. It paid off."
"Yeah, man. Thanks."
But like I said, I felt a little embarrassed. Even more so when, at the end of the day, I got on my bike to pull away and it stalled. "That's supposed to be the best bike," I heard Jason and a few others tease.
"I know! Suckers."
By the way, the chances of my bike stalling are in direct proportion to the number of people watching me pull away.
