Those
of us with cars had to move to a bank parking lot next door. The yellow vested
fellow that talked to me said that the owner of the property was being a dick
and complaining that we were impeding his customers. I looked over at the
businesses: a nail salon and a title loan company. God forbid we keep someone
from signing their life away or getting that nice, sparkly pedicure (if that's
what they're called). But today wasn't for getting upset over trivial things
(I'm sure it wasn't trivial to the owner of the shops), so the Marine, myself
and all the other four-wheelers moved over to the already seam-bulging bank
parking lot. I suspected we'd have to move again soon (after all, people need
to access the root of all evil)so I took my Focus to a supermarket parking lot
further down and hoofed it back.
On
the way, I spotted a white utility truck with flashing red lights on the top
and EMERGENCY MANAGEMENT - HOMELAND SECURITY emblazoned on the side. Great. Who
invited them to the party? I imagined hiding it behind the 7-11 just for fun
and wish I had bigger cojones. Just then I saw Belinda Bee, the woman who had
put this whole shindig together. She was bouncing through the bank parking lot
crowd like a featherweight boxer making it to the ring. I could tell even at
this distance that she was a real firecracker, a genuine sparkplug, a woman who
was used to handling the spotlight. She would hide the Homeland Security van in
a heartbeat. I trailed behind her as she shook hands and joked with bikers,
pausing long enough to check out the stuff at the merchandise table before
wading through the real mass of leather and steel. It took her a good ten
minutes to make it to the raised podium where a couple of fellows stood
grinning from ear to ear waiting for her. I was glad there was a microphone,
because it would have been utterly impossible to be heard over the thunderous
noise of bikes and cheers of the horde. Still, the cheers tapered off as she
faced the crowd, her face beaming with pride. I would have paid a couple
hundred bucks to get on top of the Harley-Davidson roof and take photos right
then, because from my spot on the ground I could see no end to the bikers and
their rides.
Just
as Belinda began addressing the assembly, her arms raised and her voice clear
and brave, I saw something unusual just on the other side of the podium. I
shouldered my way toward it, noticing for the first time a contingency of
policemen on my right trying to keep a single lane open for traffic. Eventually
the object made itself known to me: strapped to the back of a flatbed trailer
was a magnificent statue of the numbers '9-1-1'. The nine shimmered in highly
polished silver, and if you looked closely at it you could make out the image
of the American flag as if it reflected from another source. The ones, also
burnished silver, were exact replicas of the World Trade Center towers. The
statue was easily ten feet tall if resting on the ground, but on the flatbed it
overlooked its surrounding. I'm including a couple of photos of it so you can
see just how impressive it is. It belonged there that day.
Belinda
Bee began thanking everyone for being there, for all those who helped her pull
the event off in those three short weeks, and for the overwhelming support and
love that had sustained her through thick and thin. I heard her voice thicken
with emotion and felt a lump rise in my own throat. The applause and love the
bikers showered upon her was overwhelming to say the least. Imagine the
tremendous effort it must have taken to handle the logistics of such a
monsterous undertaking, and in less than a month. I joined my voice in thanking
Belinda. We didn't let up until she pumped her hands and arms up and down in
the international symbol of "Ok, enough of that, I've got more to say."
She told us that everyone who was going to participate had to sign a waiver for
their own safety as well as the event's. Unfortunately, this is the way the
world works now. Litigiousness demands everyone cover their ass. She then
announced that every biker was going to get a sticker with the name of one of
the victims of 9/11 so they could put it on their helmet or wherever they
liked. Given the sheer number of bikers, I had a feeling those 3,000 names were
going to be repeated many times over.
I
planned on taking the Metro downtown to the National Mall before the bikers rolled
through so I could film it, and decided I'd better do it now before I had to
take a detour into unknown territory. I hustled back to my car and snaked my
way out of the area with the help of a platoon of police officers directing
traffic. It took some effort to leave that scene; I'd spent 16 hours watching
the birth of an army and rubbing shoulders with warriors of the first degree.
As I crept my Focus through the narrow space created by orange cones and
stone-faced cops, I rolled down my windows and gave a rebel yell as the cacophony
washed over me like a non-stop tsunami. The next time I would see them they
would be making their presence known in the halls of Congress, the deepest
recesses of the White House, the Capital dome and the height of the Washington
monument.
To
be Continued...
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