The
Metro station was just a couple of miles away. I had wanted to stay and watch
more of the opening ceremony but I had never been on the Metro transit system
before and didn't have a clue how long it would take or how close it would get
me to the National Mall. I hadn't driven the streets of DC in a quarter
century, and really all I remembered was that it seemed the city's avenues had
to have been laid out by a drunken sailor. If you look at a map of Washington
DC one of the first things that catches your eye is that the streets resemble
the spokes of a wagon wheel. Try to drive through the city and you'll discover
how to curse in fourteen different languages. My only advantage was that I was
going in on foot, which meant I could cut through courtyards if need be. How
naive! Next time I'm taking a GPS, a map, a compass, a ball of string and bread
crumbs.
The
closest parking spot to the Metro Station was a half mile away (I kid you not).
By the time I reached the station on foot I remembered the limitations of my
congestive heart failure. The temperature at 10 A.M. had to be in the upper 80s
already, and between toting the Jack bag with my electronics and water in it
and the 100 pounds I had picked up since my heart attack, I was in the mood for
love (loving me a hot shower and nap). A courteous Metro worker helped me get
my ticket and told me how to use it, and I was off to the races. Before long I
was in the bowels of a train car staring at all the sleepy, indifferent zombies
around me. This mood was as different from the biker assembly as a funeral to a
wedding (although some have tried to draw parallels), but the atoms in my body
still vibrated to the throaty rumble of thousands upon thousands of motorcycles
and despite my early fatigue I was completely jazzed to witness the
blood-pumping thrill of all those machines and their riders rumbling through
the Mall.
One
transfer and a half hour later I stepped out of the Metro cave and into the food
court of the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center. Had I been
there as a tourist my awe would have started there: the surrounding buildings
were easily two hundred feet tall and seemed to be crafted entirely out of
marble. Doric columns larger than California sequoias followed the stupendously
huge building as it formed a half circle. I looked down to see if the pavement
was made of gold, for surely I had died and gone to heaven. What a fitting
building for my favorite President.
Being
typically ill-prepared, I stared down at the only map I had of the area: the
Metro station brochure. I determined which direction north was, prayed I was
right and walked until I came to 14th Street. Good. My old cab driver senses and
even older memory kicked in. To the right was Pershing Park and to the left was
the National Mall. I fell in step with the well-dressed pedestrians carrying
their briefcases and was soon at Connecticut Avenue. I looked ahead and saw the
Washington Monument surrounded in scaffolding. Even from this distance the
monolith seemed enormous. I waited for the signal to cross (although I felt I
could cross any street at any time and get away with it once - after all, I am
Jay) and once on the edge of the Mall found a bench under a shady elm tree and
parked my butt on it. Today was going to be a scorcher, and I scolded myself
for not bringing more water.
The
now familiar sound of a Harley-Davidson rose to my ears and I looked to see a
lone wolf on a beautiful Electra Glide rumbling down Connecticut toward the
distant Vietnam Veteran's Memorial. There had been talk among the riders in
Fort Washington of a rally point in the Mall, but by the time I left there had
not heard where it was. The Vietnam Veteran's Memorial was as good enough place
as any to start, so I gathered my belongings to trudge west.
"Well,
we meet again!" Mark walked up to me and shook my hand. He had been at the
Harley-Davidson Dealership earlier that morning taking photos with a
nice-looking Canon, and we had exchanged a few brief words around that stunning
red Harley painted in tribute to the fallen firefighters of 9/11. He wore a white
button up shirt, tan shorts and matching baseball cap (I would curse myself
later for having on long blue jeans). His face was a little red from the sun
and he seemed a bit frazzled around the edges. He explained that he had found room
in a parking deck a few blocks away and had so far walked from the far side of
the Washington Monument past the World War Two Memorial and over to the Vietnam
Veteran's Memorial looking for someone who knew where the rally point was. He
said a truly crusty biker at the Vietnam Vet Memorial told him it would be
somewhere between here and the Capital Building about a mile and a half further
up Connecticut Avenue. As we talked a few more bikers went by in a small group,
but by the time I got my tablet out, turned it on and got ready they were long
gone. I decided to keep the tablet in my hand from then on. We decided to walk
toward the Capital together, but I warned him that I was out of shape, restricted
by my congestive heart failure (and beta blocker - don't think I mentioned that
it kept my heart beating slow) and generally fat. Mark was ok with that (I
hoped he wouldn't soon regret it) and we were on our way.
The
sun blazed down upon us. My inner thermometer told me it was easily a zillion
degrees, and after just a couple of blocks I started sipping on my water. I'm
not sure if I offered any to Mark and if I didn't I was a selfish, insensitive
prick. He told me he had been in the first Gulf War, and we swapped desert
stories. From time to time one, two or more bikers roared past us going in
either direction, and we took pictures and short film clips of them. I kept one
eye out for anyone dressed in traditional Muslim garb and saw none. We did
witness a line of four men wearing tattered robes walking across the street
while dragging life-sized wooden crosses. I had heard that among the many
protests and rallies that day there was supposed to be a large group of
Christians gathered to either counter the Muslims or pray for peace or protest
Benghazi or any of the other eight dozen things the government had screwed up.
It was now 11 A.M. as we marched to the Capital. The bikers were to be here in
an hour, and I wanted to be in a good spot to witness it. I was glad Mark was
with me. It was good to chat with a former veteran, especially on such a somber,
historic day.
To
be Continued...
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