We didn't know exactly where we were going for the Poags Hole Hillclimb on Sunday, August 17, but it wasn't a problem. We simply followed the motorcycles. At first they came in ones and twos, then they expanded in number the closer we got. As we stopped for gas at what looked to be the last place before turning off the main roads, I got a small dose of what we were in for. The large convenience store parking lot was rimmed with bikes and bikers, and my heart sped up a bit. "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" Leather everywhere. And lots of bleached hair. Bleached hair on women I feared would beat me up just for looking at their old men.

OK, not really. I didn't really feel danger, just excitement. And not all the women had bleached hair. But, it was fun to imagine being that scared. And I got to go on a tirade about how I have always hated that my-old-man, my-old-lady sentiment.

Turning off the main road and down a twisting lane, seeing the slate cliffs framing a winding creek, I remembered how much I like the Stony Brook area. We moved along at a steady pace, crawling in a traffic line for only the last half-mile or so. After parking and entering, we scoped out the map to get acquainted with the layout. I don't know what I had in mind, but it wasn't this. Very well organized, the merchandise vendors were on one side of the road, conveniently lined up with a clear view to the hill. On one side of them were parked cars, and on the other a sea of cycles. More cycles than I've ever seen in my life. Thousands of cycles. On the opposite side of the street were the food vendors and the hill. And what a hill! Straight up 700 feet, with a few small humps along the way. The idea of driving a bike up it seemed ludicrous, and begged several questions.

How would they get down?

What if they tipped over backwards?

Why?

Why was the easiest to answer. Why not? It's fun, dangerous, and silly. Silly only to a few -- the professionals take this very seriously, and use serious bikes in the $100,000 price range.

After partaking of some sustenance from the food vendors, we settled down on the grass to watch the show. It was postponed a bit in order for the 4- to 5-mile traffic backup to get parked. Very family friendly, the crowd was all ages. And the sound wasn't that loud unless you were right near the bikes.

It went like this: bike wranglers would bring the bikes toward the starting point - buzzing up the batteries, pumping up the tires, fueling, if needed - while the rider, in a costumed suit coordinated with his bike, performed his final preps, like tightening up his jacket, slipping on his gloves, and donning his helmet. Think Power Ranger costumes. Some even had pretty girl assistants doing the prep for them. Sheesh.

The bike wranglers would put the bike in place and the rider would mount while the wranglers fanned the fumes from the nitro-methane away from their eyes. Then they'd drive the bike straight up the hill, flying over the humps, and landing, and falling over somewhere along the way. A few reached the top. As they toppled off, the Hill Workers, aligned along the sides of the hill at different altitudes, would rush out looking like busy little ants in their yellow t-shirts, to assess the damage -- thumbs up meant the rider was OK -- and to roll the bike down to the nearest hump to a side track down the hill.

Over and over, all day long this went, and as silly as it sounds, one couldn't help but turn and watch each time you heard the roaring start of the engine. I even started critiquing. Half of me was hoping they would make it to the top, and half was hoping they wouldn't. That half was also hoping they would crash. Not a bad crash, just a little one. And, no, I'm not mean or sick. I'm just saying aloud what everyone else is secretly thinking. If it wasn't dangerous it wouldn't be nearly as fun.

I'm already planning on going again next year. The only down side was that we only found out once we got there that you had to bring your own beer. No bottles allowed.