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It wasn't a dream

Updated: Feb 2, 2022

It was Lambretta Jamboree.


St Augustine, Florida, Oct. 7-10, 2021.


Words: Michael T. Davis

Photos/Video: Amy Walsh, Andy Stern, Joe Barthlow



At the first stop of the Thursday ride, with stale gas still in the tank and the weight of the past 18 months starting to abate, I parked my Series 3 LI under the Spanish moss at the gates of the Fountain of Youth and yawed, largely for myself, but loud enough to set the tone for the weekend, – “I fucking love LAMMY JAMMY.” The bike got this far and I would have been happy enough with just one ride. Just one group ride would have satiated the need, scratched the itch. But a few short hours later– after riding past Old Town Saint Augustine and over the Bridge of Lions, sitting on the water eating conch and drinking Red Stripe under a Tiki hut while bullshitting about anarchy and punk rock and 401Ks and Propecia and club drama and on and on and on, I was ready to put the 2021 Lambretta Jamboree down in the annals as a smashing success. I could have packed up, turned around drove ten hours back home happy with just one day. We all felt that way. After months of pent up energy and countless moments rescheduled we could count on one thing, if not in our rust buckets with dubious states of road worthiness, but we could count on the Lambretta Jamboree being the premier scooter event in the country.



We could pretend things were kinda normal again.


So let ‘em rip boys. It was on, as friends old and new rolled into the sleepy North Florida town known for being the country's oldest, we embraced (vaccinated against the modern scurvy), we drank, we coasted past the inlets, waterways, through tiny cobblestone streets. We motored to the beach and in the torrential rain. No wrecks and few break downs, picnics and beach games and the buried treasure was an exhaust pipe. We consorted with privateers, we danced. We conquered like conquistadors – the roads belonged to us. We felt the sand in our toes and the 2-stroke in our noses. We rode and we lived. If just for a little bit – as if our home offices, COVID protocols, uncertain futures, all the gunk clogging up the carburetors of our lives were finally free. Our bikes easily started, our tanks always full, just running through the gears, searching and finding and sailing on for more adventures. We lived as the