Welsh National Motorcycle Show, 2002
Words: Andy Hornsby
Pics: Andy Hornsby & Derek Grimshaw

Royal Welsh Showground,
Builth Wells, Powys, Wales
31 May - 3rd June 2002

I don't really know when it was that I changed from looking forward to the bigger events, to becoming resigned to the noise and lack of sleep that often goes along with them.

It could have been the attitude of an over-zealous member of the hosting club at an event billed as the fourth, when it was considered to be the first, as he demanded the film from my camera in the misguided belief that he might have been crossing the frame when I took a shot. It might have been a run-in with a visiting American club a few years ago when I had the audacity to fly a hammer and sickle from my Russian-made motorbike and sidecar. It could just as easily have been the incessant revving of tuned sportsbike engines at four in the morning, and I've never been so glad to hear a bottom-end let go as I was at a custom show in the north-east a couple of years ago when a GPZ900 - I believe it was - did the honours, to the joy of fellow would-be sleepers. They all left a bad taste in the mouth, and took some of the shine off.

It also, though, might just have been the realisation that it didn't have to be like that, and that came about a good number of years ago when I first went to the Welsh National Motorcycle Show at Builth Wells, slap-bang in the heart of Wales. It was great then, to share the company of like-minded folk in relatively small numbers, and the atmosphere was laid back almost to the point of being comatose. It couldn't stay small - especially not when you tell people how good it was - but thankfully the increase in numbers, year-on-year, haven't spoilt that underlying friendliness.

Much maligned by those who've never been, Wales is one of the few places in Britain where a motorway network hasn't "improved" the road system, and the run to the Welsh National Showground sets the mood for the weekend, regardless of which direction you come from. Twisting roads through lush, verdant hillsides, or along valleys dotted with unpronounceable villages suit any sort of bike - providing you've got a decent fuel range in your tank - and a general lack of police presence or speed cameras except in genuine blackspots allow you to exercise your own discretion.

This year's run in was to prove no different until no more then six miles outside the event, the ignition switch that had been occasionally cutting out - and incorrectly attributed by me to a dry joint - cut out for good. Bummer. On a blind bend. Double bummer. In an area where mobile phone coverage is patchy at best. We sent our running mates on ahead to establish camp, and resigned ourselves to waiting for the man who can to arrive, while exploring various options that were getting more tenuous with every airing. Just at the point where it could get no worse, we met an AA man who really wanted to help and who knew his stuff. Noting that the lights were still switching even though the ignition wasn't, he bridged the switched but as-yet un-fused lighting feed to the un-fused ignition feed, and hey presto! The ignition worked and was switchable! I could've kissed him. Marie did.

And so it was we managed to arrive under our own steam, just as Dave and Derek were working out how to resolve the situation, and spent the rest of the weekend accepting the apologies of those who'd passed us on their way in, but too late, and on too dodgy a bend to stop safely and do much about it.

The campsite at the show is massive. It could hold twice as many people easily without being crowded, and the result was that people spread out and made the most of the space. Criss-crossed by single-track tarmac roads, that belied its main use as an agricultural showground, and with brick-built toilet and shower blocks, it has everything you could ask for in a site. Bizarrely, even though it is bigger every year than the previous, we always end up camping next to the same people as before. And that's part of the atmosphere: you're at home the first time you stick your head out of the tent - always assuming you get that far without a familiar voice behind explaining how you should be doing it.

Tent up, it's a good time to check out where everything is this year. More and more of the big breezeblock and steel buildings are opened up to house different things, not least the custom show - one of the first of the year - and the bar/stage area which has got to be one of the biggest on the circuit: a long way from the wooden hut on the hill that did the job for our first two years there. And as if that isn't already more than big enough to house attendant masses, a neighbouring building was laid on as a Blues bar, banging out a different generation of music to a sizeable crowd. No sign of a rave tent, which I have to admit suited me down to the ground, but then I'm just an old-fashioned boy at heart.

The main thoroughfare between the buildings took on the aspect of a main street, lined with fast food and the occasional stand, before opening up into the main show arena, bordered with the majority of the stalls selling anything from fresh fruit to feather boas. Off to one side in a barn was an indoor - obviously - mini-moto track, and those stands that needed a firmer base, and more reliable weatherproofing like the autojumblers, accessories outlets and The Magazine Man's specialist newsagents. All-in-all a busy scene, but still laid back despite the numbers of people milling about. In previous years, the show arena had been heavily used, but this time the tarmac between it and the showing paddock was in use for the MCN Stunt Show. Thta proved so popular that I couldn't get through the crowds to see it, so I sat on the grass and chatted to old and new friends.

The show itself was the first outing for the Trike Shop's amazing V-Rod trike: all polished aluminium and detailed engineering, as well as a few others that have been taking the silverware at later shows of the season. There was something of a debacle regarding the judging, allied to unreasonable pressure from persons unnamed who saw their main chance for honours walk out as other bikes were ridden in. It's a lonely job being a solo judge and I didn't envy Bikersweb's Matt Black this one: one person's tastes and opinion, and an easy target for the aggrieved - and it's perhaps the right time for the classes to be reviewed to reflect the changing face of modified motorcycles, but ne'er mind, eh? It's not the major reason for this event, and has unfortunately too often seen, in the past, as a means for a free ticket.

There is so much going on on-site, that it is easy to forget that a half a mile away is the town of Builth itself: home of a dozen drinking houses keen to share in the town's spoils, and a couple of convenience stores with a permanent queue of beer buying bikers wondering where they're going to strap the special offer twelve and twenty-four packs that were too tempting to leave on the shelves. Shelves, incidentally, that refilling occupied one poor bloke full time for at least three of the four days.

But for a chipshop that seemed to have closed for the weekend, it looked like a town happy to be hosting so relaxed an event, and those who didn't venture that far off-site would be well advised to make the trip next time. There's also the matter of the roads stretching out in all directions for the town, any of which would bring a smile to your face whether you were looking to get your knee down, or just take in the vistas from the mountain tops: we didn't attempt that this time round, as the ignition switch was stiffer that previously which might have meant it was breaking down inside, and we've always been too worse for wear on previous occasions - okay, pissed.

In these times when shows tend to be themed towards one thing or another, it is nice that the Welsh National is just set up to be a cracking good show all round. Top name bands will never be a feature, but those who took to the stage were more than up to the job of keeping the music pumping out and, despite my misgivings on hearing that the headline band was one-hit-wonder crew, Doctor and the Medics, I would defy anyone to enjoy themselves more on stage, or to top off the atmosphere with such a cracking good-time set, culminating in what was described, with tongue firmly in cheek, as a medley of their number one songs: Spirit in the Sky. Shame they were down to the one Anadin brother, but the psychobilly one-man dance troupe more than made up for it - even donning an inappropriate frock and wig to keep the remaining, raven-haired, backing vocalist company at the close of the set. When you see how seriously some bands taken themselves, it is a breath of fresh air for such irreverence and good humoured lunacy.

Stunning.

The Welsh was extended this year, as it coincided with the extra day's holiday from the Golden Jubilee, but I have to confess we made an early exit: the weather that had been glorious for the first two days looked like closing in, so we took our leave. If the switch wasn't going to hold for the return journey, at least we wouldn't be waiting at the side of the road in a puddle, with a tourpac full of wet tent.

I started by suggesting that I'd moved towards the smaller shows as a reaction to the increasing frenzies that are the bigger festivals, but I'll finish by adding if I was going to resolve to only do one mainstream show a year, the Welsh National would be that show, because everything comes together so well. It's a recommendation I'd make to anyone - unless they've got a problem with camera lenses, whatever flag I choose to fly, or have any intention at all to bounce their engines off the rev limiter at an ungodly hour of the morning. The only disappointment was the general lack of Harleys, which is probably down to it being a little too quiet for the hardcore end of the Harley-riding scale, and perceived as a little too ambitious for those HOG members who have yet to look over the parapet, but if ever an event was one to break in to the world outside, the Welsh National is it.

See you there next year.