For me, this is what I imagine Daytona feels like only its smaller... much smaller... and very English. It draws me back year after year like a pilgrimage. Old men in old wax jackets drinking brown beer and smoking pipes, walking around and admiring other peoples motorbikes- no wait, that was just me.
There are no pretenders here, only participants. There are a smattering of bikes that are old but not ancient and even some new bikes but everyone there is here for the vintage cycles; flat tanks, exposed tappets, leather drive belts, wicker baskets and so on. For the first time in my memory there are 2 Indians here. One of them, the 751, was bought recently for very cheap. So cheap you could have almost bought a Sportster for the same money. So cheap it made my eyes water. It's the ultimate biker urban myth made flesh. Gutted that it didn't happen to me but glad that it does still happen, even in the UK.
This year the Queen stole my Bank Holiday and hid it for some reason I have yet to understand so we went on Saturday night instead of the usual Sunday. I got my first pint in at around 2pm and before I knew it the camp fire was dying down and the sun was coming up. We talked some shit and sang some songs. If you say it like that it's the same every year but every year is different and it never gets old.
