Race of Gentlemen, in it’s second year, has already become a trophy weekend for our kind. The petrol-fueled celebration leaves vacant streets at the mercy of flathead-powered burnouts and slow-burn cruising. Shirtless dance-riots of stoned brutes emerge on the beach and in the last strongholds of the locals. Our hysterics manage to get us tossed from at least one night club as we push the limits of decency. The weekend moves like a blur from the daytime beach races, hotel pool parties, nighttime beach fires, strips clubs and sobering cycle rides.

The first night — Rendezvous at the StarLux.

The Second Day — Races begin…

Adjusting our vantage point, we slowly take over the Oilers’ tower. The hot sun is compromised by a thick wall of fog.

The Third Day — After a night of celebration, the races resume…

See you next year.

Every year towards late August a handful of rare souls converge together to wreak havoc on the streets of Brooklyn, like some horrid natural phenomenon emerging from the sea to consume an entire city. The sheer anticipation of the solid one-night rumble attached to your motorcycle, surrounded by the sharpest cavalcade of your most trusted friends, is almost enough to say fuck it and sit at Perry’s Place in Kensington for the remainder of the night. Sense kicks in before another shot is poured and we round up the men, fire up the oil and head north in search of any blood that gets in our way.

Once on the interstate super highway, any driver to do us wrong finds a deluge of vulgar acts in their headlights, essentially making the highway a safer place for the next guy on two wheels, who may find himself in the path of the same now enlightened driver. This display of road justice may include performing sexual acts with your motorcycle tank while slowing the ignorant driver to a crawl.

After battling through heavy traffic on the BQE, we arrived at our destination at the Works Engineering shop. Now this is no back-alley, ram-shackled hut, rather, a highly-fortified, monstrous structure where we can hide from the creatures that appear after a 3:45am last call at the Matchless bar. Somewhere I had stopped taking pictures as I became too diluted with whiskey and beer, but I managed to snap off a few photos in the shop as our friend and host, Ray, entertained with new stories.

No one expects the morning to feel good. The only thing you can do is play catch-up with the weird sauce for the few hours missed while your brain rested. We rolled our bikes out from the catacombs of Works and parked them against the curb, while onlookers of the new york vintage motorcycle show took pictures and rallied down north 14th street. It is a much better show when you emerge from the inside looking out, smelling of road grease, stale booze and a wretched back ache from the floor/roof you made a bed that night—It’s the only way to prepare for this motorcycle show and looks more authentic than some wide-eyed gawker. Eventually we set out for food down Bedford Ave., looking as if some brutes were set loose from their cage. Shirtless Mike made sure to carry our strange vibes to the fullest exposing would be brunch eaters to a full chest of hair.

Somewhere around 1:30, I scouted out Manhattan in search of some threads and found no traffic to be had from Brooklyn to the tunnel (our exit strategy for later that day). I made my way back to the show and met the rest of our group.

After “looking hard” for the rest of the show, we decided to pack our remaining energy into the trip home over the Williamsburg Bridge, across Canal St., through the Holland tunnel, over the detoured Pulaski Skyway, down route one and into PA for a toll-less venture back to our philth down south.