Three
hours into the trip I could barely keep my eyes open. The past 24 hours was
finally catching up with me. No, it had caught up with me and was beating me
over the head with a ton of sand. I forced myself to drive until I came across
a rest area, then pulled off the highway and was asleep before I could properly
close my eyes. Four hours later I awoke with a start to darkness and the sound
of dozens of big trucks idling. I stepped out of my car and walked around the
rest area until my circulation kicked in. I saw a couple of Harleys parked
close to the bathrooms and felt a rush of camaraderie come over me. One of the
bikes had a large American flag rolled up and lashed to its pole, looking like
an imposing spear rising up from the back of the Harley. No doubt these guys
had been to the Ride. I thought about waiting for them so we could talk but
decided against it. I went to the vending machines instead. As I wrestled over
a Mounds candy bar that didn't want to open I heard the bikes start up with a
familiar roar and watched the riders pull back onto the Interstate.
I
mulled over memories of the day and night before as I wandered back to my car.
I had not seen this level of patriotism since watching the fleet come into
Norfolk, Virginia from Operation Desert Storm in '91. No, not even then,
because that patriotism generated from the family, friends and grateful
citizens. This display, this pride of nation and flag, I had never experienced
before, not even in my days in the military. The men I had witnessed and
encountered on this journey had come from everywhere to defend the sacred
memory of those who had lost their lives twelve years earlier. There were
representatives of all social classes, all races, all branches of the military,
all occupations, all political leanings, all corners of our nation to be
counted - not as one in a million, but as ONE. They may have brought with them
feelings of disaffection with the Muslims, dissatisfaction with the government
and disappointment with the state of affairs in the country and world, but to a
man they came to preserve the sanctity of 9/11, to remind themselves, each
other and the nation that we will never forget the horror, nor the singular
determination to make those who had orchestrated such a heinous act pay for
what they had done, and to renew our vow to do whatever it takes to keep that
sort of thing from ever happening again. If another enemy, foreign or domestic,
tries to bring us down, there won't be 1.2 million bikers. There will be TWELVE
million warriors on motorcycles, and that wouldn't even be the tip of the spear.
The United States - again, I say the UNITED States - consists of 314 million
warriors, most of them armed to the teeth, each willing to water the tree of
liberty with his or her blood. If push comes to shove, we will not suffer any
threat to our freedoms, be it from outside forces or our own government. We are
slow to anger and quick to forgive, but above all we are not afraid to defend
our rights and the rights of our neighbors. We may fuss and fight among
ourselves, but let someone come in and try to tell us what to do and we'll
bring Toby Keith's song lyrics to life (Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue):
"We'll put a boot in your ass, it's the American way."
I
had seen a sample of that boot this day and was grateful I had been there to
witness it. It took me another 18 hours to get home and about a week before I fully
recovered from the road, but if needed, I would have turned right around and
taken my tired old self wherever my country needed me. For the rest of my life,
whenever I hear the sound of a motorcycle, I'll think of those brave warriors
of the first degree, and the sound will comfort me because it roars of freedom.
To
be Continued (with more tales of Warriors of the First Degree)...
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