I love Bike Week in Laconia, NH. It happens right around Father’s Day. I’m a New Hampshire resident, so it sort of sneaks up on me.
First, I begin noticing “Welcome, Bikers” signs. The Seventh-Day Adventist church puts, “God loves to listen to a biker’s prayers” on its message board. The beer banners appear on the convenience stores.
Then, motorcycles start appearing on the highways. Their license plates and bedrolls suggest miles traveled. Often, bareheaded riders carry helmets attached to the side of the seat, because their journey took them through states with helmet laws. Rainy days mean clusters of bikes under overpasses waiting out the worst of it, their riders standing and talking. The fine polished bikes that come in on trailers show up later.
The actual week arrives. Warm days bring convoys of attendees exploring our winding rural roads. The bikers ride with hands high on long handlebars, feet kicked forward, engines growling and sputtering, thinning hair blowing. Their girlfriends ride behind. Rarely, a mixed group goes by with women and men riding their own machines. I never see a boyfriend riding on the back of a woman’s bike.
Those who travel in groups of European and Japanese bikes, helmeted and clad in leather or cordura, would probably prefer to be called “riders.” Their bikes purr. The young men on road rockets with high whining engines, showing off with wheelies and bursts of speed, often dress in branded outfits that match their machines. I usually feel a combination of concern / annoyance because of the risks they take and amusement at their self-importance. Honestly, dressing like your bike is silly… \