So, what would you want to do on a warm May weekend?  Well, as a returning biker and a very recent addition to the club, I was looking forward to travelling up to the BMF show near Peterborough with a number of longer-serving members. 

As in previous years, the club had booked a pitch and was preparing a (not quite) all-out drive to attract some new members. A few of us planned to travel up to the showground on Friday afternoon to put up the marquee and set out the club's stand ready for the opening of the
show the following morning.

Despite some dire predictions of wet weather, Friday morning crept in warm and pleasant.  The bikes rumbled into Sainsbury's car park at Cory's Mill, as arranged, and there was some not-very-rushed last minute shopping which must have left a number of pig farms and percheries hard pressed to meet their orders the following day.  Jody arrived with the marquee and other kit
stowed in his van.  As things gradually got sorted, Theresa launched herself into (yet another) string of accidental double entendres (is this a marketable skill?) and set the tone for the whole weekend.

We set off, not very punctually, and travelled straight up the A1 at an easy pace, and with everyone in a relaxed mood.  One member's reflexes became so frisky he had trouble preventing his bike from popping a wheely or two on the way.  We stopped at a lay-by, talked, set off again.  No-one was in any hurry to get anywhere.

At the entrance to the showground the others seemed to know where they were going, which I was grateful for, because I didn't, and the whole place seemed just queues and confusion.  But when it came down to it, we got in quite quickly and without much fuss. Ours wasn't the best of pitches; there was a tree and a telephone pole directly between it and the aisle, but we made the best of it.  No-one was in the mood for making an issue.  The Marquee went up with speed, thanks principally to Dave (Murray) Clements who, because of his temporary incapacity, spent the weekend diverting all his energy into developing advanced organisational skills.  The bikes were
arranged either side of the awning in front of the marquee, and the club literature and regalia was set out on a table.

Cups of hot tea and home-made cake quickly settled the club into a mellow mood.  Sitting around in stackable chairs, eating, drinking, chatting, joking and laughing; all this soon established itself as the routine that would last for the whole of the weekend. Various half-hearted attempts to do
something more active fizzled out almost as soon as they were suggested.  The day wore on, and one brew of tea followed another.  Wayne presided over the cooking equipment and heating arrangements (one and the same) and made sure everyone was catered for.

The warm morning and pleasant afternoon gradually gave way to a shiveringly cold night, but though a few of us disappeared into our own tents, most huddled closer around the camping stove and added one layer of clothing after another. Some pretty energetic conversation continued late into the evening, long after the rest of the showground had descended slowly into silence, Stevenage and District Motorcycle Club, was living up to its reputation (I began to realise) for being the noisiest and most sociable crowd around.  Only the Goldwings, in the neighbouring aisle were noisier than we were.  Suddenly, everyone decided to settle down and get some sleep.
  Some of the club members had brought their own tents, while others just had sleeping bags and planned to sleep in the marquee. It took half an hour before everyone was sorted. Even in the bags, it was freezing cold.

On the following day, other members arrived. Some put up tents, others just came for the day.  The showground was packed.  The site was larger and there were far more stands than I had expected.  The arena was busy with bike-related, and equestrian events.  The aisles were packed with visitors, as well as the occasional biker gorilla, or biker duck scooting around on

mini-motos.  Stacks of cash were changing hands.  And it was another hot day: people were lying in the sun on the banks between the rows of stalls or spreadeagled on the grass in the field at the back; many were just lounging around; nothing happened very fast; no-one hurried.  To judge from appearances, the show, with its record attendance of 91,000 over the two days, was a huge success.  Even with some fairly hefty overheads, the £10.00 per person entrance fee will have put a fair bit of cash in the BMF's coffers.  On the other hand there was a fair bit of criticism.  Visitors
were particularly scathing about the long queues at the entrance gates, the cost of the entrance fee, and of the price of burgers on the site.  Those of us who arrived on Friday with complimentary tickets avoided the first two of these problems.  The burger issue was sorted with the help of couple of camp stoves and all that bacon and eggs, and endless loaves of bread.

Over the two days of the show, club members wandered around the site or sat on the stall, interrupting their chatting and eating from time to time to talk to passers by.  In all, a very healthy 13 new people signed up for the club.

The first evening finished with a rock concert in the visitor's campsite.  As we squeezed into the huge marquee the band on stage were playing an old Deep Purple number.  I suddenly felt very much at home.  It was a track from the first rock album I ever bought back in 1971.  I hadn't been to a live rock concert in years.  And then I learned something.  What everyone else apparently knew, and I was about to find out, was that the main entertainment of the evening would come not from the stage but from the floor.  Can anyone explain biker rituals: bare breasts and naked bums?  With the honour of the club clearly in mind, (no-one had done it before) Damo joined the ranks of the blokes (and occasionally women) who were shinning up the marquee poles to bare their bums - or didn't have to bare them because they were bare already.  His prowess was much admired by certain club members, and that night, as a topic of conversation, his achievement managed to overtake Phil's earlier success at dis-engineering the Dartford tunnel barrier a few weeks before.

Back at the stand after the concert, we sat around.  It was another cold night, fuelled by cups of tea and endless conversation.  Getting to bed was posing something of a problem for some of those sleeping in the marquee.  The arrangement had worked well on the first night, but Saturday's endless takeaways and rounds of home-cooked egg and bacon sandwiches had created
certain social issues - despite the marquee's very efficient air conditioning.

I had to leave the site temporarily early on Sunday morning, but was back soon after lunch.  The day passed much as before.  That little voice that says, 'I don't need it, but I want it, and I'm going to buy it' got louder and louder, till I gave in.  The traders looked busy.  Towards the end of the day, the lazy mood suddenly gave way to a decision to pack up and go home.  I'd gone for a short walk around the showground and by the time I got back, the marquee was down and almost everything was packed.  At the last moment, as everyone was preparing to leave, Damo, who was trying to squeeze out between a stationary van and a neighbouring stand, dropped his bike. 
Caroline, his girlfriend, who was riding pillion took a tumble in the dirt. Several club members who were standing nearby rushed to pick her up and make sure she was all right.  While they were getting her back shiny side up, Caroline dusted herself down by the side of the road.  Fortunately there was no damage and no-one was hurt.

Most people had had a really great weekend.  It was bloody hard to get back into work on Monday morning.