During the breed of gentlemen, motorcycles and hot rods invade New Jersey beach

Craig Roberts works daily in Lethbridge, Alberta, where he treats seeds and spreads fertilizers for farmers. But last week, he instructed a van with his Harley-Davidson FL Dual Carb Knucklehead of 1947 and took the following four days to travel nearly 2,400 miles to Wildwood, New Jersey, in order to spend the weekend to do acceleration races with his motorcycle on a short strip of the Côte du New Jersey.

In Wildwood, Mr. Roberts, 49, and his friend Thom Jones, who is also his manufacturer and mechanic of bicycles, wore matched white sweaters that Mr. Roberts had personalized with felt letters and embroidered seams: “Drag Racing Harley-Davidson Knuckleheads” was splashed on the front and name Wind, on the back.

“Yes, it took time,” he said. “I’m not a seamstress!”

His look and his concern for detail testified to a collective passion – for classic motorcycles, vintage hot rods and the last iteration of the race of gentlemen, or trog, an event that challenges any easy description.

Competitors and spectators have described Trog as a “temporal capsule”-a return to an era of eructor motorcycles with Panhead engines, steel body roads and pin-ups waving flags with checkered, rockabilly cool and gray. For at least a weekend, Mad Max meets Williamsburg-or, better still, a dreamlike version of Williamsburg filtered through a celluloid film.

“I have beautiful beards here this year,” said Nick Foster, Mc de Tog, in the speakers before advising the big crowd to stand well. “Ladies, please don’t throw your support on the track.”

Mr. Foster, 49, wore a checkered suit and a Stetson Open Road while he was chewing a cigar. It was a marathon weekend for Mr. Foster, who counted on his vocal training as a specialist in musical theater (with an occasional whiskey sip). Saturday was reserved for tests, while Sunday was devoted to a Bracket type competition for around 200 pilots of various divisions.

“We are ridiculously serious about it,” said Roberts. “Too serious, really.”

Mr. Foster had fun concocting around fifty stories about Mel Stultz, who founded the event in 2012 and who remains the creative force. On Saturday, Mr. Stratz traveled the beach barefoot, dressed in a worn t-shirt of the American navies and pants with reverse. One of these stories from Mr. Foster: “Sometimes, at night, Mel continues stray animals. »»

Mr. Stalltz, 55, occasionally burst in a 1954 Land Rover, as if he were a general of the Cold War.

Wildwood has also improved the vintage atmosphere, with its attractions on the promenade and its rides like Rollie’s Coaster, the Doo Wopper and the Wild Whizzer. The sunny beach, however, was the big attraction.

“Can you think of another place where you prefer to be?” “Asked Kim McCullough, 61, of Pompton Plains, in the New Jersey, from the driver’s seat of his Ford 1932 rebuilt, with an eight -cylinder engine which was a particular point of pride. “It’s a flat head, as God had planned.”

Ms. McCullough remembers being the kind of young girl who “went to the pharmacy to buy matchbox cars instead of barbies”. She now heads the marketing department of a motorsport operation and, on occasion, takes the wheel. On Saturday, she wore a Dickies blue combination, Chuck Taylor All-Stars Blanches and a wide-edge hat. Before her training, she swapped the hat against a helmet and glasses.

The new arrivals in Trog sometimes ask him how speed his hot rod descends the beach. She has no idea.

“I don’t even have a speed counter,” she said. “I just have to worry about the temperature of the oil.”

Even if the men were much more numerous than the women on the acceleration track, Ms. McCullough said that she had always felt welcomed and supported by the Trog community. She also appreciates aesthetics, especially guys who make motorcycles. Leather boots. The jackets. Face hairs. The ointment.

“And it’s not a kind of assignment,” she said. “This is the real deal.”

Among them, Randy Hayward, 61, is considered one of the deans. Long -standing unavoidable of the event and luminescent presence in its denim overalls, striped sleeves and vintage biker cap, Mr. Hayward was relegated to the role of spectator this year due to a broken leg. While Mr. Hayward hosted with crutches and greeted his friends, Mr. Foster offered the crowd an apocryphal explanation.

“It seems that he saved children from Detroit from a fire bus that was attacked by wolves,” said Foster. “And then he sent the wolves to an animal rehabilitation center.”

The truth was that Mr. Hayward was injured when he directed a demonstration on the safety of motorcycles.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you that,” he said, laughing. “I stick to the” fight in New York bars “. »»

Mr. Hayward, who lives outside Detroit, is a motorcycle collector and historian, with a particularly lively eye on the often forgotten role that black Americans played in car races of the early 20th century. A few years ago, when he retired from his position as a school superintendent, his colleagues were curious to know his projects for the future.

“Build motorcycles, do motorcycles, write books on motorcycles,” he said. “It’s my passion.”

And this passion is contagious. Last year, Mike Elford, a motorcycle friend and passionate about Mr. Hayward for a lunch and told him that the requirements of his work had harmful consequences.

“I’m just a little depressed in recent times,” recalls Mr. Elford, 44, owner of a heating and air conditioning company, telling Mr. Hayward. “All I do is work. »»

Mr. Hayward informed Mr. Elford that he was planning a hike across the country with a group that summer and invited him to accompany him. After obtaining the agreement of his wife, Mr. Elford was ready.

“Now,” said Elford, “it’s almost once a month that we are going somewhere.”

After having attended the Trog last year as a spectator, Mr. Elford took the plunge last weekend and ran on his Harley-Davidson of 1945, a small motorcycle which was not necessarily designed for someone with its dimensions of 6 feet 5 inches.

“Do I expect to win? No,” he said. “I am a big guy on a small bike. But I don’t care. I’m here to have a good time.”

In the middle of the roar of the old engines and the vaudeville of Mr. Foster, Mr. Elford savor the scene that surrounded him.

“It’s like crossing the bridge,” he said, “and you were in 1955.”