The Race Of Gentlemen 2018

 

 

 

All race bikes had to be pre 1945 with period carbs, foot clutch/tank shifts, only OEM frames, forks, wheels, mechanical drum brakes,and period fasteners. Correct ignition systems/magnetos right down to plug wires was enforced in the list of acceptable parts. Even the tires had to be period or have period tread patterns. Keeping with the vintage appearance, paint had to reflect the early days of racing and all fenders had to be bobbed.The cars had to be 1934 or older bodies with the same OEM and era correct restrictions. Excited? You bet.

 

 

Planned events included Friday’s registration and tech inspection on Atlantic Avenue followed by ‘Night of the Troglodytes”, a 60’s and 70’s chopper bike show at the Binn’s Motel. Saturday’s events all took place on the beach with the “Customs By The Sea” car show during the day and a bonfire party happening after sundown. But this weekend was all about the racing and Saturday’s test and tune passes on the shore and Sunday’s punch the pedal, twist the wrist bracket races were sure to be the cat’s ass. The four of us bailed from our four wheeled detention center Friday at 3AM and snagged forty winks (okay, twelve winks). Standing on the motel balcony , I heard the unmistakable sound of 45 V-Twins and flathead V8s powering through the streets before I saw them. Berry was already doing his best impression of a 6 year old getting ready to go to the circus. I’ll just leave you with that visual.

 

 

Riding the 1200 miles to the event on my ‘50 and Berry’s ‘41 would have been the way to roll in but, when travelin’ with “the engine guy”, transportation of tools sometimes takes precedence over riding pleasure. This was one of those times. Billy Lane was racing his beautifully built ‘37 W complimented by an Accurate Engineering/Berry Wardlaw built engine and was still en route from Daytona. We had plenty of time to enjoy the gathering for registration and tech inspection before any race prep could begin. The pre-war cars, hotrods, gassers, knuckles, flatheads, Indians and even racing legends filled the street. Rattle-can paint job bikes that dot a traditional modern motorcycle rally were everywhere! Greasy, knock-the-rust-off racers were lined up next to fiery rat rods. Custom 4-bangers and belly tankers fell in next to growlin’, tank-shifting, obsolete sleds. Racing and customizing legend, Gene Whitfield, Aaron Kaufman, Rick Petko, Matt Walksler and a full range of talented builders, gear heads, speed junkies, and cats who just wanted to be a part of it all mingled til late afternoon. Can you have too much fun? Yep. Did it.

 

The “Night of the Troglodytes” party boasted 60’s and 70’s rides that recalled a time when long front ends ruled, lace paint jobs were the coolest, chrome was king, and bikers had tall sissy bar envy. Upswept pipes, bad ass graphics, and king/queen seats were all represented. Dave Perewitz hung out and accepted the girls’…I mean, the crowds’ affection. Set the time machine to 1972. Mission accomplished. But I was ready for the relative comfort of my motel. Billy and Warren Lane (a hugely talented builder in his own right) had rolled in from Florida with Fast Freddie (God Speed Racing). Tom Keefer (Franklin Church Choppers) and Rick Petko joined the mix and it was on. Racing, wrenching, and motor specs were all that was discussed in a mature manner. Um, I’m lying. I had a motel room full full of men that had just turned 14 years-old again with all of the adolescent enthusiasm that comes that age. Now, there’s a memorable evening…into morning. 

 

 

Saturday… Race Day! Well, test and tune day.  Cars for the Customs By The Sea car show, race cars and race bikes were the only vehicles allowed on the beach. They entered through a tunnel and were ushered to their respective areas starting about 7AM. No tool trucks or support vehicles allowed. Pedestrians walked the vast expanse of beach from the boardwalk to the racers area. We made the long, sandy, haul early, cruised through the gates, and arrived in heaven.

 

Pit passes were available to the general public and apparently the number sold was unlimited. The place was swamped. The staging area for the racers was confined behind a fence that saved them from the absolute chaos of hundreds who wanted to get up close and personal with the racers and their machines. Gritty, loud, and raw…perfect. Crowded and sketchy…not so perfect. In an attempt to shelter the racers from the madness, security manned all accesses to the shore. The problem was that a true mechanic’s pit pass was just the same as Joe Farmer from Iowa’s pit pass. True race team members Without an act of God or incredible luck, all were excluded from shore access. As a member of the press and standing at a demure 5 foot nothing, it meant creative photography, lens changes, and turning on whatever charm I had penetrate the 10 person deep mass that crowded the fence areas. Frustrating? Yup. Fun anyway? Hell, yeah.

 

 

Dead low tide was at 10:30 but the racing was well underway by then. Antique bikes and pre-war cars lined up two by two to be unleashed by “Flag Girl” Sara Francello. Sara added an unanticipated authenticity to the scene. She staged ‘em at the line and fired ‘em off with a jumping flag drop that she repeated throughout the weekend. Give that girl a beer! Pass after pass blasted down the beach as thousands of spectators perched on steep man-made sand dunes and pressed up against the fence cheered them on. It was all fun and games, until it wasn’t.

 

It was getting later in the day and the tide had been rising since dead low. By 3PM, the waves were lapping at the left boots of the racers in the far lane. Jeremiah Armenta (Love’s Cycles) pulled away from the line for another pass, went into a tank slapper, and high sided. A silent crowd looked on as he rode an ambulance stretcher off the beach. His was the last pass of the day as mother nature reclaimed the beach until Sunday.

 

 

A warm Saturday night, a cool ocean breeze, and a hundred and fifty of like minded gas and grease enthusiasts set the scene for the beach bonfire party. I remember a great live band and mind erasing alcohol consumed mostly in shots. Case in point, a midnight ride on a wooden roller coaster on the boardwalk in New Jersey followed by great friends and tales of tank-shifting on the sandy surface completed the night. My bucket list just got shorter.

 

 

We were licking our wounds on Sunday morning but anticipation overtook any lingering effects of the bonfire festivities. Bracket races awaited us on the shore. My alarm clock was the sound of Billy and Rick firing up their 45s and and heading to the tunnel entrance. Upon reaching the pit area entrance, we were denied access. WTF! Only racers were allowed beyond the gate…no pit crews, no support crews, no family, no press, no exceptions. Okay, 2 exceptions: hand picked members of the press (big hotrod magazine reps who had gotten unlimited access throughout the event) and one mechanic per racer. Berry waited patiently by the gate for Billy as each mechanic had to be escorted personally by the racer. People who had paid for pit access for the weekend were more than disappointed and calls for refunds were widely ignored by the staff as press and spectators joined the fray on in the already crowded viewing areas. I was angered at first but, reflecting on the previous day’s circus of bedlam and fervor, I totally got it. Maneuvering through ruts of deep, loose sand while riding a foot clutch without shooting out on the other side is a brutal dance. Avoiding folks who don’t understand that and walk directly in front of of you, is even more difficult. It was much better for the racers, but in the American racing tradition where family and support teams have always part of the fabric of a day on the track, a clear call for distinction of pit passes and a limit to the number of sold to spectators was well founded. As a result of Jeremiah’s sandy roll, helmets were now inspected for DOT approval. The scramble was on for many racers who followed the prior rules for authentic period appearance lids to secure headgear.

 

 

But the bracket racing was on. I spit out the bad taste in my mouth resulting from the new restrictions/exclusions, and hunted for a vantage point. The surface was groomed and the passes were fast. Racers were jamming through the gears and throwing up rooster tails. Although the sight of these antiques cracking open throttles and punching the pedals for all they were worth again and again was now common place, I found myself amazed and excited with each race. It was a truly fabulous sight and sound for any enthusiast whether they were familiar with the old bikes and cars or not. It was a great time, until it wasn’t.

 

 

Atsushi “Sushi” Yasui, a veteran TROG racer and winner of prior TROG events, made his pass and was really hooked up. Toward the end of his run, he washed out and rolled his bike. He was motionless on the sand and hurried off to hospital making the second ambulance trip of the weekend. Talk was that he might loose his eye and concerns were for his concussion. This crash shut down the races for the day and the whole event. Sarah would drop the checked flag no more. 

 

 

What a weekend. No big wheel baggers blaring music so loud that the devil himself would cover his ears. There were no LED lit late models with more money invested in chrome than I have invested in my 401K. No trailered cream puffs. I saw no “show me your tits” signs surrounded by testosterone impaired guys that go home with only chrome and breast pics on their iPhones. Babes were not the stars of this show and the testosterone was all focused on antique machines, speed, history, heritage, and twisting the throttle on the sand. In other words, life was as it should be.

 

 

In a strange twist, the future just might be saved by the past. Spectators rode in on mostly Harleys and Indians and there was only a small sampling of sport bikes. What grabbed my attention was the number of young guys that had gotten bikes that might otherwise have been forgotten and made them their own. They pounded metal in their garages sitting on milk crates. They took these projects from tired and neglected to refreshed and rolling. Their scooters were Harleys, old Triumphs, a few vintage BSAs, and a smattering of vintage Japanese bikes and were all personal attestations to their ingenuity and grit. They had the passion of us older garage builders that had to hammer metal to customize or repair our rides. Back then, only a Jammer catalogue had offerings for your bike that weren’t OEM. Those parts never fit right and we had no cash for them anyway. So we hammered, cut, and drilled our way to make our stuff run or simply stand out. This rediscovered passion and the promise of going fast has brought a whole new bunch of lambs into the fold. Old is cool. Rust is righteous. Greasy is acceptable. Welcome to the family.

 

 

But who won The Race of Gentlemen 2018? Well, everyone did…racers, exhibitors, spectators, everyone! Now, who won the battle on the sand? And then there were 2. Sushi and Jeremiah, both of whom were beat up and wearing their battle scars well, shared the winning laurels for the weekends events. They were bestowed the honor in their hospital digs and their picture with the TROG banner was shared by all racers and spectators alike. (I can’t publish the shot in this article as I haven’t yet received permission from TROG so here’s a link to their smilin’ mugs. https://www.instagram.com/p/Bj5KikXBHkB/ ) Wishing y’all a quick recovery. See ya next year.