An
opening ceremony was scheduled to begin at 8 A.M. at the raised podium in front
of the Fort Washington Harley-Davidson dealership. I suspected that even though
the number of bikers seemed to be doubling every ten minutes the ceremony would
start pretty much on time, unlike the traditional half hour delay whenever the
POTUS decided to address the nation. I had always been skeptical that there
would be anything close to 2 million bikers, but here at 7:30 in the morning in
front of the dealership my skepticism was being noisily blown away by the gargantuan
showing. The ride was scheduled to begin in 4 and a half hours, but there were
already enough bikes to choke traffic from here to Timbuktu. I could scarce
believe my eyes.
Across
the street a merchandise table was being hastily erected, and a line had
already begun to form. I had never seen bikers forming a line as if they were
quietly waiting for movie tickets. Actually, I had quite a few preconceptions
about bikers that were being ground into the pavement this day. There were no
beer bottles flying, no barbaric displays of anarchy and no fights breaking out
despite my best efforts. At one point, desperate for a photo of mayhem, I
shouted in the middle of the crowd "IT AIN'T A PARTY TIL SOMETHING GETS
BROKEN!" This was greeted by a few scattered cheers but no dwarves being
tossed. I moved through the crowd and came upon a group of good looking biker
chicks lounging against the showcase wall. I yelled "FREE DEM
PUPPIES!" and was promptly given a generous display of big, hairy bikers
lifting their tee shirts for me. We all had a good laugh, but I made sure to
escape in the crowd in case one of them didn't find the request funny. So much
for fomenting a riot.
The
line at the merchandise table showed no sign of shortening, and I had no desire
to stand in line for something I probably couldn't afford anyway. The 7-11
across the street reminded me that I needed to get an ample supply of bottled
water for later, as it was supposed to be a scorcher, so I shouldered my way
through the crowd and eventually arrived. Inside, the store was noisy, jovial
and packed to the gills with bikers. The two little oriental girls behind the counter
were wide-eyed and frantic, and the Sikh manager (complete with turban and
beard) kept himself busy stuffing hotdogs in buns and dressing them or
slithering his way through the mass of bikers to refill coffee urns and
resupply cups and condiments. I grabbed two bottles of water (later I would
wish it had been 4 bottles) and a 20 oz. Mountain Dew and found the end of the
line. A young black woman dressed in scrubs filled up a personal coffee holder
and then looked around, I'm sure calculating the time it would take for her to
reach the cashier. To my amusement she ducked her head and made her way out the
front door. Smart girl. A heavy-set and leather-bound biker with long greasy
hair and an even longer beard yukked it up with whoever was next to him as he
waited in line for coffee. Yes, there were lines within lines here, snaking
around every aisle. If we had wanted to we could empty the store in three
minutes flat, shelves and all. At one point the jolly biker pointed so someone
about ten bodies behind me and told the guy to hold his spot in front of him,
happily declaring a place halfway through the line. As we all shuffled toward
the counter I caught the guy's attention and invited him to step in front of
me. His gratitude almost extended in a bear hug but I settled for a solid punch
in the shoulder and a toothy thanks. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry. I think it
was probably the most stress free line I'd ever known. Who would want to bitch
about someone cutting the line with a zillion bikers all around?
I
finally paid for my drinks and returned to the car to deposit them in my Jack
bag (named after the duffle bag Jack Baur always toted with him in the TV
series '24'). Parked next to me was a spotless, gleaming black Camaro SS with a
retractable sunroof. A solidly built young man in an OD green tee shirt was
busy polishing it with a towel. In retrospect, of all the names I heard that
day, his was the one I most regret not remembering. He had been a Marine in
Afghanistan, had served more than one tour and was one of those rare type of
men who had so much love for his country and fellow Marines that he had to be
dragged away even when he couldn't fight any more. He pulled out a large
American flag on a sturdy, thick pole that had to be put together like a pool
cue. He proudly told me it was his unit's standard. Our conversation turned to
the battlefield but his mood did not waver. I told him that in my experience
there was nothing scarier than feeling and hearing a round fly past my ear and
how it had made me feel more alive than ever before. He smiled and told me
about taking a round in the chest while wearing a flack jacket, and then the
time a mortar round blew up right in front of him. He said had it not been for
his Medic - whom the unit called Doc (having been a Medic myself I knew it was
an honorable title) - he would have never left the engagement site alive. He
told me that so much of his left leg was blown away he could see his femoral
artery thumping. I told him that if that artery had even be nicked it would
have been lights out for him, and he laughed. He said he died right there on
the battlefield and was revived by his Doc, then flown to Germany where he died
again and was saved, then flown to the States where he died a third time on the
table but cheated death again. As he spoke I stood there thinking how ridiculous
my 'bullet-flying-by-my-ear' story was and was at once humbled and awestruck at
this living miracle before me. He said his Gunny told him he hadn't died
because he was never given permission to do so and as we chuckled over that, I
thought my absolute love and respect for this brave warrior would make me
swoon. Yes, I said swoon. It's that feeling you get when you're faced with the
true understanding of Christ's words: "Greater love hath no man than this,
that a man lay down his life for his friends." (John 15:13) Here before me
was absolute courage, honor and duty. He had given his all and still wanted to
give more. I watched as he put the standard through the sunroof and secured it
into place. The flag responded to the wind as I surrendered to the moment,
grateful beyond expression for having been in this patriot's company. The photo below shows him holding his unit's standard.
To
Be Continued...
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