When I look back on the many pleasurable activities of
this week I believe what I will remember most is one very short
defining incident. It occurs as I putter up through Big Sur on Highway
One in the cool air enjoying the view of the craggy coastline crashing
with surf and sun and settling into that mindless awareness state of
being that is motorcycle meditation. I gently steer the Ural over to
the right line because I hear one of my companions on an old Triumph
about to overtake me, and for my consideration I am treated to the
sight of a man doing acrobatics on his motorcycle on the center line as
he passes, one foot and one hand in the air, the golden blue Big Sur
Coast in the background, giving me a big grin and a wink before he
accelerates, attaching all four limbs back onto the bike for a wild
swoop around the upcoming curve.
I fall in love with every one of this group of Mods-n-Rockers and the group as a whole as we make the ride from Santa
Barbara to Half Moon Bay for the Legend of the Motorcycle International Concors d'Elegance. Their recklessness is an illusion, for I have seen
that they are conscientious riders, giving each other space or
positioning themselves into tight formation as required or desired, me
on the Ural sidecar rig up ahead, having left early because I know I'll
eventually fall behind because of my speed and my unwieldy size.
What am I doing on a 1938 BMW/2005 Ural on a ride with a bunch of crazy Brits? Why have I ridden south just to ride north again? As for the 1938/2005 BMW/Ural, that's to promote my book American Borders, but the Brits know that I have an Enfield sitting forlornly alone at home. Plus they kind of like a girl on a sidecar rig escorting them around. As for riding south just to ride north again -- well, if you don't ride, I guess I just can't explain that one!
It's a
blustery couple of days and the sidecar rig gets blown around
and I let it drift as a boat on a sea within the confines of the lines
drawn in the road, only bothering to force it into the straight and
narrow when there are obstacles or when I hear the roar of a Triumph
ready to overtake. (See photos.)
I'm riding with organizers David and Lesley Solmonson, plus Mark
Wilsmore, owner of the famous Ace Cafe in London, who spent seven years
restoring this historic and useful stop for bikers all over the world. (Stay tuned...they'll be opening one in LA, soon.) Mark is one of the mad English Triumph riders, his wife Linda rides
with Kevin in the British Motorbikes North Hollywood chase vehicle. Thursday nights in San Luis Obispo is Farmer's Market night,and they
let us take over Garden Street, closing it off to all but the bikes and
scooters who roar in to see the rockers at Downtown Brew. All night
long Slim Jim Phantom of the Stray Cats, with Cadillac Angles and Tres
Gatos opening, grab the crowds from outside to dance or to watch the
scantily clad models dance in Hein Gericke’s new superG motorcycle fashion line inspired by vintage motorcycle wear.
Predictably, we get a late start the next morning for
our ride up the coast, just have to stop at the Solvang Vintage
Motorcycle Museum, and arrived at the Legend of the Motorcycle show
kickoff cocktail party at 6:30, a bit late, a bit noisy, and a bit
rowdy for the stuffy valet parking staff at the Ritz, who frowns upon
our pipe-popping circumnavigation of the grand entrance to the hotel
around the Porches and Mercedes though onlookers grin. 
Inside, we push
past Peter Fonda on our way to the bucket of ice holding pink
champagne, then disperse our leathery-gas-smelling, helmet-haired
selves into the posh crowd admiring works of motorcycle-themed art and
one another, before storming the cigar and spirits lounge hosted by
Cohiba and Hennessy.
Then, a dashing man on a Norton rides up to take me to dinner, and that is how I spend my birthday.
Next morning, I somehow drag myself to the press room by 8:00 am, mostly because I think I'll be able to talk to Peter Fonda, but it turns out that he is not among those represented at the long table where the
press, between bites of bagel and gulps of coffee, are invited to pose
questions to the judges. There are no questions, probably it’s the
Hennessy hangovers. I'm hesitant to ask why there aren't any women
judges. I'm not really "press" representing a
magazine, but just a dubiously qualified motorcycle adventure travel
writer on a book tour, so I ask later and am told that the two
women invitees declined due to conflicting events. They don't tell me who they invited, so I brashly suggest a few
names for next year -- the women heads of motorcycling publications,
associations, and dealerships, such as Alice Sexton (WIMA), Genevieve
Schmitt (Women Riders Now), and Alis Agostini (Moto Guzzi).
Are they qualified? I don't know but it's something to explore. Event judges come from all
walks of the motorcycling world: racers, innovators, manufacturers,
dealers, restorers, publishers, and historians. Chief Judge is Ed
Gilbertson, and others are Erik Buell, Oriol Bulto, Marty Dickerson,
Bud Ekins, Mert Lawwill, Pierre Terblanche, Craig Vetter and Wayne
Rainey, to name a few. Builders are Patrick Godet and George Beale,
writers are Simon de Burton and Larry Williams, museum curators are
Charles Falco and Mark Mederski. There are 40 judges from seven countries. The emphasis in judging is on original
condition and historically accurate restoration. Categories are Early Period (1800s to
1929) to Mid-Century bikes (1930 to 1957) to Modern Period (1958 to 1975).
Out on the lawn I note that the historic bikes include some of the first
bikes that were designed for women so we wouldn't have to work up a
sweat pedaling in our skirts. (Or faint in our corsets.) One even
sports a crocheted spoke barrier so one wouldn't get one's skirts
tangled in one's spokes, dahling.
After the judging I find myself standing next to Erik
Buell, and so I ask him if he is planning any big motorcycle travel
trips, and if not, what is his dream trip? He answers that, given a few
months off work, he'd ride from the top of the world to the bottom —
destination Tierra del Fuego. Charles Falco wants to circumnavigate the
Arabian Sea. On what bikes? I don't know, we are interrupted, but I
have their cards, so will give them a ring and report back.
There are lots of BMWs and Harleys and everything else, but this year's show focuses on Vincent, Excelsior, and Henderson bikes. The $50-in-advance and $65-at-the-door entry fee ensures that the event is not over-attended. The crowd on the lawn (golf-course) is well-behaved and, when lunchtime comes around, thinks nothing of laying down about the same amount. Well, what the heck. I didn't resent it. The event is definitely in the category of a rare treat. Later, at a gas station up the road, a woman tells me she attended the "poor-man's concours," by which she meant the stroll along the road to the Ritz where a very long row of motorcycles was parked.
The evening ride to San Francisco is crowded with bikers returning home
from the show, and at one point three bikes are tucked in around the
Ural at the front of the long line of cars waiting at the red at
Highway 92. They roar off as I lumber up the hill reflecting on
the activities of the week, the last of which is an American Borders
book talk at Book Passage in Corte Madera, where I got my start doing
motorcycle adventure travel writing at their annual travel writer's
conference. The sun is low in the sky, the air is bracing, and the sea is sparkling silver and blue. It was a fabulous north-south-north again round trip. I'm happily exhausted. It sure is good to be home.
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