Saturday morning I packed an overnight bag and got ready to head to Chopperfest. I arrived at my parents’ house trying not to look as frazzled as I felt. I spent a lot of the morning arguing in my head with people on the internet about the Current Political Situation and was running late on top of it. As we got into the car, I started to pull the conversation in that direction but managed to right myself before we got on the freeway.

On the way up, my dad and I talked about making art and telling stories. He asked me what I thought the political leanings of the attendees would be. I told him probably visible Trump people, maybe Q. When I’d gone years ago, there was some MAGA stuff, but nothing crazy, but now it was on the brain. There’s almost always some nazi stuff floating around with the bikers but who ever knows how serious any of that is.

When we finally made it to Ventura most of the vendors hadn’t arrived yet. Despite the conversation in the car, what it turned out people mostly cared about was bikes. I always feel a bit like an intruder in these settings because I’m mostly there to mine visuals. The products look cool – I often come home with ideas about building one – but it’s so far removed from anything I’m a part of. They talk about stuff and I just smile, nod, take my occasional photo, and try not to give away the game.

Of course the truth is, most people are very willing to talk. I met another designer who was running a booth selling prints and shirts. We talked about work and I lamented the fact that I no longer make things with my hands. We talked to a captivating storyteller selling coffee who had done motorsports around the world.

After load-in, we headed back to the hotel. The exterior made me think of faded postcards of sunny Californian paradise. The long, low rows of rooms split the difference perfectly between the ample parking lot and the serene coastline. I could imagine a company man pulling up and popping out with wife and kids bounding along after. Of course present-day the facade is in some permit stalled renovation limbo. The place is so quiet upon pulling up we think it might be deserted. They still have breakfast in the room full of windows overlooking the sea, but it now consists of eggs from mix, too-thin bacon strips, and what appear to be leftover home fries.

Chopperfest is already in full swing by 10 AM when we arrive the next morning. We get our media credentials and after lifting my shirt to show nothing hiding in my waistband we’re inside. It’s overwhelming – it’s always overwhelming – first seeing the field with rows and rows of intricately woven iron and leather. You can’t approach it logically. It’s much better to drift from bike to bike, making your way as your attention is caught.

As my eyes begin to focus, I recognize a lot of the choppers – even five years out from my previous trip. For all of my fretting about change, it’s really just the same stuff I’d seen in years prior. It turns out the show is first and foremost there to deliver on its purpose: artisans working to express themselves within the context of a subculture. As I walk through the bikes, I start to relax and remember that you can appreciate these things just for what they are.