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.
