It was sometime in August that I first saw a flyer for the Haycock Bikefest, a fund-raiser run by the Haycock Fire Company. The flyer, which advertised bike games, tattooing, and body piercing, was done in a sinister style which conjured up images of boozy outlaws getting their genitals tattoed while their old ladies get their nipples pierced in the next tent. Definitely worth checking out, I thought, so I contacted my buddy Mic (pronounced "Mick") and asked him if he wanted to ride out with me.

On Sunday morning, September 22, I meet Mic at a local diner, then we head over to the bikefest, which is on Route 212 in Springtown, PA, about a half-hour ride from my house in Harleysville. Because it's on a Sunday, it starts and ends early; 9:00 AM to 6:00 PM. We get there around 11:00 AM, and a sea of bikes is already beginning to form in the field which serves as the parking lot.

I'm not even off my bike when an older guy with a beat-up CB-650 asks about my jacket, a nylon mesh contraption with armor inside covering the joints. It's a great summer jacket--the wind goes right through it, like it's not even there. Plus, it's very low-key; basic black, no fancy graphics or loud racing-colors.

"I've gone down once before wearing just a T-shirt," I tell him, "and I'm not in a hurry to do it again."

The guy nods. Not to be outdone, he says, "I hit a deer once. Killed the deer, bent up my crash bars, and broke my toe, but I didn't drop the bike."

"You're lucky to have gotten off with a broken toe," I say. "Deer kill people."

"I know," he replies. "When I hit it, I went over to the side so low I broke a turn signal, but I got her back up."

"How the hell did you do that?"

"I have no idea," the guy replies. I don't even remember doing it--a lady who saw the whole thing told me afterward. I didn't believe it myself until I saw the broken turn signal."

"Damn incredible story."

"Yup. Well, enjoy the fest."

"Sure will. You too."

The Haycock Bikefest is held on the Silver Creek Athletic Association's many acres of empty fields. On one side is the sea of parked bikes. In the center are crowds of people milling around the vendor tents. The Flamin' Harry Band is playing old-timey rock & roll on a stage off to the side; the music from the far-off PA mixes with the revving and booming of Harley motors from the steady stream of new arrivals. The sun is hot, and the air is humid.

All of the area Harley dealers and bike shops have tents set up; there are also a few parts vendors and aftermarket frame manufacturers. All around me in the crowd are the familiar faces of the local motorcycle luminaries--dealers and head mechanics, fabricators and tuners.

Harleysville Cycle has a tent set up--that's the shop where I get all my parts. Dave poses for me on a softail chopper that his mechanic Brian built for him--it took first place in its class at the Easyriders bike show this year.

Most of the bikes in the Heycock show are the yuppie customs that I've become accustomed to seeing--late-model stockers laden with billet jewelry and $3000 paint-jobs, but nothing radical or different. However, there are a few exceptions to the rule.

This ratty '67 Triumph chopper has a T120 bottom end, a TR6 top end, Columbus Springer forks, and a Joe Hunt magneto. The owner says this bike's his daily rider. He explains why he stripped the Lucas electricals by telling a few Prince of Darkness stories--I've heard similar horror stories from everyone who's ever owned an old Brit bike.

Suddenly, the band stops playing and the MC gives the PA over to someone from a thing called the Christian Motorcyclists' Association. "If Jesus were alive today," the guy says with utmost seriousness, "he would ride a hog. Jesus wasn't one to hang out with hypocrites, so I know he'd be riding right alongside decent folks like you and me on his Harley!"

Yes! Did you hear that? Jesus rides a Harley! Who could possibly argue with that logic? Not me--I wouldn't even try.

"When I had my bike accident," the guy continues, "the EMTs were on the scene in minutes. They even knew my name. It was very relaxing laying there, having people who knew me scraping me up off the ground. So won't you all join me in a special prayer for our firemen, EMTs, and emergency personnel!"

Everyone gathers around a huge quilt for the 9/11 victims which is spread out on the ground. They bow their heads solemnly as the CMA man leads them in prayer. Off to one side is a small group of sad-looking men standing in a circle, hands linked, heads down, mourning some private tragedy of their own.

And what am I doing during all this? Why, I'm snapping photos, of course. Nothing grabs attention like other peoples' pain--the full story, yes, in every gritty detail. I'm new to this journalism thing; stalking around with a camera and a notebook makes me feel like a cross between a voyeur and a parasite, but then, we are a voyeuristic society, are we not? 250 million reality-TV fans can't be wrong.

Then a bagpipe starts up with a honk, like someone's stepped on a duck, but it picks up steam fast, accelerating into a mournful, haunting dirge. The piper plays with a lot of heart; he's a big man dressed in full regalia, right down to the kilt and ceremonial dagger.

I talk to the piper after he finishes playing. His name is Tim Bennett, and he's a cop from Warrington township. He first fell in love with the bagpipes when he heard a piper at some police function play Amazing Grace. "The hairs on the back of my neck stood up," he says, "and I knew I had to learn to play the bagpipes."

The solemnities over with, the party resumes, and Mic and I are looking for something to do. Contrary to what the flyer would have you believe, the Haycock Bikefest is good, clean fun for the whole family--which is a fine thing, I'm sure, if you have a family. I don't, and neither does Mic. If you like your fun bad and dirty, or even drunk and naked, you're clearly in the wrong place.

"These family-oriented events are nice," I say, "but they're hell on my coverage. What am I supposed to write about? We need more debauchery. A little public fornication would be nice."

"Then you should have gone to the Reading Motorcycle Club rally in Oley," Mic says. "It's supposed to be pretty wild."

"A lot of the biker rallies are becoming like this now," I reply. "I hear that at Sturgis, they're locking women up for flashing their tits."

"Laconia, too," says Mic. "They're cracking down on the flashers at all the major rallies."

"Are tits such a big threat to the established order? Does every goddamn thing on earth have to be safe for children? These are biker rallies, for chrissakes, not Disney World."

"It's good for the bottom line," Mic says. "It's just a fact that families spend more money."

We walk around the parking area looking for interesting bikes. Most of the bikes are stockers, but there are a few gems here and there.

Keeping this Panhead chop in such beautiful condition is a labor of love. So is starting the sonumbitch--the owner is shown here, kicking his brains out while his wife looks on.

This old Beemer was sitting in the parking lot--not flashy, but it's good to see the old bikes still running.

This old Harley flathead is another beautiful restoration job.

This chopper was built around an air-cooled Honda inline-four--very nicely done. Everything is chromed out, including the velocity stacks on the four carbs. I couldn't find the owner to ask, but I'm guessing the frame is probably from AMEN, which used to make hardtail frames for these motors 30 years ago.

This is a very traditional Ironhead chop--not flashy, just nicely done.

Off in the corner were these old bicycles, obviously influenced by the chopper styles of the day.

There is no tattooing or body piercing in evidence, so Mic and I wrap it up around 4:00, and that's it for the Haycock Bikefest. I'll probably go back again next year, but this time, with lower expectations.

Peace,
-Rev. J.