Craig Roberts has a day job in Lethbridge, Alberta, where he treats seed and spreads fertilizer for farmers. But last week, he loaded up a van with his 1947 Harley-Davidson FL Dual Carb Knucklehead and took the next four days to drive nearly 2,400 miles to Wildwood, N.J., so that he could spend the weekend drag racing his motorcycle on a short strip of the Jersey Shore.
In Wildwood, Mr. Roberts, 49, and his friend Thom Jones, who doubles as his bike builder and mechanic, wore matching white sweaters that Mr. Roberts had customized with felt lettering and embroidered stitching: “Drag Racing Harley-Davidson Knuckleheads” was splashed across the front, and the name of Mr. Roberts’s bike, the Chinook Wind, on the back.
“Yeah, it took a long time,” he said. “I’m not a seamstress!”
His look and attention to detail spoke to a collective passion — for classic motorcycles, vintage hot rods and the latest iteration of the Race of Gentlemen, or TROG, an event that defies easy description.
Competitors and spectators have described TROG as a “time capsule” — a throwback to an era of belching bikes with panhead engines, of steel-bodied roadsters and pinup girls waving checkered flags, of rockabilly cool and greaser slick. For one weekend, at least, it was Mad Max meets Williamsburg — or, better yet, a dreamscape version of Williamsburg filtered through celluloid film.
“Got some good beards out here this year,” Nick Foster, TROG’s M.C., said over the loudspeakers before advising the large crowd to behave. “Ladies, please do not throw your brassieres onto the track.”
Mr. Foster, 49, wore a checkered suit and a Stetson Open Road as he chomped on a cigar. It was a marathon weekend for Mr. Foster, who relied on his vocal training as a musical theater major (along with the occasional sip of whiskey). Saturday was for practice runs, while Sunday was devoted to a bracket-style competition for about 200 drivers in various divisions.
“We’re ridiculously serious about it,” Mr. Roberts said. “Too serious, really.”
Mr. Foster amused himself by concocting 50-odd stories about Mel Stultz, who founded the event in 2012 and remains its creative force. On Saturday, Mr. Stultz roamed the beach barefoot in a distressed U.S. Marines T-shirt and cuffed trousers. One such story from Mr. Foster: “Sometimes, at night, Mel chases stray animals.”
Mr. Stultz, 55, occasionally buzzed around in a 1954 Land Rover, as if he were a Cold War general.
Wildwood, too, enhanced the period vibe, with its boardwalk attractions and amusement park rides like Rollie’s Coaster, the Doo Wopper and the Wild Whizzer. The sun-splashed beach, though, was the big draw.
“Can you think of anywhere else you’d rather be?” Kim McCullough, 61, of Pompton Plains, N.J., asked from the driver’s seat of her reconstructed 1932 Ford, with an eight-cylinder engine that was a particular point of pride. “It’s a flathead, as God intended.”
Mrs. McCullough recalled being the sort of young girl who “went to the drugstore to get Matchbox cars instead of Barbies.” She now runs the marketing department for a motorsports operation — and, on occasion, hops behind the wheel herself. On Saturday, she wore blue Dickies coveralls, white Chuck Taylor All-Stars and a wide-brimmed hat. Before her practice runs, she swapped the hat for a helmet and goggles.
Newcomers to TROG sometimes ask her how fast her hot rod bolts down the beach. She has no idea.
“I don’t even have a speedometer,” she explained. “I just have to worry about the temperature of the oil.”
While men far outnumbered women on the drag strip, Mrs. McCullough said that she had always felt welcomed and supported by the TROG community. She also gets a kick out of the aesthetics — especially the dudes who race motorcycles. The leather boots. The jackets. The facial hair. The pomade.
“And it’s not some affectation,” she said. “It’s the real deal.”
Among them, Randy Hayward, 61, is considered one of the deans. A longtime staple of the event and a luminescent presence in his denim overalls, striped sleeves and a vintage biker cap, Mr. Hayward was relegated to the role of spectator this year because of a broken leg. As Mr. Hayward hobbled around on crutches and greeted friends, Mr. Foster offered the crowd an apocryphal explanation.
“It seems that he saved some Detroit kids from a burning bus that was being attacked by wolves,” Mr. Foster said. “And then he sent the wolves to an animal rehabilitation facility.”
The truth was that Mr. Hayward had injured himself while leading a motorcycle safety demonstration.
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you that,” he said, laughing. “I’m sticking with ‘New York bar fight.’”
Mr. Hayward, who lives outside of Detroit, is a motorcycle collector and historian, with an especially keen eye for the oft-forgotten role that Black Americans played in early 20th-century racing. A few years ago, when he retired from his job as a schools superintendent, his co-workers were curious about his future plans.
“Build motorcycles, race motorcycles, write books about motorcycles,” he said. “It’s my passion.”
And that passion is infectious. Last year, Mike Elford, a friend and fellow motorcycle enthusiast, met Mr. Hayward for lunch and told him that the demands of his job were taking a toll.
“I’ve just been kind of down lately,” Mr. Elford, 44, who owns a heating and cooling business, recalled telling Mr. Hayward. “All I do is work.”
Mr. Hayward informed Mr. Elford that he was planning a cross-country ride with a group that summer and invited him to come along. After getting the OK from his wife, Mr. Elford was all in.
“Now,” Mr. Elford said, “it’s almost a once-a-month thing where we’re going somewhere.”
After attending TROG last year as a spectator, Mr. Elford took the leap last weekend and raced on his 1945 Harley-Davidson, a small motorcycle that was not necessarily designed for someone with his 6-foot-5 dimensions.
“Do I expect to win? No,” he said. “I’m a big guy on a little bike. But I don’t care. I’m here to have a good time.”
Amid the rumble of old motors and Mr. Foster’s vaudeville shtick, Mr. Elford savored the scene around him.
“It’s like you go over the bridge,” he said, “and you’re in 1955.”
Scott Cacciola writes features and profiles of people in the worlds of sports and entertainment for the Styles section of The Times.
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