The
day was upon us.
As
soon as the sun peeked its head above the horizon they began arriving, a steady
and deafening stream of bikes from all directions. It is almost sacrilegious to
describe them as such, but as I stood on the sidewalk absorbing the growing legion,
this came to my head and stuck like breakfast grits to the ribs: Morning
Glories. Indeed, they were glorious to behold. Every type of motorcycle you can
think of was there, although for every foreign bike there were 10 Harleys:
Sleek Sportsters, thick-chested Fat Bob Superglides, comfortable Softail
Classics, imposing Electra Glides and monsterous Road Kings, to name but a few.
There were smatterings of Indians and Boss Hogs, Confederate and Iron Horse, a
few British Triumphs, and of course, every conceivable Japanese bike on the
market. There were trikes and Spyders and custom jobs that refused to stay in the
envelope. They began parking in front of the Fort Washington Harley-Davidson
dealership in neat rows and columns, indicative of military veterans, and when
the store's employees showed up and opened the gated fence on the north side of
the building, motorcycles quickly filled up the perimeter.
Many
of the bikers were middle aged and looked as if they had been chiseled out of
stone. They stood around in small clusters, admiring each others' rides and
talking about the day. Everywhere I turned I saw patches sewn on leather or
denim with either military themes (82nd Airborne Devil with Baggy Pants, 103rd
Airlift Wing, 2nd Battalion 7th Marines War Dogs, 29th Infantry Blue and Gray),
combat veteran themes (POW/MIA, All Gave Some Some Gave All Vietnam War, Combat
Action ribbon, Desert Shield, Desert Storm, Bosnia Deliberate Force,
Afghanistan Enduring Freedom, Operation Iraqi Freedom), biker sayings (American
by Birth, Biker by Choice, Old Skool Biker, American Hawgs The Road is Ours,
Lone Wolf No Club, Shut Up and Ride), all kinds of 9/11 patches (Never Forget,
FDNY In Memory of our Fallen Heroes, Pentagon shaped with We Remember, God
Bless the USA We Will Never Forget, PDNY FDNY Port Authority Fallen Heroes) and
combinations of them all. When I walked among them I couldn't take it all in. A
reverence and seriousness permeated the crowd; no boisterous horseplay or bawdy
laughter erupted among them. The air was filled with the sound of thousands of
deep-throated bikes vibrating me to the bone. The rumble rose and fell like
ocean waves, and I let the scene wash over me, stripping my mind to its
guttural core, exposing something powerful and dangerous and primitive and
essential and absolutely fearless.
The
bikes themselves were without exception, gleaming and clean. I saw intricate
designs, mesmerizing acrylic paintings and colorful murals on gas tanks and
hoods. In the parking lot across the
street I spotted a stunning red bike with a fantail of flags behind it like an
Indian chief's headdress, and it drew me like a magnet. The front of the
windshield was emblazoned with a majestic eagle; its wings were American flags
and they stretched out on either side as if coming in for a strike, the razor-sharp
eagle's claws splayed and ready to rend its victim. Over and behind the eagle's
fierce head were the World Trade Center towers standing bravely against a
cloudy blue expanse. As I examined the bike closer it became evident that this
was all a tribute to the rescue workers who died on 9/11. On the right side of
the tank was an elaborate picture of two angels bowing down on either side of a
firefighter who sat on a curb hunched over in fatigue and grief. I saw what I
assumed to be the rider standing behind it. He was short and stocky and built
like a cinder block, with a sleeveless jacket that displayed enough pins to
qualify as body armor. He had a camouflage hat on his head, and wisps of white
hair stuck out all over. He wore a badge of some sort around his neck attached
to a long ribbon, the kind that distinguish event staff and security. Another
man with a camera was crouched down taking photos of the bike, and he
introduced himself as Mark Hicks, who had driven here in his car to be part of
the rally. He told me that the rider of this spectacular machine was a retired
NYC Fire Chief. I hoped that fellow was going to be in the front.
I
milled about, taking a few pictures but mainly just soaking in the growing sea
of metal and leather. This was no longer just an event, no longer just a rally.
It was becoming a living entity. It was becoming a single army of patriots
brought together to pay tribute and honor the victims and heroes of 9/11. The
Battle Hymn of the Republic began playing on someone's stereo "Mine eyes
have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord / He is trampling out the vintage
where the grapes of wrath are stored. / He hath loosed the faithful lightening
of His terrible swift sword / His truth is marching on!" I fought to keep
the tears from my eyes, here in this gigantic mass of soldiers, but failed. Sometimes
my love for this country is so great I break down and cry.
To
Be Continued...
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