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
