Soon
Mark and I continued on toward the Capital, stopping whenever we heard sirens
or the deep-throated sound of bikes. We talked about our time in the military
and what we had done since. Mark had an easy-going nature and was a good
listener, which was perfect, because I loved to talk. We trudged past the Smithsonian
National Museum of Natural History on the right. Across the street was the IRS
building. I gave it a quick one fingered salute. Further on was the gargantuan
Natural Gallery of Art, and then we came to an unusual intersection where 6th
Street intersected Constitution as it hooked slightly north to join with
Pennsylvania Avenue, forming a grassy triangular island in the middle
surrounded by elm trees. It seemed like an oasis to me.
It
was now just after 11 A.M., and my understanding was that the ride would start
at noon. We still saw bikers rolling down the wide streets, and I tried to
capture them on video, not realizing until later that the tablet sucked at
making videos. I cursed myself for the millionth time for not bringing my
little Kodak but worked with what I had. We found another grassy traffic island
as Constitution broke off again to run west of the Capital, which could be seen
now.
As we approached the final leg of our forced march (it had begun to feel
like one - not as severe as the Bataan Death March, but in the same ball
field), we came across some more bikers. We sat on the curb next to them and
made sweat puddles with our butts. The biker closest to me was a real tough
looking guy with his stone-faced look, sunglasses, gloves, leather vest and
posture, leaning one arm against his Harley as if it were a horse. I asked him
where he was from and he said Scranton, PA. I blurted out "Oh, that's just
a hop, skip and jump away!" The look he gave when he rolled his eyes at me
reduced me to ash. I engaged his woman in conversation as she sat on the curb
next to me, wearing more leather and patches than any three other guys. Her
voice was deep and thick, as if from years of cigarettes and alcohol. I was so
thirsty and hot I would have welcomed a stiff drink of anything.
We
rested there for almost half an hour, watching for the unseen Muslims and
turning to look whenever a biker or more roared by. Eventually the fellow from
Scranton and his small entourage moved on, following a group of about a dozen
bikes. Mark and I continued to sit and sweat, and doubt our choice to come to
the west lawn of the Capital. Noon came and went and still no army of
motorcycles. It seemed that the bikers that were still rolling through had
become squad sized, 10 or 12 at a time. Perhaps they had left Fort Washington
at noon, and the sheer mass of them would take at least half an hour to get to
us. For now, though, the little triangular oasis to our west beckoned me with
promises of shade, and before long Mark and I decided that was going to be our
final stand. It was still close enough to the Capital to see it, and it offered
us a good view of Constitution Avenue all the way to the Washington Monument.
It was the perfect place to see 2 million bikers invade and own the streets. We
shuffled (at least I did - stumbled is more like it) back to the traffic island
and waited with anticipation, continuing to take pictures as we went. The horde
would be here any minute.
To
be Continued...
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