Loud Pipes, Beer Lines & Monkey Jockeys: The Gibtown Bike Fest Returns
Motorcycle enthusiasts enter the Gibtown Bikefest 2026 gate
My first paying photography gig more than twenty years ago was for a motorcycle magazine. It taught me a few things quickly: how to photograph people who are drinking — a lot — how to earn the trust of folks who don’t naturally welcome people with cameras, and how to embrace ideas sometimes at odds with my own. I had the same Harley for nearly 30 years, so I knew my way around.
Every now and then, I get to step back into that world. The Gibtown Bike Fest in Gibsonton was one of those chances.
Gibtown is a three-day, five-stage celebration of all things motorcycle. Tribute bands channel Bob Seger, Creed, and Steve Miller, while the bike show highlights just how far obsession and craftsmanship can go.
Nobody’s Fool band at the Coconuts stage inside the main building at the International Independent Showmen's Association
A sign reading No 1 percenters after 3:00 hangs on the front gate, telling motorcycle clubs to mind their Ps and Qs.
One of the custom bikes in the 2026 Born to Ride Bike Show competition
Bikers, posers, and everything in between roll into the festival. The old guys rule and will happily remind you that a $20,000 bike and a leather jacket don’t make you a biker — though you’re still welcome to hang. The crowd skews politically right-leaning, unapologetic, and gloriously irreverent. Machismo is alive, so are daredevils, loud rock-and-roll guitars, the American flag, and a defiant, no-filter celebration of women that comes with its own rebellious no-cancel-culture undertone. These folks don’t ask permission, and they don’t care what the outside world thinks when they’re together. Off the bikes, many are accountants, tradesmen, and small-business owners, many of whom adopt the biker persona when they mount their sleds.
Most ride American — Harleys dominate — but Japanese classics from the ’70s earn just as much respect. A vintage Kawasaki fits in just fine, and there are a lot of (less expensive) Harley wannabes copied by other brands there as well. Despite the Hollywood stereotype, this isn’t a festival of knife-carrying tough guys looking for trouble. It’s a brotherhood — and sisterhood — whether you wear a patch or not. Old friends hug. Camaraderie runs thick.
Yes, members of notorious motorcycle clubs like the Outlaws are there, but so is a strong law-enforcement presence. Signs warn: “No 1% MC after 3:00.” Translation: you can stay, but lose the colors (club insignia). I don’t know why 3 p.m. is the witching hour — but I didn’t see a single patch after that time.
The main building at the International Independent Showmen's Association is loud and smells like a smoky dive bar. Food and beer are pricey, and the lines are long, but that is what biker life at a festival is made of. There are dozens of vendors selling riding gear, most of which is more for show than functional. Leather jackets and vests aren't big sellers in the Florida heat, but are lifesavers after the sun goes down. Patches- most of which are snarky-, hats, t-shirts with funny slogans, helmets, and Trump gear dot the festival.
Donald Trump cowboy hat
There’s an entire “store” of Donald Trump and politically right gear
Hundreds of irreverent patches are available for jackets, vests, or anywhere you want to put your opinion.
Characters are everywhere — wrapped in leather, military fatigues, and lots of denim. One standout is a buff man who goes by Pretty Ricky, strutting in a head-to-toe American-flag ensemble, complete with an Old Glory cape. White-gold teeth flash in the sun, surrounded by a long snow-white beard, while tattoos climb every inch of exposed skin. He’s a moving monument to red, white, and blue bravado, and welcomes photographs from everyone.
Pretty Ricky is among the cast of characters that attend the annual festival
His white-gold teeth shine in the bright sun
Then there’s the Wall of Death — vintage motorcycles roaring sideways around a vertical wooden drum, defying gravity. WOD is a carnival institution that has been around for nearly a century and is still a thrill to watch. Some Tampeños will remember it as a favorite at the Florida State Fair. They carry on the tradition of collecting donations from the crowd by circling the wall and grabbing currency as they speed by. It’s a crazy way to make a paycheck.
Performers for the American Motor Drome Co. (AMDC) Wall of Death coax people in to the show
Wall of Death rider Ariell Flight collects donations from thrill seekers
Riding in tandem, Hobo Bill and Ariell Flight join hands, defying gravity together
And finally, the Banana Derby: capuchin monkeys jockeying dogs around a tiny track. It’s equal parts absurd and irresistible. Big crowds gather around the small track, cameras in hand, to cheer on this unique show, as two monkeys ride on the backs of two medium-sized pooches. For ten bucks, you can even pose with Gilligan, one of the star racers, in a tent next door.
Two capuchin monkeys ride on the backs of two pooches while a crowd cheers them around the track
For $10 festival goers could have a photo with Gilligan, a Capuchin monkey who also stars in the Banana Derby
Banana Derby track at the 2026 Gibtown Bike Fest
The Gibtown Bike Fest felt like a joyful blast from the past — a weekend that stirred years of memories and reminded me why I first picked up a camera in biker country. A motorcycle festival isn’t for everyone, especially if right-wing politics or unapologetic masculinity make you flinch, but the doors are wide open to all. Leave your judgment at the gate, and you’ll discover a world that still runs on gas, grit, loyalty, and an old-school sense of brotherhood.