My
insatiable appetite for Burger King and internet access drove my decision to follow
the signs and take the exit on I-81 to I believe it was Raphine, Virginia. I
found the BK sharing space with a convenience store in the heart of a three
block long downtown. Not only did they not have Coke Icees (the effeminate
manager waved his arms in a sweeping motion behind the counter, smiled and said
there was no room for the machine that made them), but they also did not have
the internet. Still, I enjoyed my lunch listening to two local women weaving the
local gossip for the day while fighting the nagging voice in my accelerator
foot urging me back on the road. When I was done I walked next door, picked up
a 20 oz. Mt. Dew and stepped outside.
That's
when I saw the motorcycles. I had been looking for riders since midnight when I
left out of Florence, Alabama, expecting to see and hear platoons of them
rolling on the interstate toward Washington DC. There was to be a rally in the
nation's capital - officially called The 2 Million Bikers to DC - the next day
on 9/11, and I was going there in Hunter Thompson style (without the hallucinogenics,
unfortunately) to do a bit of gonzo journalism about the event. Until now,
though, I had not seen more than the occasional 'lone wolf' on the highway. I
went back inside to find the bikers and found them sitting in a booth.
Considering the store and restaurant was so small that the building could have
easily fit in the backseat of my Ford Focus, it was not a great task picking
the bikers out of the sparse local crowd, if you can call 4 people a crowd. The
older man was around my age, in his mid 50s with a salt-and-pepper goatee, dark
sunglasses and a white "Sturgis" t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off.
The other fellow was easily in his early thirties with thick, black hair, a
droopy mustache and soul patch, and a black t-shirt with the picture of a provocatively
dressed woman about to tear into a huge burger over a psychedelic long sleeved shirt.
I approached them, identified myself ("I'm a writer doing a story about
the biker rally in DC," loving how the word 'writer' rolled so easily out
of my big mouth) and engaged them in conversation.
The
older man's name was Maril ("one 'r'," he said without smiling - now
that I think about it I don't recall that he ever did smile) and his sidekick
was Jeremy. Maril made it clear from the start that the Harley was his and that
Jeremy was riding the Yamaha, that this was Jeremy's first long distance trip
and that Jeremy's ass was suffering from being on such an uncomfortable seat
for so long. They were from Cartersville, Georgia and planned on being part of
the rally. Maril's arms were covered in old tattoos that had turned light blue
and were almost faded into obscurity, and the pacifist in me immediately
labeled him as someone who would punch you in the nose first and then maybe explain
why later. I didn't get the same vibe from Jeremy, perhaps because I knew he
had a sore ass and was riding a crotch rocket. We three talked a bit about how
the current administration sucked and how the Constitution was being ripped to
pieces, and about our hope that we come across some pork-hating Muzzies so we
could tell them what we thought of their Sharia laws and candy-ass complaints
of persecution. The 2 Million Bikers to DC was originally organized in response
to a "Million Muslims for Freedom" protest planned on the 12th
anniversary of 9/11, and it was a collective outrage that drew the bikers
together. The three of us agreed that there was no way a bunch of sand-niggers
were going to hijack the sacred anniversary of the worst terrorist attack on
American soil, especially because it was their kind that had committed the
heinous act. We talked about throwing pork sandwiches at the Muslims, stomping
on their Koran and all the terrible things we would do to them if they dared
burn the Stars and Stripes. As we masticated over the state of affairs in that
booth I could tell, even under their sunglasses, that these guys were fed up
over their heads with the mountain of shit the politicians were shoveling at
the citizens, and that they were ready to crack a few skulls against tyranny.
After
a quarter hour of talk, oblivious to the comings and goings of the store's
customers (well, I was oblivious; Maril probably scoped everyone for weapons as
they came through the door), some synchronized inner bell rang in our heads,
and we got up to leave. Maril was the last to step outside, and before he
crossed the threshold he looked back at the clerk and said "Thanks for the
AC." The late morning sun was already pushing the humid temperature into
what felt the nineties. I fought the urge to jump into my car and thank it for
the AC, and asked Jeremy and Maril if I could take photos of them behind their
bikes. I fished an Acer Iconia tablet I had borrowed from my son's bi-polar
girlfriend out of its holder and shot a couple of pictures of them. Maril's glossy
black half helmet bore a couple of flag stickers on the back, and below them
were the words "Fuck Terrorists." I made sure to get a photo of that
resting on Maril's thick leather seat with him standing stoically behind his
bike. Those two words told me Maril was a warrior of the first degree, ready to
defend our country against all who would seek to destroy us through fear and
intimidation. There were millions of stone-faced and sober Marils rolling
toward Washington DC with those words on their lips, an army of young Jeremys
descending upon the nation's capital poised to do whatever it took to return
our tattered freedoms to the people before it grew too late, and a corps of
unincorporated journalists, writers, photographers, philosophers and poets
riding on their coattails to chronicle this historic event. I shook hands with
the two bikers - my first of many encounters with their kind - and hit the road
again, refreshed and reenergized for the impending event.
www.jaytharding.com
No comments:
Post a Comment