Friday, June 30.
The annual motorcycle cavalcade wasn’t a town PR stunt, though maybe it should have been. It’s the result of a concerted and considerable effort on the part of motorcycle clubs statewide, not to mention those from places Away, like Massachusetts, Detroit, New Hampshire, Baltimore . . . as well as numerous indie riders.
It’s a big show, and a big noise—kind of a foretaste of the formal fireworks on the Fourth—and most people have fun. There are those from other parts of Away who flinch when they see Saracen colors or an Iron Horsemen patch, but, really, you’re more likely to have trouble from an unaffiliated kid on his first ride drinking too many beers and deciding to take on the bar than you are from an experienced rider from one of the clubs.
That as was, the bikes arrived at the crack of noon, just as Jess and I were leaving Marilyn’s office, having delivered the letter, signed by every owner-operator in Fun Country, with the exception of the log flume’s Doris Vannerhoff, who we hadn’t expected to sign, anyway.
Marilyn had also done what we’d expected; she read the letter, then told us that the park’s open hours and Season length were Management decisions. She promised to fax the letter to Management right away, thanked us for our time, and, if she didn’t actually tell us to leave, she did look pointedly at the door.
Usually, you can hear the bikes coming in from ’way down Pine Point, growling and roaring up Route 9, the sound rolling toward town like a thunderstorm coming across the ocean.
Jess and I having been in Marilyn’s office, we’d missed the slow reveal, and stepped out onto the midway just as the lead bikes hit the center of town and swept up the long hill of Archer Avenue, toward Route 5.
“Summer’s here!” Jess screamed into my ear, and I gave her a thumbs-up before she headed off down Baxter Avenue to reclaim Tom Thumb from one of Donny Atkins’ on-loan greenies.
Well, long story short, the town started to fill up, like the people had heard the motorcycles’ roar all the way up to Quebec, out to Chicago, and down to the hills of West Virginia—had heard it and come running to Archers Beach, to merge with and be part of the big noise.
By the time the day itself rolled ’round, the noise was a constant underlying roar, drowning out the sound of the sea, muting the racket of the rides and the games, and even the auditory mayhem spilling out from Ka-Pow! Every square inch of sidewalk on Archer Avenue from Fun Country all the way up to Wishes Art Gallery was filled with people. Fountain Circle had ’em stacked three deep, and there were lines waiting at all the rides, and most of the restaurants.
You work a seasonal job in a seasonal town, you don’t want to complain about the place filling up with people, but the sheer number of them was the reason that Borgan and I had decided to watch the firework display from the deck of Gray Lady .
Even there, though, we didn’t completely outwit the crowds; as night came on, and well before the 10:15 posted start time, big boats and little boats began to nose into Kinney Harbor, jockeying for the best position, setting down anchor while folks settled into deck chairs, their voices carrying over the water as they drank their wine or their beer and waited for it to be time.
Borgan made dinner, which we ate up on deck, watching the boats come in and the slow appearance of stars in the darkening sky.
“That was wonderful,” I said, helping him carry the plates below.
“Glad you liked it. Was afraid you’d be offended.”
I frowned at his back. “Why would I be offended?”
“Well, it being fish.”
“I like fish,” I said, handing him my load of plates. “Did you think I didn’t?”
“Now, it’s like this,” he said, turning ’round and leaning a hip against the counter. “Back aways I knew a man—lobsterman, he was. And one day his little daughter come to meet us at the dock, and she says
The annual motorcycle cavalcade wasn’t a town PR stunt, though maybe it should have been. It’s the result of a concerted and considerable effort on the part of motorcycle clubs statewide, not to mention those from places Away, like Massachusetts, Detroit, New Hampshire, Baltimore . . . as well as numerous indie riders.
It’s a big show, and a big noise—kind of a foretaste of the formal fireworks on the Fourth—and most people have fun. There are those from other parts of Away who flinch when they see Saracen colors or an Iron Horsemen patch, but, really, you’re more likely to have trouble from an unaffiliated kid on his first ride drinking too many beers and deciding to take on the bar than you are from an experienced rider from one of the clubs.
That as was, the bikes arrived at the crack of noon, just as Jess and I were leaving Marilyn’s office, having delivered the letter, signed by every owner-operator in Fun Country, with the exception of the log flume’s Doris Vannerhoff, who we hadn’t expected to sign, anyway.
Marilyn had also done what we’d expected; she read the letter, then told us that the park’s open hours and Season length were Management decisions. She promised to fax the letter to Management right away, thanked us for our time, and, if she didn’t actually tell us to leave, she did look pointedly at the door.
Usually, you can hear the bikes coming in from ’way down Pine Point, growling and roaring up Route 9, the sound rolling toward town like a thunderstorm coming across the ocean.
Jess and I having been in Marilyn’s office, we’d missed the slow reveal, and stepped out onto the midway just as the lead bikes hit the center of town and swept up the long hill of Archer Avenue, toward Route 5.
“Summer’s here!” Jess screamed into my ear, and I gave her a thumbs-up before she headed off down Baxter Avenue to reclaim Tom Thumb from one of Donny Atkins’ on-loan greenies.
Well, long story short, the town started to fill up, like the people had heard the motorcycles’ roar all the way up to Quebec, out to Chicago, and down to the hills of West Virginia—had heard it and come running to Archers Beach, to merge with and be part of the big noise.
By the time the day itself rolled ’round, the noise was a constant underlying roar, drowning out the sound of the sea, muting the racket of the rides and the games, and even the auditory mayhem spilling out from Ka-Pow! Every square inch of sidewalk on Archer Avenue from Fun Country all the way up to Wishes Art Gallery was filled with people. Fountain Circle had ’em stacked three deep, and there were lines waiting at all the rides, and most of the restaurants.
You work a seasonal job in a seasonal town, you don’t want to complain about the place filling up with people, but the sheer number of them was the reason that Borgan and I had decided to watch the firework display from the deck of Gray Lady .
Even there, though, we didn’t completely outwit the crowds; as night came on, and well before the 10:15 posted start time, big boats and little boats began to nose into Kinney Harbor, jockeying for the best position, setting down anchor while folks settled into deck chairs, their voices carrying over the water as they drank their wine or their beer and waited for it to be time.
Borgan made dinner, which we ate up on deck, watching the boats come in and the slow appearance of stars in the darkening sky.
“That was wonderful,” I said, helping him carry the plates below.
“Glad you liked it. Was afraid you’d be offended.”
I frowned at his back. “Why would I be offended?”
“Well, it being fish.”
“I like fish,” I said, handing him my load of plates. “Did you think I didn’t?”
“Now, it’s like this,” he said, turning ’round and leaning a hip against the counter. “Back aways I knew a man—lobsterman, he was. And one day his little daughter come to meet us at the dock, and she says
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