Bike Week

Going to the Weirs during bike week is kind of like going to the fair. Except you bring your own ride. And, it's definitely geared toward grownups.

I can remember back in '64 or '65 riding home from a Saturday night at the races in Loudon with my folks. We hopped in the car and turned on the radio and immediately learned that it would be a good idea to make a detour from our regular route. There was a riot in progress at the Weirs, on the edge of Lake Winnepesauke in Laconia, NH. It was being led by a large contingent of the Hell's Angels motorcycle club. Governor John King had called out the NH National Guard to help the Laconia PD bring order, and they arrived in armored troop carriers.

The Guard and the Police rolled over the drunk-and-disorderly bikers like a truck. The authorities suffered zero casualties. The same could not be said for the bikers.

The centerpiece of Bike Week is a motorcycle race, which is now sanctioned by the AMA and held at New Hampshire Motor Speedway. It's possible that as many as 3 to 5 % of the people coming to Bike Week actually attend the race. The rest are here . . . well, mainly because the rest are here.

It's a chance for the locals, who deal with tourists year-round, to act like tourists themselves. They get to walk around and gawk at the bikes and bikers. The place to do this is the Weirs. You can see motorcycles all over New Hampshire during this time, but there is no greater concentration of them then at the Weirs. And the best part is that most of the vendors are from out of town, so we locals can take a day off and just watch.

This year, 2008, is the 85th annual race. In the mid-1960's the race moved from wherever it was held before to Bryar Motorsport Park, a road course that also hosted sports car races, etc. One prominent feature of BMP was a knoll that overlooked the track that came to be known as Animal Hill. This was where the hardest partying took place. In the early '90's, Bob Bahre, owner of Maine's Oxford Plains Speedway, bought the track and converted it to a one-mile oval that now hosts NASCAR and the like. There is a road course, where the motorcycle race still is held, but Animal Hill is gone.

The best time to hit the Weirs is early in the week. By Friday the real crazies, the former occupants of Animal Hill, are arriving in force. The alcohol begins to flow in earnest, and it starts getting a little dangerous. On Tuesday or Wednesday, most of the bikes are expensive Harleys owned by lawyers and dentists. The well-behaved brothers and cousins of the Angels of '65.

And yes, it is definitely geared to adults. The central theme of bike week is "F--- you." It's everywhere. I never realized that there were so many ways to phrase this simple, arrogant statement of defiance. And all of them can be emblazoned on a t-shirt, ball cap, bumper sticker, tattoo, or whatever you like.

I rode to the Weirs on my Yamaha 750 on a Wednesday. I made the mistake of not getting there until about 11 am, but was lucky enough to find parking reasonably close for only five bucks. On a good Wednesday it's possible to get there early enough to park among the herd in the middle of the main street. Not only is that free, but you have the thrill of being among hundreds of really cool bikes.

The first time I rode there on my own putt, I had a 400cc Honda with a milk crate bungee-corded to the back of the seat. As I climbed off my humble little rat-bike, parked among all the chrome-plated American iron, I noticed I was being watched by two particularly heavy, hairy, leather-clad gentlemen on the sidewalk.

"It's not the bike, it's the man," I said, staring them right in the eye. They nodded, smiled, and let me live.

Bike Week is oriented around American motorcycles, and Harley-Davidsons in particular. I once saw a neat little tableau at the Weirs. One guy was standing on the sidewalk, dressed head-to-toe in Harley logo clothing from his boots to his do-rag. His friend - I assume they were friends - was sitting astride a shiny Yamaha Royal Star, a full-dress Electra-Glide knockoff. The Harley guy was merciless in his derision of his friend's 'rice-burner.' Finally, he said the magic words:

"A real man rides a Harley-Davidson," he said.

The friend gave him a sour look and said, "A real man . . . does as he damn well pleases."

Translation: F--- you. Amen, brother.

I had a great-uncle who rode a motorcycle. This was back in the day when the only bikes available were Harley-Davidsons and Indians. The Harleys were more reliable, but the Indians were faster. Uncle Earnest rode an Indian, and the New Hampshire State Police rode Harleys. He liked riding real fast, so he knew from personal experience just how fast the Harleys of the NH Highway Patrol were. Finally came the day when two troopers rolled up to his home. He thought they were there to arrest him. Instead, they asked if he would like to join up. He said he would, under one condition; that he get to use his own bike. From that day on, the New Hampshire State Police were all-Harley, but one.

My Uncle Jim Parris always had a full-dress cruiser, usually a Harley Electra-Glide. There were a few years during the late 60's when he gave it up. People were so scared of the Hells Angels and their ilk that it became difficult for the average Joe to ride in peace. Now, the Average Joe IS bike week. It's become an event for the upper middle class, who have enough money to buy the bike and can take off enough time to enjoy it.

When going to the Weirs, I try to blend in. A little mid-week bad-ass. A little. I wore a black t-shirt with a Fender Telecaster on the chest, and a hat with the Unites States Postal Service logo on it. Don't tread on me. I got a pretty good deal on a new jacket, saw a lot of cool bikes, dropped some words of encouragement on a few Christian biker ministries, and listened to a couple of good bands. Not a bad afternoon, all in all.

Bike Week dominates the whole state of New Hampshire. It used to be Motorcycle Weekend, but now is two weekends and the week in between, and is dribbling over into the weeks on either end. It is reviled by many, but makes so much money for the state that it is accepted and even encouraged. The sound of rumbling motorcycles can be heard everywhere.

Last year, on the Monday after bike week, we were at work at the Moultonboro post office right off route 25. Suddenly, one of the clerks stopped and said, "Hey, wait! Hear that?"

We all stopped. "I don't hear anything," somebody finally said.

The clerk smiled. "Yea-a-ah," she said.

Translation: F--- you. Amen, sister.