What’s your dream bike? You know which Honda I’ve always wanted? Guess. Nope, not that one.
Want a clue? It’s not even a motorcycle.
Still guessing?
It doesn’t even have wheels. See, the Honda I’ve been lusting over since the first time I saw it — is the vintage illuminated dealer sign. You know the one. “H O N D A.” Red squares, white letters, each being their own light box, and sometimes double sided. Often nicknamed the “chiclet” dealership signs, they were offered in 3-by-3-feet and even 6-by-6-feet square tiles.
That is the Honda I’ve always wanted to own.
One would look perfect in my garage hung above all my vintage two-wheeled Hondas. The signs occasionally pop up on Facebook Marketplace, Craigslist, even Bring A Trailer or eBay. The last few BaT auctions for the “chiclet” signs fetched between $5,000 and $6,000. That’s a lot of pretty pennies for a sign. That’s nearly twice as much as I’ve paid for any motorcycle (I like cheap old junk). And that’s why I don’t own one. For now …
Off to the swaps
I’m sure you get a few answers depending on region — but for the Southeast, Barber Vintage Festival in Leeds, Alabama, is one of the best swap meets around. Sure, plenty of other things happen during the weekend of events. World-class racing, an incredible museum, shows, demo rides and more. Yet some solely come for the swaps, in hopes of finding that one thing they’ve been looking for or to just sell their old junk.
My garage is already full of old junk, unfortunately. I love buying junk, don’t you? I don’t do much with the old junk — yet.
I like to look over my sea of vintage Honda projects and call it my “retirement fund.” While they aren’t pretty and don’t run yet, they’ll clean up nice and crank one day. Fully restored, preserved and original, heck even parted out, these 1960s-’80s Hondas can fetch a dime. Maybe.
I’ve also considered just getting rid of everything, the thought of my projects doesn’t spark joy anymore, let alone do they spark. Out of sight, out of mind for now, until I can pass it on to someone else.
At the swap meet, vendors offer motorcycles from every decade and country, memorabilia, manuals, magazines and clothing. Vintage helmets, gloves and boots, bicycles and scooters all spread out for your perusal. If you need a specific part, it’s probably here. It’s as if all the cool old dudes emptied their garages and piled everything together in a field for the weekend. People take it seriously, too. The earlier you arrive and scour the swap, the better chances you’ll have at striking gold. Rare bikes, hot deals, even the thought of buying first and re-selling for more money throughout the weekend — it all happens rather quickly.
Even if you aren’t looking for anything specific, you’ll still find something you want. Or need.
To help alleviate the growth of more junk in my garage, I’ve had to make rules. First, it was “only one motorcycle a year.” That became boring pretty quick. So next was that I could only “spend $1 per engine CC.” That maybe worked too well as things multiplied, so then the next rule was I had to “sell one to acquire one” each time. And that just hurt to see them go. My rule now is “I don’t need anymore motorcycles.” A bummer, yes, but there are always some exceptions.
Rules were meant to be broken
I gave myself a rule for the swap meet. I gave myself a shopping basket. That was the rule. I could only buy what fit inside the basket. Things like tank badges or side covers, an old shirt or poster, a manual or two. Really, I was after some vintage magazines, publications and books from 1960s to 1990s. I managed to find archives of Cycle, Easyriders, American Motorcyclist, CycleWorld just to name a few. The basket filled up quick, I soon learned. I guess I never specified how many times I could fill it up, unload at camp, and arrive back with an empty basket. The only thing limiting me was the cash in my pocket. These purchases at least felt less like junk and more like research, artifacts for my collection. I love referencing old print stories. The writing was unique and tongue in cheek. I love finding old ads and reviews of the vintage bikes I have sitting at home in my garage.
It was Saturday evening of the festival, I had already spent the past three days continuously trudging up and down the aisles, looking for anything that caught my eye. I figured I had seen it all by now. Most folks pack up Saturday night to leave Sunday morning. Really, some of the best deals are had Sunday at the last minute. A few hundred bucks sounds a lot better than having to load up all that junk and take it back home.
Just as the sun started to set over the swap, something caught my eye, standing tall and reflecting the orange sky: a white sign, red letters. “H O N D A” nine feet wide, a few feet tall, and definitely unable to fit in my shopping basket. No worries, rules were meant to be broken.
My heart started to race a bit, the sound of bikes on the track didn’t help my adrenaline either. While it wasn’t quite the vintage dealer sign Holy Grail, it was an impressive sized piece of Honda memorabilia. It checked all the boxes for me. I immediately started daydreaming about where to hang it in my garage, thinking every wall could be fit. I was stopped mid-walk among the crowd of swappers, just staring at the sign. I was confused how I had missed this previously. Was it even for sale or recently acquired? Who knows how much he’s asking. I was nearly out of money by now, too. I also hadn’t seen this exact style of sign before, but I loved it for its simplicity.
“$50” I stammered, still looking at the sign, but talking to the guy sitting under his tent.
I turned to meet his gaze. He was just looking at me.
He didn’t respond either, who knows how long I had actually been standing there, hypnotized by the sign.
“$50?” I said again. “What’s it made out of?”
I hadn’t gotten close to it. I hadn’t even touched it. I just knew I wanted it.
“It’s plastic, corrugated. Heavy duty yard sign,” the seller replied.
“$50??” I asked again.
“Sure” he finally said, now getting up from chair, as we both took a closer look at the sign.
It was a bit worn up close, dirt and debris, some chipping of the letters. It was perfect as is. I handed him the cash, grabbed the sign, and started to take off. I was so eager to head back to camp and admire my treasure.
Before I could leave, the gentleman chimed in, “You know where that’s from?”
“No,” I said earnestly. I assumed something from a lawnmower dealer honestly.
The man just lifted a finger and pointed behind me.
“From right there, off the side of the track.”
I turned to face the noise of race bikes whirring by. This banner was in fact a trackside Honda sponsor sign, from an actual race at Barber. That explained the bit of dirt and was the icing on the cake. I thanked him again and began dragging the sign home, quite literally.
The sign was big and awkward to hold, a little heavy and required two hands. The adrenaline from the discovery was still flowing as I had the confidence to somehow try and ride back, sign in hand. It was maybe half a mile. I figured I could go slow and carefully, but the sign acted like a sail and immediately sent the bike in the direction I didn’t want to go.
I only made it 10 feet before realizing this was not a smart idea. I humbly parked the bike back at the swap and returned on foot to ask the vendor to hold it while I returned with my van.
“I’m glad you didn’t try that,” he said as I walked back.
“Me, too,” I laughed.
I was still riding the high of my score, as I returned in my van for my find. I approached the vendor and thanked him once more before grabbing the sign.
“You know — I have two more, if you want ’em,” he said.
My jaw dropped.
And that’s how I ended up with three new Hondas, one for nearly each wall.
