My Moment with "Jackie"

The non-stop stories this week about the JFK assassination as we near the 50^th anniversary, brought back so many memories that I was compelled to get in front of a keyboard and get it recorded.  As I did it, more memories came back from dark corners where they had been stored.  Then I published my recollections on my blog and folks responded with even more memory-stoking remembrances. 

Of course, a huge element of the JFK presidency and the “Camelot” mystique was his beautiful wife, Jacqueline.  She captivated me when I was a little boy, and a lot of my friends, and my mother and her friends.  She had sparkling eyes, beautiful hair, and a dazzling smile, carried herself beautifully and rarely spoke.  It was a visual crush we had. Suddenly, a lot of American women wanted to emulate “Jackie” – her hair, her clothes, her interest in the arts and her role as an intelligent female who was a full partner with her husband and involved in his career.

She’s also remembered for her strength and courage in the aftermath of the JFK assassination – how she maintained her composure was amazing to many.

As I watched the hours of footage about JFK, I remembered that I had encountered her once, and decided I would write an account of that moment. The time when, for a few seconds, I shared a spot on earth with what could be said is the most famous First Lady of contemporary times.

My fateful path-crossing with Jackie occurred in Arlington, Virginia, at Washington National Airport (now called Reagan National Airport).  It was in 1980, now 33 years ago.  I had been working there for a couple of years.

Some background:  I attended college in my hometown of Omaha, NE, switched my major and graduated in 1977 on what we called the “5 year plan”.  My father had left Omaha in 1974 after becoming the victim of obsolescence in his trade of printing.  He was fortunate to get a job at the US Government Printing Office in Washington, DC.  When I graduated, he offered me the chance to come east to seek my fortune.  I took a lot of tests and the first appealing opportunity was as an Airport Police Officer, working for the Federal Aviation Administration, who managed the Washington, DC airports at that time.  The training was good, at the new Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco, GA.

A policeman’s life can be described similarly to that of a pilot, fireman and other edgy occupations:  “Hours and hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror” – or, in some rare cases, “excitement”, could be substituted for the terror aspect.  Because I worked at an airport in a major city, it wasn’t unusual for me to see stars, politicians, influential business, government and military people.

It was after ten p.m. one evening. My shift ended at 10:30 and I was tired.  I was on foot patrol and was slowly making my way back to the station.  By that time of night, air traffic had slowed down considerably and there were few flights arriving.

The airlines each had their own respective group of gates.  USAIR (which had morphed up from Allegheny Airlines and would ultimately become the present US Airways) was in a wing by itself, stretching down a long dead end corridor in the ground floor of the terminal building.  They served the northeast US corridor.

A flight arrived and the usual throng of people came down the corridor toward me in usual fashion, like a herd of stampeding cattle.  No doubt they were trying to get their luggage, get to their hotels, meet their loved ones.  People become anxious in airports.  It was a condition I saw time and again. 

The people filed by me and then they were gone.  A minute or so went by and I figured the plane had emptied out.  I was weary and killing time on the last few minutes of my shift.  The corridor was completely still. 

Then, down the empty corridor, I heard the sound of high heels.  I looked up and saw someone walking toward me from 30 yards away.  As a policeman, you are trained and learn to observe and categorize appearances analytically, because you never know when you will receive, or be asked to give, a description of someone or something.  My mind instinctively went down the human appearance checklist:  White female, slender build, 5’7”, Dark hair -- shoulder length, pearl necklace, black high-heeled shoes, brown trench raincoat, wrinkled.  When I had completed my instinctive inventory, satisfied, I lowered my gaze.  The female continued to approach.

Suddenly, something flashed in my mind.  Something was unusual!  As the sound of the footsteps grew louder, I snapped my head up to see what my senses were shouting at me to consider.  What could it be?  There were no other people in the area -- just me…and this woman approaching.  Why was I having the “fight or flight” heart-pumping reaction?  

My brain had processed the picture my eyes had taken one second ago, found something deep in my gray matter and raced it into my conscious, and was screaming at me to take note of it.  Was it a suspect…some sort of danger? My eyes focused on the target, and suddenly, unbelievably, I knew why I was getting these signals.

Thirty feet away from me, and striding closer, all alone, was Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.  I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and my breath came in a gasp.  I’m not sure, but I believe my mouth dropped open.  I stood with my feet cemented to the ground, and with my gaze fixed and tracking this woman.

She looked every bit the iconic image that I had seen in magazines and on television when I was a child and she was the First Lady. 

By this time in my career, my celebrity wow-factor had become somewhat jaded.  I had shaken hands with Richard Nixon, George H.W. Bush, Colonel Sanders, hung out and smoked Marlboros with Louis Gossett Jr., exchanged pleasantries Astronauts, chatted with Dr. Joyce Brothers, Dear Abby, Rick James, Meatloaf, Pat Boone and many more  -- but this encounter left me completely star struck.

My gregarious nature leads me to interact with people and I’m not afraid to speak up, say hello, ask them if they need any help, etc.  At this moment, I was frozen.  It was like seeing a spirit; a vision rather than a real person.

She had been out of my consciousness for so long.  I was 7 years old when she became First Lady, 9 years old when JFK was killed.  I read about her from time to time, but she was not a media celebrity, in fact, she shunned publicity and tried to lead an average life.  But, her image was burned into my neurons deeply.  The amazing organ known as the brain had done its job well.

Perhaps it was because she looked so perfectly like her media images.  Many times when I met celebrities, I was a bit surprised that they didn’t look like their on-camera image.  In this moment, it was like Jackie had stepped out of LIFE magazine and into my personal space.

Her pace was quick, but she moved with style and grace.  I’m sure she was used to being noticed, and realized I had recognized her.  A lot of the paparazzi photos of the time showed her wearing her famous “Jackie O” Gucci sunglasses and a bandana on her head, but on this night, she was just out there.  Her hair was somewhat straight; her signature pearls were in place.  She had been traveling, her coat was a little wrinkled, but that famous aura was all around her.  She kept moving and didn’t seem to notice me.  I'm sure that coming to Washington stoked memories for her.  She had been at this airport with JFK back in the campaign era.  Maybe she wanted to move quickly through, and away from it.  

Then, as she passed by me, she turned her head toward me and looked at me over her left shoulder.  Her hair flipped back as she did it.  For a second, she laid those big eyes right on me and flashed me that famous, brilliant smile.  Yes, Jackie O, fantasy woman of a schoolboy’s dreams, acknowledged me!  It was her way of saying, “Hi. Yes, it’s me!”  I might have drawn a breath, but I still couldn’t move.  My usual gregarious persona didn’t kick in, and all I could to was look at her. 

Then, as quickly as she appeared, she was gone.  I watched her walk by, quickly ascend the steps to the second floor, and disappear.  I still couldn’t believe it.

I went to the station and told my Sergeant, who was an old Army veteran, and very much an old school patriot.  He sat up in his chair, his eyes opened up and his mouth gaped a bit when I told him what I had just seen.  “Mrs. Kennedy?” he said.  “I wonder what SHE is doing here?”  I could tell that he felt, like I did, that she was some piece of American royalty.  Maybe we were both surprised that she was traveling alone and unguarded.

Jackie managed to make quite a few more headlines.  She continued to be a champion of the arts and of architectural preservation.  She saved New York City’s famous Grand Central Station from the wrecking ball and was instrumental in its renovation.  She was a mover in New York and frequented the east side of Central Park.  She worked as a book editor for many years.  We know that she was a caring and careful mother to her children, and guarded their privacy judiciously.

The inside scoop was that she was a chain-smoker, who would never been seen smoking in public, but always had a cigarette lit in her office or home.  She ended up with cancer and yet another chapter of our wonderful American Camelot concluded with a not-so-great ending.  She passed away in 1994. 

There have been moments when I’ve wished that I had approached her, said something, shaken her hand – I could have taken one stride and been right next to her.  But even though I had been familiar with a lot of other notable people, this lady stopped me in my tracks and left me speechless. 

Maybe it was for the best that I just stayed put.  Jackie had walked out of fantasy in into my reality, even if it was only for a moment.  I’ll always have that. 

Thanks for that head toss and that smile, Jackie.  It makes my day every time I think about it.  I got to “meet” the girl of my youthful dreams.  You were certainly one of a kind. 

Even though people may be well known, they hold in their hearts the emotions of a simple person for the moments that are the most important of those we know on earth:  birth, marriage and death. -- Jackie Kennedy

My Recollections: November 22, 1963 -- The JFK Assassination

All the attention surrounding the 50^th anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination in Dallas, TX finds me watching all the TV programs, both new and old, about the greatest murder mystery of the 20^th century.  The memories come flooding back.  Nothing like this had ever happened in my time, my parents time, not even my grandparents time.

I have heard it described by psychologists as the greatest mass culture shock and grieving exercise that has ever occurred.  There had never been an event of such global significance that was broadcast on TV – relayed to the masses with such speed and in such visual detail. 

One therapist, in a movie I viewed in a psychology class, explained that it was imprinted into our minds like nothing ever before.  He said that people who had had severe brain trauma, like in a car accident, and had total amnesia -- couldn’t remember their own name, their family, nothing at all -- would be shown pictures of the assassination by therapists, in an attempt to spark any memories, and be able to recount the events with complete clarity and precision.

This is my story:

Friday, November 22, 1963, Florence Elementary School, Omaha, NE: 

For me, it was a normal Friday in Mrs. (Victoria) Corey’s 4^th grade class.  I was in my chair in the third row from the east wall, in our classroom in the west wing of the “new” Florence School, that we had just moved into the previous year.  It was incredibly modern compared to the old red brick schoolhouse that we came from, a building where my grandfather had attended school at some point.  There were modern green “blackboards”.  The east classroom wall was all cupboard storage made of blonde wood; the west wall was all windows that looked out to a large playground field.  There was a modern cafeteria that doubled as an assembly hall with a stage.  We were working an assignment, with our usual instructions to do our work with NO TALKING. 

Florence Elementary School, Omaha

The school custodian, Mr. Tubbs, poked his head in the door, as he often did.  I think Mrs. Corey used to head down to his room to catch a smoke and gossip and get a break from us.  You never knew if your teachers smoked, supposedly none did, but we had it on good authority that Mrs. Corey did (someone’s mom had seen her at a local social club, and tattled to her child).  She was outspoken and plain talking compared to most of the teachers, and you didn’t want to get on her bad side, lest she embarrass you in a loud voice in front of your classmates.  She was a bit more human and “real” than some of the more stern and mysterious teachers at our school.

When Mr. Tubbs would poke his head in the door, Mrs. Corey would go out of the room to talk with him.  Of course, you never knew how quickly she would come back, so you always waited a good while before uttering any sounds.  Today, she came back in fairly quickly.  Right away, she said, “Mr. Tubbs just told me he heard on the radio that somebody shot at President Kennedy.  I’m going to leave for a while.  You people keep working and NO TALKING.” 

We did as she said.  It was a classic Nebraska winter day, cold with a heavy overcast, with a lot of snow on the ground.  Mrs. Corey was gone longer than usual, maybe ten or fifteen minutes. 

When she came back, she said, “There’s something going on.  I’m going to turn the radio on so we can hear the news.”  She went to a cupboard at the back of the room and got out a radio, one none of us knew was there.  I don’t believe teachers of that era were big believers in multi-media communications.  We had just begun using TV in classrooms on a very limited basis.  Sometimes the teacher might try it an hour or two a week, or not at all.  It was completely up to the teacher.  TV was still thought of as something that should be rationed to children in the home.

She plugged in the radio and tuned in a station.  We began to hear the fractious news reports immediately.  There was urgency in the announcer’s voice, and no semblance of the regular music/talk/commercial radio format of the time.  There was a lot of confusion.  I don’t think anyone wanted to believe that the president had actually been shot, let alone killed. Of course, everyone stopped working on assignments and just paid attention to what we were hearing.  The reports were all initially optimistic – that Kennedy had, “…possibly been wounded…” and had been taken to a hospital.

Today, the era of Camelot has been documented and discussed thoroughly, but to have been young during that time was something special.  America was on the rise.  We felt proud and powerful – we were the BEST in the world.  Now, we had a new leader that our parents identified with, a handsome guy who had a pretty wife and a couple little kids.  He talked tough to the Communists and we liked that.  He talked about civil rights.  Some folks liked that, and I guess some didn’t, but as children, who always feel their rights are being violated by their parents, we liked it.  There was a heady spirit all around.  We were going up – in jets, to the sky, to the moon, even farther.  Kennedy had made this promise and it seemed like his aura was fueling our accomplishments.

The radio reporters kept up the chatter, cutting away to correspondents now and then.  The minutes passed and the reports were less and less optimistic.  Finally, the network cut away to a report from Dallas.  A deep, stern voice said, “The president…of the United States…is dead.”

Instantly, two of the children sitting next to me, one boy and one girl, burst into tears and began to sob out loud, heavily.  I remember their names (Arvard Bertrand – a hard one to forget -- and Teresa Barrett).  They were both friends of mine and there was a unique thing about them – they were both Catholic.  I remember that it shocked me a bit, to see them just crack and suddenly become so completely emotional. 

There was, looking back, a substantial division between religions in my little borough (the area known as Florence, which had once been a town, and was now a northern suburb of Omaha).  

Historic Bank of Florence building

The Catholic kids, most of them, went to a different school, St. Phillip Neri, and we didn’t fraternize much.  Kennedy was Catholic, the first ever to be President.  I remember the talk of this among adults.  I didn’t know what the big divide was all about, but I knew that the Catholics were somehow different and were held apart from the circles my parents ran in.  My grandmother had been raised Catholic, but converted to the Lutheran faith when she married my grandfather. 

The Catholic kids bursting into tears was the first crack in the emotional dyke.  Soon a lot of kids were sobbing.  I think I did, a little bit.  Certainly, there was a huge pall over the room and radio kept blaring more and more details of how the shooting happened, etc.  Of course, there was no Internet, not even any TV in school, so all we got were spotty details.  Having the radio on was highly unusual.  It had never been on before.

The principal, Mrs. Tate, appeared in the door and spoke to Mrs. Corey, then left and reappeared several times.  Everyone was in shock.  One has to remember that we lived, in those days, in constant fear that the Russians were coming – to make us “communists”.  The Cuban missile crisis had been resolved only a short time earlier.  The USAF Strategic Air Command (“SAC”, as everyone called it) headquarters was about a 30 minute drive from my home, and we all thought we would be targeted in the event of war.  Was this killing of our leader, the man who stood up to Khrushchev, the beginning of war?  I think a lot of us thought it could be.

Finally, the principal came back one more time, talked with Mrs. Corey, and left.  Mrs. Corey made an announcement.  “We’re going home early.  School is going to be closed until next week.”  Wow.  School NEVER closed!  This was big. 

She maintained her usual control of the room, but spoke with an air of resignation, saying, “Just put what you were working on in the basket (a file basket for completed work), and close up your desk.”  Wow…that never happened either!  I mean, just turn in your paper, incomplete?  I remember that she comforted some of the children that were most visibly upset.

Everyone did as they were told.  We had lockers in the hallway of the new school, not the old fashioned “cloak room” like we had had a year before at the old school.  We got our stuff and said our goodbyes.  It was really strange to be leaving so early.  Unlike today, there was no secure “handoff” of children to parents.  We were simply turned out, into the winter weather, to go home on our own.

Once we were outside, in the cold and snow, I started walking with one of my classmates, Jerran Jackson.  He was a friendly little guy, a good bit smaller than me, with glasses and straight brown hair.  His father was our Cub Scoutmaster.  I don’t think either of us knew what to do with this sudden freedom that had been bestowed on us.  We traded a few thoughts about the president and what had happened, then he asked me, “Wanna come to my house and play?”  I said, “Sure!” and we set off in a different direction than I would have gone if I had been headed straight home. 

We tramped through the ice and snow.  We were no strangers to this kind of trek and we had on our big rubber “four-bucklers” as they were called, big black overshoes that were always a huge hassle to get on and off.  They did a good job of keeping your feet dry.  I remember the landmark innovation some mother came upon of putting a plastic bag over your shoe before you put it in your rubber boot – it made it glide on like it had been greased with butter!  Bless her.

I don’t remember what all we talked about on the walk to his place, which must have been about a mile.  I remember it was cold and we were alone.  I was happy I had someone to walk with.  I don’t know if children make these kinds of treks anymore. 

When we got to his place, he told his mother that he had brought me home to play.  She said it was fine, that we could go play down in the basement.  Now, we had to decide what we wanted to play. 

In those days, NASA and the space program was the hot thing, and “Astronauts” had become a popular playtime, replacing playing “Cowboys” and “Army” (later replaced by “Green Berets”).  So, there was a big cardboard box in his basement, like from an appliance, and we used it as our spacecraft and used some of his dad’s tools that were laying around for our astronaut gear.  The minds of children are fertile ground.  (We kept our coats on, because it was cold in the basement.  I remember getting home and finding a wrench, which I’m sure had been some sort of “ray gun”, in my coat pocket.)

After some time, I sensed that it was time for me to go home.  I don’t know why, I guess it just knew that my mom would be expecting me.  I told my friend goodbye and started walking.  I remember it was overcast and very cold, with a lot of snow on the ground and a lot of humidity – it felt like it could snow again at any minute.  I had to walk about 8 blocks.  Jerran lived at 31^st and Sheffield Sts. – my house was at 31^st and Tucker. 

Except for the snow, only one thing about my walk home stands out.  Everything was quite familiar and unremarkable, but then I passed right by St. Phillip Neri Catholic School.  It had a flagpole right out in front.  There was no wind, the air was very damp, and the flag was just hanging down, kind of wrapped around the pole.  I remember looking at it and thinking, “That flag doesn’t look right.  Why didn’t they raise it up all the way?  That looks really sloppy!”  I had never seen a flag at half-staff before, and had no idea what it meant, but I was about to see a lot of them and learn of their significance.

St. Phillip Neri School, and the flagpole

I let myself in the house, and I thought it was strange that my mom was not around.  She was usually in the kitchen or the living room when I got home.  I went down the hallway and opened my parent’s bedroom door, and I found her in bed with her pajamas on.  I said, “Mom!  President Kennedy was shot!”  She gave me the same answer she gives me when I tell her something today, “I know that!”  HA!  She had come down with the flu and was resting.

I think she didn’t want me to catch what she had, so I was sent to my grandma and grandpa’s home.  The only detail missing in my memory is how I got there.  I don’t know if my grandpa came to get me, or if my dad came home from work and took me down there.  Regardless, for the next three or four days, I would be camped out at their house on 21^st and Ames Ave., sitting in front of the TV to witness every detail of the ceremonies, the murder of Lee Harvey Oswald in real time, the funeral and the constant commentary from the newsmen of the day.

For the first time I had ever in my life, TV stayed on 24 hours a day, and I was allowed to stay up pretty late.  Grandpa was working as a firefighter, so he went to work and was gone for 24 hours and then came home.  Grandma and I didn’t leave the house, and we sat up late in the evening watching. 

One of the days, I was upstairs and my grandma had gone down the basement to do some laundry.  She had turned the radio on down there so she could hear the latest. For some reason I had taken a break from the non-stop TV coverage.  Suddenly, grandma called out, “Scott, go look at the TV!  They shot that Oswald fellow!”  Thinking she had lost her marbles, I called back, “No grandma!  President Kennedy was shot!  Oswald shot President Kennedy!”  She called back to me, “No!  Go look at the TV…someone just shot Oswald!  I just heard it on the radio!”  I made a beeline for the TV, and sure enough, she was right.  Since the cameras had caught the whole thing on videotape, it was replayed over and over again.  Of course this turn of events added even more to the incredulity of the day.

There was nothing on the TV or radio but news associated with the assassination.  Occasionally, the local stations would break in with news relevant to Omaha, but afterward it would go right back to the network coverage of JFK.  There were hours and hours of footage of citizens filing by the casket in the Capitol rotunda.  The honor guards would stand at attention for 5 minutes, then switch to “parade rest” for a period.  There would be a formal changing of the guard, periodically.  I remember seeing the funeral, and the famous “salute” by JFK Jr. in “real time”. 

I have replayed the funeral march in my mind a thousand or more times over the last 50 years.  I remember that it was much like a parade, but with only the ominous beat of muffled drums.  I can hear the precise cadence distinctly. (Boom, boom, boom – roll – boom, boom, boom – roll – boom, boom, boom – roll – boom, boom, BOOM-BOOM!)

JFK Procession Crossing Memorial Bridge to Arlington Cemetery

I remember the horse drawn carriage – I had never witnessed a military funeral – and the fly-over of jets, including Air Force One.  The bugler played Taps.  I was a young trumpet player, so this was especially significant, particularly because the bugler stuttered when he played the sixth note (like I used to).  I couldn’t believe it.  My mother later told me that she had read that the bugler said he was quite embarrassed, but was overcome with emotion and had huge tears running down his face as he played.  We gave him a pass.

Army Bugler Keith Clark, 3rd US Infantry Regiment -- The "Old Guard"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=q2h3z3Jqqo0
View Clark's "Taps" at this link

Finally, at the very end, the big surprise came -- The lighting of the “Eternal Flame”.  There had been no mention of this in the media, no announcement by the government.  How they had conceived this icon in the matter of a couple of days no one knew.  Everyone quickly theorized that it symbolized the passage from his inaugural speech, “The torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans…”, which went on to extend an invitation and a warning to other countries that we were ready to be friends, and also to fight for our freedom.

Eventually, somehow, the whirlwind of this all died down, and life went back to a normal routine.  I left my grandparents and went home.  We went back to school, the TV went back to regular programming.  Life went on, but it was never the same.  This might have been my first realization that “life goes on” if you are left alive, no matter what kind of drama or misfortune has befallen you.  I would have others to come.

We had lost our innocence; Camelot was over, Vietnam, already underway, would soon be an everyday headline.  The excitement of space exploration gave way to “body counts” and killed-in-action notices in the hometown paper.

At least I got to experience those heady years, when it seemed like America was running stronger and faster every day, and that there was no stopping us.  We were flying to space at jet speed and we were the greatest country that had ever been.  We had a dynamic leader and a first lady that were “movie star” glamorous.  Hero astronauts were orbiting the earth.  Wages were up and possibilities were endless.  Then, in a moment, it all changed.  We survived, we still managed to have fun, but our course was forever altered, and we had dark destinations ahead.

Scott J. Barry -- Leesburg, VA -- November 14, 2013

Rolling Thunder -- The 25th "Ride to 'The Wall"

Some distant memories came alive this past weekend as I participated in my first “Rolling Thunder – Ride to the Wall”.  I had a vague recollection of the beginning of the entire thing, and did a little research.  It was an interesting study in how one small act can become a “movement”. 

In 1987, the memory of the Vietnam War was much more recent, and raw, than today.  The Vietnam Veterans Memorial, otherwise known as “The Wall”, was relatively new.  The modern design, slabs of granite with the name of every US service member killed in the conflict, had been controversial.

That year, six veterans decided to ride their Harley-Davidson motorcycles in a Memorial Day pilgrimage to be “with” friends and comrades that they had lost.  When they arrived, they were determined to sleep at the wall.  There was controversy. The memorial is one part of the National Mall, and is federal property, and no camping is allowed.  When the Park Rangers attempted to get the veterans to move, they protested.  Somehow, the local media took up the story, generating a lot of publicity.  My best recollection is that the vets were allowed to sleep near the wall. 

This act, by these six men, who went to Vietnam and returned alive, but were, like so many, forever changed, was the beginning of a ritual that has grown over the ensuing 25 years to a national organization called “Rolling Thunder” that has chapters in every state. 

The “Ride to the Wall” draws riders from every state and a huge presence from the east coast states.  I met people who had ridden in from the Carolinas, Florida, West Virginia, Pennsylvania and other places.  I know that groups ride from as far away as California.  It is estimated to have drawn as many as 900,000 bikes on one peak year.  I haven’t heard any tally for this year, but I know that the bikes filled four Pentagon parking lots to the maximum, and those lots are BIG. 

Nancy Sinatra attends every year and “back seats” with a Rolling Thunder officer on the ride from The Pentagon.  Connie Stevens did this year too!  I got to meet them both, and get pictures taken. 

***

The buildup was amazing.  The more I learned, the more excited I got.  My friend Bill, a veteran of many previous rides, invited me.  We awoke at his house early on Sunday morning, quickly got ready and fired up to get to Patriot Harley-Davidson In Fairfax, VA before 7 am.  The estimate was that over 10,000 motorcycles assemble here.  The line is about two miles long, parked in four columns. There is a local parade of the high school band, some fire trucks, bag pipers and some speeches, then, the word passes that it nearly time to roll, and everyone hustles to their motorcycles. 

It’s about a half-hour ride to The Pentagon.  There are police escorts from all jurisdictions that the route passes through and all roads and highways are closed.  I thought that this would be pretty cool in itself, but I didn’t realize the amount of spectators and well-wishers that would turn out.  People lined the route that wound down the local main street and through some neighborhoods as we rode toward I-66.  They were cheering and waving flags, holding up signs with messages of support.  Some held up their hands mimicking handlebars and “cranked” their right one, wanting us to rev our engines so they could hear that unique and adrenaline producing “Harley” sound.  (Of course, we obliged.)

When we entered I-66, the Interstate highway that leads to DC, I could see that all traffic on this normally congested road was stopped – all entrance ramps blocked.  From all the overpasses, people lined the rails, with more flag waving and cheering.  I thought, “This must be what it feels like to be a celebrity.” It was surreal – the highway completely vacant, with only a huge column of motorcycles moving.  I had a “Road Warrior” feeling.

I was, I’m not ashamed to say, a bit apprehensive.  Ten thousand motorcycles, now in a column of two, the riders have not met and there was little formal briefing (a set of “road rules” was handed out early on, but they were minimal).  The potential for something to happen was definitely abundant, but to my knowledge nothing bad occurred. 

Helicopters whooshed low overhead, circling the long line of bikes.  Of to my right, on the otherwise deserted road, an elderly couple had parked their Cadlillac.  Somehow the cops had missed them.  The lady was out of the car, taking pictures, waving -- I could see her mouth open, yelling.  Her husband was behind the wheel, waving and smiling.  They exhibited the energy of youngsters.  Soon, we arrived at The Pentagon and were marshaled into the parking area by an army of volunteers.  Then came a long wait. This is the assembly point.  Bikes approaching from the east, Maryland and beyond, are directed to one area, accompanied by their police escorts and helicopters from their areas.  We were sent to the “Virginia” area to wait our turn for the ride into DC.

The pavement is blacktop tarmac.  It gets hot when the temperature tops 90 degrees, which it quickly did.  The local fire department had a truck in each lot with a fog nozzle pumping out wonderful mist/rain that you could walk as far into as you wished.  We took advantage of it several times as we waited between 3 and 4 hours.  There were a lot of amazing bikes, some beautiful custom machines, homebuilt contraptions and lots of custom chrome and exotic paint jobs.

***

The head of the column leaves at noon, but at 2:30, we’re still waiting, slowly broiling in the full sun.  Finally, the police began driving around our parking lot, announcing on loud speakers, “Twenty minutes!” -- then ten, and then five.  Fifty thousand bikes crank up. A cacophony of motorcycle engine sound becomes deafening.  Riders jockey for position to get in line, and then we’re off.

More spectators, cheers, waves, flags – then as we approached the Memorial Bridge, a Marine sergeant in full dress blue uniform stands at attention and salutes as each group of cycles passes.  A right turn and I was headed across the bridge, the imposing Lincoln Memorial in full view. This is the only time that motorcycles “own” the streets of DC, and we all raced across the bridge as though it was a drag strip.  The adrenaline is flowing in massive amounts at this moment.

Traffic cones, more cops directing – “Keep moving, keep moving!”  More spectators lining Constitution Avenue, behind crowd barriers.  Not a car in sight, just motorcycles owning the entire road.  The roar of v-twin engines is everywhere.

The spectators want you to ride close to them, so that they can reach out and “slap skin” with you.  When you do it, some get emotional, girls yelping and jumping up and down, as though they just touched a big celebrity.

Heading eastbound toward the Capitol now, passing by the government offices on one side, the Smithsonian museums on the other.  Cops stop us to let pedestrians cross.  When they give the go signal, the race is on and we blast down the road for another few blocks.  Then, at about First St NW, a right turn, ride over to Independence Ave., then another right turn again to head back westbound. 

After riding the entire length of the mall again, we reach the ball fields near the western monuments, FDR, MLK, Korean War and adjacent to “The Wall”.  My friend had told me you could ride the circuit several times in past years.  Not so this year, but one loop without incident was probably good anyway.  Time to park the bikes and wander around a bit.

***  

As we make our way toward the main stage, we hear the beginning notes of “Boots are Made for Walkin’”.  As we hurry over, Nancy Sinatra takes the stage and does a very good rendition of her 1966 hit.  After her performance, Connie Stevens takes the stage and does several songs.  Both ladies looked good and performed amazingly, considering that they are both over 70 years old.  They were gracious, posing for pictures with many fans (including me!).

Finally, we completed our pilgrimage to The Wall.  Even though I have been there twenty-or-more times, it never fails to be an emotional moment for me. It is a giant “V” of brownish granite.  As you begin your walk from the “top” of one of the lines of the V, the granite is ankle high.  As you walk toward the point of the V, you go downhill, descending ever deeper as the wall grows taller.  Every inch is covered by names chiseled into the stone.  There are always remembrance items that have been left behind -- pictures, personal notes, military insignia, medals, packs of cigarettes, cans of beer.

When you get to the bottom, the point of the V, the wall towers above you, about 20 feet high.  Again, every inch, covered with names – 58,493 at present.  More are added when remains are recovered from sites in Asia. The site was designed to impress, and it does.  Scorned initially, it has come to be revered and iconic of the loss that we truly suffered.  Not a site of columns and carvings (like the new WWII Memorial), but rather, a monolith that starkly represents what the “Vietnam conflict” cost individuals, families and our nation.  My emotions from past visits returned – irony, sadness, dismay, anger.

Memories of my life during that time returned – getting my draft card, the nightly news broadcasts of the fighting, the protests at colleges, in the streets, the news in my hometown paper of more local dead.  I get a flashback of my mother shrieking at seeing news that her friend’s son had been killed.  

You stare up in awe at the never-ending names, shake your head and keep walking.  Eventually you come out the other side near the statue of three soldiers.  This was the answer to the movement that said the “Wall” was too cold and didn’t represent the human aspect of the sacrifices made there.  When I approached, two monks in yellow robes were chanting, leading a small group in prayers.

After a while, it was time to return to the bikes and ride back to Virginia to get a cold beverage and a sandwich.  We found a nice little restaurant in Arlington called “Cowboy Café”, and settled in to enjoy the a/c.  It had been quite a day. I had put another check on my bucket list.  The adventure was one I won’t soon forget.  Thanks Veterans, thanks America!  We might have our problems, but I still think you’re great.    --   Scott

Official Website:  www.rollingthunder1.com

Getting Ready for "Rolling Thunder"

Time to get the Harley ready to ride in "Rolling Thunder" this Sunday.  Although I've been riding again in the last couple of years, since buying my FXSTC (Softail Custom), I've been out of town or otherwise occupied during these festivities.

Twenty-five years ago (big anniversary this year!), a bunch of Viet Nam vets organized a ride to  The Wall, on the Mall in DC, to camp out and honor their fallen comrades.  It was an impromptu  gathering, and I recall there was some discussion among the government as to whether it was legal and proper for them to be camping out on National Park property, etc..  It was all resolved, and today, the event draws over half-a-million motorcycles from all across the nation and the world.

Bikes get police motorcycle escorts from designated gathering points outside the city and gather at the Pentagon parking lots.  A B-52 flies over to kick off the event!  Most of the Mall area streets, from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial, are closed for bike traffic only, and the riders are released from the Pentagon in groups of a thousand or so and can ride the city free from the danger of "cagers".  There's ceremonies, a concert (featuring Nancy Sinatra, a loyal supporter every year) and thousands of spectators who come out to celebrate the day and pay respect to the veterans.

I'm geared up for my first ride in this big event.  I'll be taking lots of pix!  Stay tuned!

If you want to check out the official website:  www.rollingthunder1.com

Scott Barry

First Entry

Just created a blog, at the suggestion of an intelligent friend.  This is the first entry.  Stay tuned for updates on adventures, travels, food, drink, fun and games!

Today:  On hold with the GAS company for 40 minutes so that I can explain that I've been away for 3 months, and they don't need to come inspect my meter.  They sent me a letter that it is "not recording usage properly," and asked me to call them.  I've listened to all their on-hold announcements at least 50 times!  Grrrrr...