A co-worked asked me to write an article about the One Moto Show for my employer’s corporate newsletter. I figured I’d share it here.
At one point in the movie Bull Durham, veteran minor-league baseball player Crash Davis reveals that he had briefly played in the Major Leagues. “You’ve been in The Show, man?” a teammate asks incredulously. “Yeah, I was in The Show,” Crash replies, adding that it was “the greatest 21 days of my life.”
In the world of custom motorcycles, the One Moto Show is the equivalent of the major leagues. The invitation-only event is among the most prestigious custom motorcycle shows in the country. That’s why the E-mail I received inviting me to display my bike was totally unexpected. Surely, there’d been a mistake. The bike in question is a distinctly quirky assemblage, built from a random pile of salvage parts and powered by a seven-horsepower snowblower engine. No one would consider it a “show bike.” And yet, there it was—my invitation to The Show.
Getting both myself and my bike to Portland, Oregon would be neither cheap nor simple. I would have declined if not for the wonderful support of my wife Sarah and my friend Garrett. Sarah overcame my initial reluctance by saying, “For the rest of your life, this will either be a great story, or a big regret.” Garrett, who lives in the Portland area, agreed to handle logistics at the other end. This is especially remarkable because Garrett and I, despite previously co-hosting a motorcycle podcast together for 7 years via the Internet, had never actually met in person.
I flew out to Portland on Thursday morning, May 1. The show was held in a giant former shipbuilding enclosure on the Willamette River in downtown Portland. I signed in and was directed where to display my bike among the more than 300 motorcycles inside the huge building. I was assigned a spot among various scooters and minibikes in the “novelty bike” area. My bike was clearly among the lowest-budget projects there. Many of the other bike builders spent more money on just their paint job than I’d spent on my entire project. The bikes that did wear a rough, vintage patina were valuable and historically significant.
I spent Thursday evening at a private builder’s reception, discussing tips and techniques with several other fabricators. I was a minor leaguer among hall-of-famers, but everyone was accepting and friendly. I was flattered to get a couple of appreciative comments from other builders about the crazy machine I’d mashed together.
The One Moto show opened to the public on Friday. The event is more like a block party or rock concert than a concours d’elegance. Sharing the building was a music stage, local artists painting wall-sized murals, even a tattoo parlor. Outside were food trucks and vendors selling everything from t-shirts to luxury cigars. Custom cars, trucks, and old military vehicles were on display.
I spent Friday morning sitting at the coffee bar near my bike. Nobody gave my bike more than a brief glance as they filed past, which was frankly to be expected. There was no chrome, no glossy paint, no hulking V-twin engine, no raked-out front end, no intricate engraving—none of the calling cards of real, purpose-built “show bikes.” For many people, Harley-Davidsons are their only interest, and show-goers mostly congregated around the hardtail Harley choppers. At the opposite extreme were meticulously prepared café racers with full race fairings, bubble windshields, bold striping and sensuously intertwined exhaust pipes.
My bike, on the other hand, didn’t look recognizable or remarkable. Amid the minibikes, Vespas, and Honda Mini-Trails, it didn’t remind anybody of the bike they had as a kid or the one they’d dreamed of having as an adult. Some other entrants included interpretive posters and elaborate displays around their bikes. I hadn’t provided anything to help people understand or take an interest in my bike; it was just there.
A couple of other seemingly nondescript bikes hid understated fabrication wizardry. A rare 1958 Parilla motor scooter directly next to my bike had been almost undetectably converted to fully electric power. Further down the row, a Honda Interceptor with stock bodywork and paint had been extensively re-engineered to house an air-cooled, Italian Ducati 900 V-twin motor in place of its original liquid-cooled 750 V-four. Those bikes didn’t get much notice, either. The technical aspects of a bike are only important to the extent that they enhance the audience’s visual appreciation. People go to custom bike shows to see outrageous designs, visually arresting detail, and artistic finishes; things anybody can quickly identify and understand, even if they don’t know a Honda Interceptor from a Ducati Super Sport.
I was standing near my bike with one of the other exhibitors that I’d been chatting with the night before. We watched a couple of spectators walk past my bike, pausing only momentarily. “Huh. I’ve never seen one like that before,” one man said as he walked on.
“People have no idea they’re looking at a full-on custom,” I said.
“Yeah,” my new friend said with a smile, “and do you realize what a complement that is?”
I nodded as my outlook brightened. It was exactly the attitude adjustment I needed.
By Friday afternoon, I’d had my fill of people-watching. I left to visit a couple Portland tourist destinations, then spent Saturday visiting Garrett’s family. I headed to the airport on Sunday while Garrett retrieved my bike from the show site.
If you look through pictures of the show on social media or do an online image search for “One Moto Show”, you won’t find any pictures of my bike. But my wife Sarah was right; I still would have regretted not taking the opportunity to exhibit my bike. Like Crash Davis, I can say now and for the rest of my life, “Yeah, I was in The Show.”