 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
Every time I have a plan to get outta town at a set time, I can plan to leave six hours later. A little after four o’clock on
Monday, the second day of a bike shop weekend, Romeo is loaded, lubed and freshly tuned. As I slip my shades into my
Shoei, a nice lady pulls up and begins asking if she can pick up her husbands’ bike if it’s ready. “looks like you’re ready to
pull out, where ya goin?” After I quickly run down the route that will lead me through a bit over two thousand miles of the
South East, the reply is “on that?” motioning to my faithful ’78 Cb750k. I chuckle and ask her to check back next week and
put my lid back on. It’ll take about three hundred miles for this and many other conversations to fade.
There’s something about six hundred miles into a trip that’s way past Memphis that begs bar-b-que. I try to stay away from
chain restaurants and toll roads when I get to see a bit of our great country and I saw Loretta’s exit and just couldn’t pass it
up. As I idled up to the giant, shiny resin buffalo and read the neon guitar topped sign for her buffet restaurant I passed
through a cloud of smoke coming from a tiny smokehouse BBQ joint on the roadside. I idle around the back of their gravel
driveway where a couple of fella’s are chain sawing away at a trailer of hickory strips. I wave, they nod and I go back out
front for a pulled pork sandwich that I enjoy in the shade of their back porch before pushing on to the Blue Ridge Parkway.
Riding through Pigeon Forge took me down some of the most smooth and picturesque two lane roads winding along a
peaceful stream with paved photogenic pull-off areas. Every little while, you get to a small settlement that looks more like
a Florida miniature golf course with things like the “upside-down restaurant” or the Titanic, complete with iceberg halfway
embedded in the buildings side. “We’d like a table in steerage near the iceberg please” After a diner brunch and a
roadside dalliance I found my way to Maggie Valley, NC and the Holiday Motel, a campy kitsch 60’s era motel just down
the road from the Wheels Through Time museum. This little place is so motorcycle friendly that there is a ramp to get your
bike onto the walkway in front of your room as well as a towel on your seat before you pack up in the morning. As I was
pulling into the lot, I was immediately greeted by Gentleman Jim Petty and his pristine 1952 HD. He told me the guys were
gathering at the museum, so I emptied Romeo and rolled on down the tree lined mountain town main street.
Once I pulled into a line of vintage bikes and riders setting up camp next to a picturesque stream in front of the wheels
through time museum, I was greeted by the great staff and welcomed to the museum. Just after that I bumped into Buzz.
‘Hey Shoe, Lets go for a test ride. What are you on?”, soon after Dale had the clutch issues of Buzz’ 1936 HD well in hand.
It wouldn’t be long before I was chasing them down the Blue Ridge Parkway. Dinner was called at the grill in front and Matt,
the Son at WTT, was cutting do-nuts through the grass near the picnic area on a bike nearly as old as my home state.
An early breakfast with the guys, a photo set for the sponsors, some last minute check-ups and the Motorcycle Kickstart
Classic was underway. I quickly find myself flanked by Bert Baker on his Indian Larry chopper, Jim on his mint panhead
and Steve Lita on the long haul single Royal Enfield he rode from Connecticut with RB staffers Matt and Tyler. The
cacophony of noisily burned oil and clutches pulled my old Cb and I into the most fun I’ve had in years. Bert drops the
hammer on his end-loader sized shovel and Matt is in hot pursuit, one hand twisting timing the other the throttle and runs
him down on his period perfect 1930’s HD. Right on their tail was Dale on the Gas Hog complete with bearskin fur-on
gloves and stogie clamped in his teeth alongside Jim on an extended fork shovelhead. Old bikes and great roads leading
me to Panhead City in Rome Georgia, it’s gonna be a great day.
On one side is a Norton, the other a 1956 Enfield, and more Knuckeheads, Panheads and just odd old stuff than I could
count. All of them oily, hot and smelling of fuel, except Jim’s pan which is still eerily clean. It’s a great sight to see when we
assembled for a few door prizes handed out by the voluminous Bert Baker and Buzz Kanter. Panhead City was a great
stop, half museum, half vintage Harley bike shop. It’s exactly what you want to see with a name like Panhead City. They
provided more BBQ, cold drinks and great conversation. This was followed by more fellowship near the hotel and a paper
hat at Steak and Shake. What? You don't ask for the hat? Life's too short to be too cool.
Another early breakfast came exactly like it sounds, another early start on a crisp morning. I’m going to have to sleep in a
few mornings to make up for this vacation. We assemble at Panhead City and roar off through the trees on more great
roads for an easy run to Barber for the Vintage Festival with a couple of fuel stops and one BBQ spot invasion that looked
a bit like an oily flash-mob.
We file into Barber for a VIP welcome complete with a greeting from Mr. Barber inviting us to enjoy the facilities and full
weekend schedule of races and attractions. Everyone quickly melted into the yaw of more than 50,000 vintage bikes and
spectators. If you ever wanted to see, touch, smell one of the hero bikes of your youth, you shouldn’t miss this. I loved up a
TZ750, a Rickman Matisse KZ1000, a Spondon CBX , more than I can list here, parked around the roadside surrounding
the two mile plus race track. When you are deciding if you really need another photo of a Vincent, there is a lot really cool
iron in the lot.
I putted Romeo into the paddock with Dale and his crew from Wheels Through Time where they had the 1911 Indian that
he would ride tomorrow. Dale battled the field of one hundred year plus year old racer bikes including a Triumph, clamped
jawed stogie marking his progress to a second place finish in the century race. The swap meet had three of everything for
the vintage bike geek. Racers, replica’s and piles of what the casual passerby would mistake for a recycling drive was
there to paw and purchase. If you really want to purchase you have to visit the auction that had a warehouse full of period
perfect motorcycles, no matter your period. One lucky buyer got lucky enough to get his hands on a 1978 Yoshimura
GS1000 that was never used. It got used later the same day for about a lap and a half before a sneaky low-side put it and
its newly un-happy owner pin wheeling across the apex of the s curve coming out of the Alabama Roller Coaster. A little bit
later I watched my college age hero, Kevin Schwantz conduct a riding clinic on his drum brake clad Norton Manx. He put it
on a field of bikes including much later model superbikes. You just can’t see things like this anywhere. Just like the last
time I got a chance to get a picture with him in 1988 at Nurburg Ring where he won on his 500cc GP smoker. I had a dead
camera, luckily, he was patient and friendly kept coming back to his Norton to get a pic when I finally got my phone and a
bystander to work it to snap a shot. “oh, Kev, please, just one more thing, can you sign, my lid,,and my shirt,,and”…..
When the side-hacks took to the track on Sunday morning they were wiping raindrops off of their visors and hand rails. A
good grip is essential to the passenger in this class. If you’ve never seen these folks, fathers, daughters, husbands and
wives included, hustle their way around a great course, it’s worth the price of admission. The CB160 class was so big,
over 20 racers, that they ran the course alone in their class. If you ever wanted to get into a fun, family style of racing, this is
the place to start. Just do a quick search of the CB racers and the AHRMA website and hit a yard sale to find your next
racer for less than you’ll spend on leathers. They were followed by the 360’s and the TZ two-strokes. Billy Hammil put it on
the field in a big way in every class he rode his trusty Honda’s in. I soak in the last of the bean oil jet stream wafting up the
hillside where I could fully view 60% of the course and start planning my nearly 750 mile run home to Oklahoma. While
taking in the vintage dirt class, I allow myself one more pause at the auction, another pass through the swap meet, then a
short stop in the paddock to haunt Kevin again, sorry man, I’m a fan.
Idling out of the still perfectly clean and manicured grounds of Barber, I am already making plans for next year. I’ve got to
get my cb360 here to race, make camping arrangements, bring some food, save enough money to get into the museum,
get my tickets in advance and plan a couple of extra days to enjoy the scenery. If you were ever a fan of motorcycle racing,
longed for a special bike you saw when you were a kid or want something more from a moto-centric getaway than a sea
of late model baggers standing in the sun comparing each others new grips, you owe it to yourself to come to the Barber
Vintage Festival. I click Romeo into gear and pull onto the exit road as a new American sport tourer Motus, one of two
here this weekend, rumbles by me. A flutter goes through me as he throttles up the big v-four. You just can’t see this
anywhere else. Shield down, tunes up and bring on the roar of the four that will push me home without worry.
Get out and ride.
shoe
Monday, the second day of a bike shop weekend, Romeo is loaded, lubed and freshly tuned. As I slip my shades into my
Shoei, a nice lady pulls up and begins asking if she can pick up her husbands’ bike if it’s ready. “looks like you’re ready to
pull out, where ya goin?” After I quickly run down the route that will lead me through a bit over two thousand miles of the
South East, the reply is “on that?” motioning to my faithful ’78 Cb750k. I chuckle and ask her to check back next week and
put my lid back on. It’ll take about three hundred miles for this and many other conversations to fade.
There’s something about six hundred miles into a trip that’s way past Memphis that begs bar-b-que. I try to stay away from
chain restaurants and toll roads when I get to see a bit of our great country and I saw Loretta’s exit and just couldn’t pass it
up. As I idled up to the giant, shiny resin buffalo and read the neon guitar topped sign for her buffet restaurant I passed
through a cloud of smoke coming from a tiny smokehouse BBQ joint on the roadside. I idle around the back of their gravel
driveway where a couple of fella’s are chain sawing away at a trailer of hickory strips. I wave, they nod and I go back out
front for a pulled pork sandwich that I enjoy in the shade of their back porch before pushing on to the Blue Ridge Parkway.
Riding through Pigeon Forge took me down some of the most smooth and picturesque two lane roads winding along a
peaceful stream with paved photogenic pull-off areas. Every little while, you get to a small settlement that looks more like
a Florida miniature golf course with things like the “upside-down restaurant” or the Titanic, complete with iceberg halfway
embedded in the buildings side. “We’d like a table in steerage near the iceberg please” After a diner brunch and a
roadside dalliance I found my way to Maggie Valley, NC and the Holiday Motel, a campy kitsch 60’s era motel just down
the road from the Wheels Through Time museum. This little place is so motorcycle friendly that there is a ramp to get your
bike onto the walkway in front of your room as well as a towel on your seat before you pack up in the morning. As I was
pulling into the lot, I was immediately greeted by Gentleman Jim Petty and his pristine 1952 HD. He told me the guys were
gathering at the museum, so I emptied Romeo and rolled on down the tree lined mountain town main street.
Once I pulled into a line of vintage bikes and riders setting up camp next to a picturesque stream in front of the wheels
through time museum, I was greeted by the great staff and welcomed to the museum. Just after that I bumped into Buzz.
‘Hey Shoe, Lets go for a test ride. What are you on?”, soon after Dale had the clutch issues of Buzz’ 1936 HD well in hand.
It wouldn’t be long before I was chasing them down the Blue Ridge Parkway. Dinner was called at the grill in front and Matt,
the Son at WTT, was cutting do-nuts through the grass near the picnic area on a bike nearly as old as my home state.
An early breakfast with the guys, a photo set for the sponsors, some last minute check-ups and the Motorcycle Kickstart
Classic was underway. I quickly find myself flanked by Bert Baker on his Indian Larry chopper, Jim on his mint panhead
and Steve Lita on the long haul single Royal Enfield he rode from Connecticut with RB staffers Matt and Tyler. The
cacophony of noisily burned oil and clutches pulled my old Cb and I into the most fun I’ve had in years. Bert drops the
hammer on his end-loader sized shovel and Matt is in hot pursuit, one hand twisting timing the other the throttle and runs
him down on his period perfect 1930’s HD. Right on their tail was Dale on the Gas Hog complete with bearskin fur-on
gloves and stogie clamped in his teeth alongside Jim on an extended fork shovelhead. Old bikes and great roads leading
me to Panhead City in Rome Georgia, it’s gonna be a great day.
On one side is a Norton, the other a 1956 Enfield, and more Knuckeheads, Panheads and just odd old stuff than I could
count. All of them oily, hot and smelling of fuel, except Jim’s pan which is still eerily clean. It’s a great sight to see when we
assembled for a few door prizes handed out by the voluminous Bert Baker and Buzz Kanter. Panhead City was a great
stop, half museum, half vintage Harley bike shop. It’s exactly what you want to see with a name like Panhead City. They
provided more BBQ, cold drinks and great conversation. This was followed by more fellowship near the hotel and a paper
hat at Steak and Shake. What? You don't ask for the hat? Life's too short to be too cool.
Another early breakfast came exactly like it sounds, another early start on a crisp morning. I’m going to have to sleep in a
few mornings to make up for this vacation. We assemble at Panhead City and roar off through the trees on more great
roads for an easy run to Barber for the Vintage Festival with a couple of fuel stops and one BBQ spot invasion that looked
a bit like an oily flash-mob.
We file into Barber for a VIP welcome complete with a greeting from Mr. Barber inviting us to enjoy the facilities and full
weekend schedule of races and attractions. Everyone quickly melted into the yaw of more than 50,000 vintage bikes and
spectators. If you ever wanted to see, touch, smell one of the hero bikes of your youth, you shouldn’t miss this. I loved up a
TZ750, a Rickman Matisse KZ1000, a Spondon CBX , more than I can list here, parked around the roadside surrounding
the two mile plus race track. When you are deciding if you really need another photo of a Vincent, there is a lot really cool
iron in the lot.
I putted Romeo into the paddock with Dale and his crew from Wheels Through Time where they had the 1911 Indian that
he would ride tomorrow. Dale battled the field of one hundred year plus year old racer bikes including a Triumph, clamped
jawed stogie marking his progress to a second place finish in the century race. The swap meet had three of everything for
the vintage bike geek. Racers, replica’s and piles of what the casual passerby would mistake for a recycling drive was
there to paw and purchase. If you really want to purchase you have to visit the auction that had a warehouse full of period
perfect motorcycles, no matter your period. One lucky buyer got lucky enough to get his hands on a 1978 Yoshimura
GS1000 that was never used. It got used later the same day for about a lap and a half before a sneaky low-side put it and
its newly un-happy owner pin wheeling across the apex of the s curve coming out of the Alabama Roller Coaster. A little bit
later I watched my college age hero, Kevin Schwantz conduct a riding clinic on his drum brake clad Norton Manx. He put it
on a field of bikes including much later model superbikes. You just can’t see things like this anywhere. Just like the last
time I got a chance to get a picture with him in 1988 at Nurburg Ring where he won on his 500cc GP smoker. I had a dead
camera, luckily, he was patient and friendly kept coming back to his Norton to get a pic when I finally got my phone and a
bystander to work it to snap a shot. “oh, Kev, please, just one more thing, can you sign, my lid,,and my shirt,,and”…..
When the side-hacks took to the track on Sunday morning they were wiping raindrops off of their visors and hand rails. A
good grip is essential to the passenger in this class. If you’ve never seen these folks, fathers, daughters, husbands and
wives included, hustle their way around a great course, it’s worth the price of admission. The CB160 class was so big,
over 20 racers, that they ran the course alone in their class. If you ever wanted to get into a fun, family style of racing, this is
the place to start. Just do a quick search of the CB racers and the AHRMA website and hit a yard sale to find your next
racer for less than you’ll spend on leathers. They were followed by the 360’s and the TZ two-strokes. Billy Hammil put it on
the field in a big way in every class he rode his trusty Honda’s in. I soak in the last of the bean oil jet stream wafting up the
hillside where I could fully view 60% of the course and start planning my nearly 750 mile run home to Oklahoma. While
taking in the vintage dirt class, I allow myself one more pause at the auction, another pass through the swap meet, then a
short stop in the paddock to haunt Kevin again, sorry man, I’m a fan.
Idling out of the still perfectly clean and manicured grounds of Barber, I am already making plans for next year. I’ve got to
get my cb360 here to race, make camping arrangements, bring some food, save enough money to get into the museum,
get my tickets in advance and plan a couple of extra days to enjoy the scenery. If you were ever a fan of motorcycle racing,
longed for a special bike you saw when you were a kid or want something more from a moto-centric getaway than a sea
of late model baggers standing in the sun comparing each others new grips, you owe it to yourself to come to the Barber
Vintage Festival. I click Romeo into gear and pull onto the exit road as a new American sport tourer Motus, one of two
here this weekend, rumbles by me. A flutter goes through me as he throttles up the big v-four. You just can’t see this
anywhere else. Shield down, tunes up and bring on the roar of the four that will push me home without worry.
Get out and ride.
shoe
