Welcome To Daytona

WELCOME TO DAYTONA

David Edwards

The waitress at the Steak and Shake on Volusia Avenue pauses to watch another squadron of motorcycles stream by, making for Daytona International Speedway a few miles down the road.

She then returns to her task of dealing out plates of food to a group of men sitting at a table near the window.

“The things you see down here,” she says to no one in particular. “Tm tellin’ ya . . . strange.” She moves a little closer to the table. “Where ya’all from?” “Virginia,” comes the reply.

“Virginia, eh? Well, ain't no place like this in Virginia.”

Indeed not.

Daytona Beach, Florida, during the second week of March is a special place. It has been for 43 years. It’s called Speed Week or Cycle Week, and this year approximately 100,000 motorcycle fans fdled the town. They come from all over the country and all over the world. For various reasons.

“We've had a hard winter,” says BMW rider Sam Hill, a middle-aged truck driver from Columbus, Ohio, “and it's time for a vacation. Daytona’s interesting, it's a fun town. I look forward to this every winter.”

“It is the place to be,” states Jose, a journalist from Brazil.

“For the races,” sings a chorus of voices from the bed of a mini-pickup bearing Georgia license plates.

“Yeah, we’re gonna watch Kenny Roberts kick ass on Sunday,” volunteers one.

“Get lost,” says another. “It’s Fast Freddie all the way.”

“I’m just here for the girls and the beer,” adds a dissenter before the truck chirps away from the stoplight.

Harley-Davidson rider Del Delmastro

owns a custom auto body shop in Shelton, Connecticut. He’s been coming to Daytona Beach for eight years and doesn't give a hoot about King Kenny or Fast Freddie.

“I don’t care about the races,” he says. “I come here to party and be with the brothers.”

The brothers. Leather-clad ruffians ready to tear up the town and recycle their beer on the mayor’s lawn, right? Well, sorry Hollywood, not here.

“If we did all the stuff people think we do, we’d be in jail, dead or both,” says Billy as he watches the goings-on at the biker hangout in Daytona Beach, the Boot Hill Saloon, on Main Street.

Dwight Selby with the town’s chamber of commerce agrees. “Despite their wild appearance, they're really great visitors. They like to have their fun, but they’re usually peaceful about it.”

Being a really great visitor in Daytona Beach means spending money. That the Speed Week participants do. Selby estimates that the town pulls in about $35 million, roughly $350 per person, during the week.

Judy, a bartender at Kitty’s Bar on Magnolia, saw some of the $35 million.

“The bikers are good tippers, a lot better than the college kids who come into town for Spring Break,” she says. “A lot

of the guys who come in here are in their 30s and 40s . . . doctors and lawyers who let their hair grow for a couple of weeks, put on their old leathers and come down here to have some fun.”

Fun seems to be what Daytona is all about. A race fan has his choice of road racing, motocross, flat track, trials, drags and enduro competition. There are cycle shows to see, poker runs to enter, rides along the beach, walks along Main Street, kick-starting contests, motorcycles to take test rides on and Sunday’s bike parade, billed as the world’s largest. If a bike nut can’t find something to do in Daytona Beach, it’s time to take up needlepoint.

The fun has to end sometime, of course. Come Sunday morning, even before the big race, 1-95 is full of people trying to get an early start on the long ride home before work on Monday. Most leave after the 200, while others linger for a day or so.

The hangers-on are greeted by a Monday-morning transformation. Down come the Welcome Bikers signs, replaced by others greeting college students. On Main Street most of the Harleys are gone, replaced by Pinto station wagons and Trans-Ams with fraternity decals stuck on the rear windows. Shops all over town are trying to unload black Cycle Week '84 T-shirts at cut-rate prices in order to make room for pastelhued Spring Break '84 T-shirts.

Back on Volusia Avenue, at Robison Harley-Davidson, a neat cinder-blockfront dealership, the lady behind the counter is talking with a customer.

“Pretty busy week, I guess,” the customer offers.

“Well, yes, but today is the last of it,” the lady says, punching the cash register buttons. “At least until next year.” >