While out for a walk, I happened upon a hillside located on the outer rim of the lovely little Pennsylvania town of Oley. It was the end of a long day of driving and I was out to get some fresh air. As I strolled up the hill I found myself entering another world…an antique motorcycle fair, or what would be one the following day.
Though new to me, everything there was antique—including most of the riders. Outfitted in their requisite buckles, bandanas and boots, many with long hair, most with beards, virtually all of it grey, they talked the talk. Shot the breeze.
Their bikes? Everything from beauty to beast. From vintage Harley’s to vapid Honda 50’s—in every condition from polished and pristine to rust buckets on wheels. Some were truly works of art so pleasurable to look at that I found myself staring at them. They were obviously the labor of someone’s love. Others were comically lacking…a clutch here, a transmission there. Some were laid out on the grass. So many dissected hogs.
Though opening day was yet to be, the blatantly entrepreneurial types were already hawking their wares. Bike parts were everywhere—looking like leftovers from surgical procedure gone awry. Some neatly displayed upon flea market tables with their price tags discretely turned under, some strewn across the grass in a “make-me-an-offer” style in front of boldly striped lawn chairs permanently sagged from the weight of their occupants.
Hemming the bottom of the hill like the frill on a square dancer's skirt,was a fanciful array of tents, campers, topper-ed trucks and trailers. It was supper time and judging by the pleasant smell, portable grills ruled. Burgers and brats, sizzling dogs, barbecued chicken, and the rarified sirloin sputtered to perfection as their sultry fragrances crested the hill then wafted skyward. Incense to the gods.
The chatter around the grills was excited and loud, the camaraderie was contagious. Boisterous reunions popped up like dandelions in the field around me as the newcomers revved their bikes or honked their rigs, raucously announcing their arrival while they motored parade-speed past the others, flexing their mechanical muscles and sizing up the competition before marking their territory and settling in for the duration.
It was obvious some were long lost but loyal friends who had ridden together in younger days. Now they straddled the country only to be reunited by the occasional antique bikers fair. As with all true friends, the passage of time since their last goodbye didn’t matter. Now they were together again and the excitement was palpable. Bikes, beer and brouhahas. Let the party begin!
“How long have antique biker fairs been going on?” I wondered naively as I walked. “How long have folks been coming to these events, swarming on hilltop meadows like bees full of buzz?” Since before they were antiques? Probably. For some, maybe longer.
As I wandered down the grassy lanes that checkerboarded the fairgrounds and slipped past the last circle of hogs and wannabes parked near the entrance, I realized that I had uttered nothing more than an occasional “Hi!” or “Nice bike,” the entire time I had been in this brave old world. Obviously, this was not my mug of brew. But strolling further, as I lost the last of the now distant clatter, I found myself feeling strangely warmed by the whole experience. I couldn’t help but think, “Is this a great country or what!” As I walked back to my car and pressed my electronic key to unlock the door I pondered, “Will there ever be an antique SUV fair?”
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