Paul Friday's first 'proper' classic bike show turned out to be a ReallyClassic event...

I've never been to a classic bike show before, not a proper one. I've done the Harrogate show most years, but it's much more of an autojumble with some old bikes in one of the halls.

What turned my head was the promise of RealClassicists - all those people who swap banter and thrust on the message board would be there in person. Frank and Rowena, those almost mythical titans of publishing and e-biking, would be there in the flesh. How could I refuse?

I programmed the satellite navigation*, popped the waterproofs in the topbox, and hit that highway like a pigeon from Heck. Except there was a bit of a headwind, so I spent happy times slipstreaming wagons and cursing the Sat Nav when the batteries vibrated loose.

The showground was at Sandon Hall. The first challenge for the arriving motorcyclist was getting over the cattle grid at the entrance. It's the first one I've seen that had raised metal plates set on top of the usual bars, aligned in the direction of travel. Caused a few people to stick their legs out and teeter.

Still, just three quid to get in, which is a bargain.

And there were Frank and Rowena, complete with tags around their necks to remind them which magazine they worked for. Must try that one next time to get all those press packs and free booze, or perhaps even a smile from a stall-holder. I raised my helmet and grinned (no tittering at the back) and was directed to the specially reserved high-security parking area, on the spare bit of grass behind the Tiger Cub owners' stand.

And then the Real people arrived - legends all, with hearts of steel and veins filled with oil. Faces were put to names, bikes to confessions or proud boasts. A finer selection of greats than even Dave the Mint One could encompass lined-up on the grass (except for the ones that hid in the other paddock).

So what does a Realist ride to a classic bike show? How about a home-made Harley, or a new Enfield Bullet, or a Honda 350, or a Norton Commander, or a Moto Guzzi single, or a shop-bought Harley, or even a BSA twin with an unfeasibly small tank and a bad oil habit? The kind of mix that used to be called Catholic, but must now be retitled ethnically diverse and multicultural.

We all rode in, we talked, we supped tea, we never once fell out over who had the better bike or the better biker lifestyle. We did play an interesting game after lunch though, called 'you'll never guess where I got this one'. This involved removing items of clothing to reveal interesting scars. Some would have made an Igor proud, although Frank's description of being pulled along the road by a Bonneville clutch lever that had pierced his nose (still attached to the Bonny, of course), had my eyes watering.

Hunger fulfilled, and before we got to see the bacon rolls again, we prised apart the scary scarifiers and hit the show.

What an interesting mixture of bikes. There were the usual over-clean pampered pets - one had even been dragged along with an incomplete wiring loom and no number plate, but very very shiny paintwork. In amongst them were the bikes with a story to tell. There was a Vincent twin that had been converted to disc brakes, but so subtly that it took a while to spot it. A very tasty Trident engine nestled in a Featherbed frame as though it belonged there. A practical exploded diagram version of a Hurricane called a siren song to Rowena - buy me and make one that works.

I guess my favourite though, was a car. Someone had taken three complete cylinders from an airhead BMW and put them on a home-made crankcase to make a three-cylnder radial engine. He married it to a 2CV gearbox and Formula One suspension to make a very tidy three-wheeler. I couldn't find the owner to ask, but for the technicisti I believe he used a single throw crankshaft with the cylinders firing sequentially. I think this because it sounded like a Trident when it was running. Nice job.

And then some bikes were ridden into the arena, and someone with a hat and a microphone prattled about them, and finally some prizes were awarded for cleanest tyres, or least-used bike, or something. And the air was rent with thunder as the quaint, the curious and the bad fired-up and rumbled out.

Even the Realists had to brush away their tears and pootle off, with the universal parting of 'see you at the next one' and 'hope you make it home on that thing'. The organisers had the last laugh though, leading the bikes out of the grounds down an unmade road with a large speed hump just after the apex of a bend. How droll.

So, when's the next one?

The Next One is on September 21st; The STINKWHEEL CLASSIC MOTORCYCLE SHOW which will be held at Beaumanor Hall, Leicestershire. Traders, autojumblers, clubs and private entry forms from 07876 744911 or 01922 643385, email mikepowell@retmed.fsnet.co.uk

See you in September?

*Satellite Navigation - reduces map-reading and peering at road signs to following a big arrow. A sense of direction for the geographically challenged.