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August
Bank holiday weekend, so while Sunday is not normally the best day
to go to a rally, this time it wouldn't be too bad - so  said
'Harley' Andy, who successfully managed to persuade me to go to
Shipley, rather than elsewhere that weekend. 'Sunday is the best
day,' he said, '… that's the real party day!' So, never having
been before, and going on a Sunday allowing me to bring such rally
going essentials as a red-headed sex pot that normally can't come
as she's working, I capitulated.
Before
you gain the campsite you ride through Baildon - a  charming
village on top of the Pennines outside Shipley in West Yorkshire.
Off the main drag, a wickedly steep hill pulls you up terrace lined
streets until, rounding a sharp left hander, you're suddenly in
Baildon village centre. We arrived at eleven-thirty
or so, and the centre was both bedlam and biker-heaven: Harleys
were parked quite literally everywhere. Crowds
thronged and  what
you could see of the street and the benches outside the visible
pubs were absolutely packed with bikers and locals alike. Strung
across the High Street was a banner 'Baildon Welcomes Harley-Davidson
Riders' - very Daytona, very welcome.
At
1pm exactly a toy run out was planned, so we rode straight through
the  village
to get to the actual rally site, pay up, get the tents up and get
back down to Baildon. That was an adventure in itself: just out
of the village limits, an extremely steep and rocky track led for
about half a mile over the top of a particularly high hill - which,
given it's altitude,  would
have qualified for mountain status elsewhere on the planet - but
cresting the summit, the gravel
and rocks gave way to much more confidence inspiring dodgy tarmac
and an easy run down to a dry stone wall-enclosed caravan park.
This was the rally proper, and as we pulled up the good people on
the gate charged us each a meagre £5, as we were only able
to do the Sunday. Finding sheltered pitches between the caravans
and ensuring easy walking distance to the beer tent - as well as
the stone built showers, toilets and café - the tents  went
up, and we fired up the bikes to get back into town.
The
sun was blazing and we parked up to partake of a very quick pint
at the Malt Shovel. And it was going to have to be a very quick
pint, because while we were being served, engines began to fire
up outside: the
run was about to start and we were on our own. The
landlady and bar staff ran past us -  as
did the locals - eager to see the spectacle. Necking
our beers in seconds flat, we flew back outside, donning helmets
as we went and firing up our still-warm machines, joined in the
run out.
Never
before have I witnessed such genuine affection for bikers. Seemingly
and quite possibly, the entire village lined the streets, waving
flags, clapping, cheering and loving every minute.  I
wasn't to know at the time, but this Harley rally, the Shipley Harley
Rally, has happened up in Baildon for fifty-one years. It's a much
anticipated annual event, not only for the visiting riders but also
the local residents who, unlike most  people
over the Bank Holiday, deliberately stay at home.
Why?
Because
it's loads more fun at home.
Andy
told lurid tales of conquest, local girls, whisked up to the site
for the evening and staying the night. Local men in their late forties,
early
fifties who couldn't dream of being anywhere else, never thinking
of going anywhere else, not THIS weekend.
On
learning a couple or so months back,  that
the Harley rally was to be moved elsewhere, the locals were genuinely
distraught: it was like somebody cancelling New Year's Eve. However
enough of the old school Harley
lads, and in particular  The
Harley Wrecking Crew Europe, felt that a Harley rally should stay
in Baildon over the Bank Holiday, and planned this more or less
'unofficial' get-together. Luckily enough, other Harley riders felt
the same way too and chose to come too … not just from all
over Britain, but I bumped into Irish and Dutch too: tradition IS
important,
And
hundreds did come, the line of bikes, two-abreast, stretched a good
 quarter
mile in both directions from where I was riding. It could have been
much longer; I just was unable to see any further. Even outside
of Baildon the people waved and kept waving the 40 or so miles to
our destination. At one point the run had to ride onto the motorway
where, to my astonishment, police motorcycles were holding the traffic
back so that the Harleys could burst onto the motorway and stay
together.  You
don't often get a chance to share an otherwise deserted motorway
with hundreds of other Harleys … we made the most of it, spreading
out over all three lanes, tanking along six or seven abreast: brilliant,
and one up to the police.
A
Steam Fair was the final destination, where the run was due to parade
and
hand over all the toys. With an hour or so to spare, we
wandered around gawping at gargantuan traction engines, argued over
who was going on the  merry
go round and scratched our heads over the bizarre dog carts. A
small classic bike show featured a stunning Indian and an American
made all-terrain bike called a Rokon, which featured hollow wheels
you could fill with petrol or water, or leave empty which then enabled
the machine to float on its side. Powered
by a  chainsaw
motor, the machine was designed to get just about anywhere and
was
rumoured to actually try
climbing brick walls. When the call came over the tannoy for the
riders to return to our bikes, we opted to hand our toys to other
riders and make a break for the site instead. Parading is really
not my thing … and we were getting thirsty.
 Back
in Baildon we found a table outside the Malt Shovel that we could
just about squeeze onto, had a beer and yapped contentedly to the
locals before saddling up and heading back to site. We
needed food badly and the airbeds still needed filling before sundown.
As
promised, the partying Sunday night was bloody
excellent, a Scots outfit called Men in Skirts provided a damn good
rock show; the
disco knew what to play; people danced and beer - a lot of beer
-  got
drunk. Wandering around like a lost soul at 4.30 in the
morning after a (very) late night curry in the café, I went
back into the beer tent. Okay
the disco guy was finally packing up, but the bar was still open!
Respect to that.
I
may well have never been to the 'Shipley' rally before, but I can
definitely say it will not be the last. My only regret was that
I hadn't been there since the Friday - something I shall definitely
put right next time.
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