Holeshot
This Sunday is the annual vintage motorcycle show/barbecue/party and general good time.
There will be a test. Attendance is mandatory.
Did I mention there will be free beer?
Photos by Jason
I rode with Jason and Maqui in Jason’s ratmobile to Carlstadt New Jersey to pick up as many cases of Ashai beer as would fit in the the cargo hold. Jaon told me he was picking up Maqui in front of Works Engineering — the motorcycle garage that’s hosting the show — at 1 PM and told me to meet him there. He was fashionable late, however, and didn’t arrive until about 2. Maqui, who I had not met before, was there on time, sitting in a folding chair in front of the garage, juggling her laptop and iPhone, trying to get ahold of various vendors and sponsors. I introduced myself and pulled up a folding chair next to her. Erik, owner of Works Engineering, was there, too. He was rolling his eight year old son up and down the street in a handtruck. His son was wearing his father’s motorcycle boots and helmet, and was strapped in with greasy blue tie-downs.
While sitting there, a shirtless old man rode up on a rickety bicycle decorated with dingy plastic flowers and asked in a creaky northern european accent if he could borrow a wrench. He wiggled his front wheel to show us what he needed it for. “Ask the guy over there,” I said, pointing to Erik.
The guy looked at Erik, who was at the moment rolling his son up and over a skateboard ramp that someone had built against the building.
“Just need it for a moment” the man said.
“I understand,” I said, “but you need to ask him.”
He became obviously frustrated that I wasn’t more accommodating and seemed to think I was giving him the run around.
“Can’t you get me one?” he pleaded. “Just a wrench, for just one minute.”
“This isn’t my garage, I don’t work here,” I said. “Ask him, I’m sure he will help you.”
A minute or two later, Erik rolled his son over to us and listened as the old man explained his problem. Erik unstrapped his son from the hand truck and went about helping the old guy out.
Erik’s son followed his father into the garage and came back out on a skateboard. He was a little unsteady on it and held onto the arm of my folding chair, as he rolled back and forth. “Can you skateboard?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Do you have a skateboard?”
It seemed a funny question to ask. If I didn’t skateboard, why would I own one? But I do.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you ride it?”
“Because I’m no good at it, and these days I’m liable to break an arm if not my neck.”
“Wat color is it?” he asked.
“It has a drawing of sharks on the bottom, It’s kind of gold and gray and white.”
“Can I have it?”
I actually considered it for a moment. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Just because.”
Eventually, Jason rolled up in his van, Maqui and I piled in, and we headed to the Ashai beer warehouse in New Jersey.
“Can you thread the needle?” Jason asked the forklift operator who drove out of the warehouse with a full palette of beer. Jason was hoping the operator could load the palette directly into the back of the van, which would’ve made our the job a cinch, but the operator just laughed, shook his head and said, “No, no. I put here,” he said, and we went about the job of moving the cases one by one.
Once we finished the job, and other warehouse worker came out to see what we were up to. Jason gave him a flier and said, “Motorcycle show. Do you ever go to New York?”
“Sure, sure.” he nodded, looking at the flier.
“Free beer,” he said.
The guy looked up from the flier and into the packed van.
“Vintage motorcycles, live music, free beer, pretty girls, you can’t go wrong.”
“I like to go, but this weekend no good. I go to Hushypahk.”
“Hushypahk?” I said.
“Hushypahk, Hushypahk,” he said.
“Oh, Hershey Park.”
“Yes, Hushypahk. I have resuhvashun.”
“Well cancel it,” said Jason. “You can go to Hershey Park some other time.”
“No, no. I have resuhvashun inside in Hushypahk.”
“The hotel is inside the park?” I said.
“Yes, yes. Inside park.”
“Family vacation. Hotel in Hushypahk. Three hundred fifty dollah.”
“Three fifty bucks? Per night?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Holy smokes.”
He returned his attention to the flier.
“Oh well, family is family,” said Jason. “Maybe next year.”
“Next year, yes, next year.”
By the way, I love Jason’s van. He bought it for 500 bucks to take his vintage dirk bike on a trail ride in New Jersey. The New Jersey trip didn’t work out quite as he had hoped, for a variety of reasons, but regardless, I think he’s more than gotten his 500 dollars out of it. Come to think of it, I think he had to put a couple of hundred dollars worth of repair into it, but still. He told me he drove it to a Pep Boys to buy some oil or something like that, and one of the mechanics came running out of the garage. “Nice van,” the mechanic said. “How much you want for it?”
“I told him I’d think about it,” Jason said. “But I’m probably going to take his offer.”
