25 May 2009
 
Easy Riders

(Two of four hundred thousand Rolling Thunder Veterans)
 
We did my own personal Rolling Thunder this morning, even as the swarm of snarling machines descended on the capital.
 
It was thanks to Phil, completely. I am honest enough to know that the Bike has scared me since the moment I sat on it after completing the mandatory training course down in Richmond last year.
 
I had sucked myself into an idea of freedom, and the dream got away from me. I had just survived- barely- a bitter legal struggle, and was determined to find some optimism that life could start again.
 
After licking my wounds, I began to casually look at bikes. It was a confluence of unrelated events that led to it. My cousin is a minor mogul in the motorcycle trade- his niche is the creation of aftermarket chrome devices that enable Hondo riders to customize their superior-quality machines like their Neanderthal Harley brethren.
 
He is my age, and had just completed a long ride across the Midwest, being mobbed at Honda dealers. Another old shipmate is a Harley Rider, and he was embarking on the "Four Corner" epic ride across America that summer, Key West to Maine, Maine to Washington State, Washington State to San Diego, and Sandy Eggo to Key West. 
 
That is thousands of miles across hostile roads with snarling weather at face and back. Knowing what I know now, I stand in awe of the journey. But at the time, for a completely irresponsible thing, it seemed perfectly sensible. 
 
The machines are devilishly expensive. I checked what new ones cost and was stunned. Within the construct of something stupid, I was totally rational, and wound up on eBay motors. I had learned my lesson after the Mercedes 350 SL debacle of a few years back. I did not have much vodka before I put a bid on the 2003 Centennial Edition Soft Tail Night Train.
 
It was a sweetie, all dark Parkerized parts rather than the showy chrome-on-chrome.
 
Sleek. Businesslike. About twelve feet long. 1,100 original miles, and in the bidding game, it was sitting at about half the cost of a new machine. 
 
It was a local, too, being garaged up in Maryland not far from NSA, and the owner, a Marine Warrant Officer, was willing to deliver it, saving hundreds of dollars in shipping. Of course nothing is what it actually appears on eBay, and I kicked myself again before the negotiations were done, but it still seemed a pretty good deal.
 
I thought I could figure out how to ride it. I mean, if Dennis Hopper can do it, high as a kite, how hard could it possibly be?
 
Well, long story short, I did it ass-backwards as usual. The machine was parked in back of the Hubrismobile before I could legally ride it. It was a pretty thing, I had to admit, and it did not occur to me that this was a matter of some acquired skills. 
 
After learning to the marginal satisfaction of the instructors in Richmond, I had my "M" endorsement for the Virginia driver's license, and a healthy appreciation for the capacities for mayhem of a 250cc two-wheeled bike. 
 
While the twin parking scheme worked, I knew sooner or later I would back into the bike, dinging both the Harley and the Hubrismobile. Accordingly, U negotiated with the Mayor to secure one of the four designated motorcycle parking places in the garage, and straightaway upon return from the former capital of the Confederacy, moved the convertible out of the way and straddled the bike. It was huge. The V-twin engine was five times the size of the 250cc Suzuki I had just learned how to careen around the parking lot. 
 
It was at least four hundred pounds heavier than the rice-burner, too. If you lean it too far (I have), it assumes an imperative imparted by gravity that is quite extraordinary. 
 
I was stunned. I unlocked the fork to the handlebars and got it upright. I pushed it down the length of the garage and slide it, feet moving frantically, and slid it into the designated space near the elevator. Being a Maryland bike, it had no inspection, so I still couldn't ride it off the property, and bedsides, it scared the hell out of me. Getting the inspection meant moving the machine from the garage to the nearest gas station that performed inspections.
 
I put the cover on it, and resolved to get right on that task as soon as I familiarized myself enough to get it there without dying in the name of safety. 
 
Again, long story short, that trip, after several dozen circuits of Big Pink, was one of the heart-pounding adventures of this decade of my life. 
 
Slightly encouraged, I decided that now that it was legal, I could think about selling the thing.
 
The problem was my former Boss at Lucent. Phil is a grand Marine, one of life's great guys. His brother, a Navy Commander, had just passed away after a long tough illness. The love of his brother's life, behind his family, was a full-dress Harley cruiser. In the course of time, his widow wanted it out of the garage, and Phil took possession from a truck over at the other local Harley dealer in Maryland. He lovingly detailed it as sort of a rolling tribute to his brother, and was looking for someone to ride it with. 
 
Enter me, and the machine that scared the hell out of me. 
 
Anyway, Phil had been after me to ride over to his neighborhood, and then off on a decent ride up the George Washington Parkway- something sedate and controlled, but I was still nervous about being out of the street surrounded by the maniacs of Northern Virginia.
 
The light-bulb finally came on, and I asked if he would ride over to me and we could start with some confidence building. He agreed and we had a good little mini-ride to check out tire pressure. It went much better than the first solo adventure, and for such a solitary sport, it is a remarkably social thing. 
 
As you probably have heard, there are about four hundred thousand people in town for Rolling Thunder, the Memorial Day tribute to those who are missing in Vietnam.
 
At least that was the original thought, back in 1987 when it started. Founder Artie Muller brought an assertive air to the ride, through with all the noise, an aural demonstration of strength and resolve in defense of those who fell in Vietnam. The unspoken message of the V-Twins was of support for those who never saw defeat in the field but had it visited upon them by those who never served.
 
What was originally a rag-tag anti-anti-war protest that ended at The Wall downtown, the event has grown in stature down through the years. There are a hundred or more bikes scattered around the Assembly of God across the street, and when the fifty-and-sixty-something owners roll into the church lot, the air pulses with the sound of engines.
 
I don't know the connection between the Assembly and the assemblage of bikers; there are the de rigeur salt-and-pepper pony tales and denim vests festooned with patches. Bikers for Christ is possible, or maybe it is a strictly cash deal to camp. Whatever, when I was paddling in the pool I could feel the vibrations of the V-Twins through the water. 
 
Phil sent me an e-mail on Friday asking if I wanted to ride over to Shirlington and have breakfast Sunday. He said he would come by and pick me up and ride interference. Traffic would be light, and he had a commitment to his wife and daughter to drive up I-395 under the pedestrian bridge there, American flag flying from the back of the bike. I swallowed and said "sure."
 
This morning I was helmeted and leather jacketed, black gloved and booted and blue-jeaned by 0820. Phil was on time with military precision, and we roared off around the building and into the Buckingham neighborhood.
 
A right hand turn, easily done with light traffic, and I got into fourth gear for the first time, flying across Rte 50, and down the highlands from Big Pink along the course of Four Mile Run. There was only one left turn, and we caught only a couple red lights. The wind against my chest and the roar under my helmet was a positive rush. 
 
We wheeled up in front of our favorite coffee shop in the pleasant mall, and were joined in short order by Phil's wife and daughter. I backed the bike to the curb and stripped off my leather jacket. 
 
I felt great. Phil rocketed off to find an entrance to the freeway to make his ceremonial pass under the overpass so his wife could get a picture, and she took a couple of us in poses of pleasant middle-aged menace on our machines before he took off.
 
The overpass is only a hundred yards or so away, and presently we were standing above the northbound lanes of I-395 watching the bikes roar toward the capital. They came as singletons and in packs of twenty or thirty. The roar was palpable, and the flags of the nation and for the Missing fluttered on the rear fenders as they thundered along. They were all headed for the Pentagon to marshal for the big parade. 
 
We hooked up again for coffee and croissants when Phil had done the circuit. He turned around at Pentagon North Parking, and he said the heat from the engines caused the air to ripple up over the black-top from a hundred thousand V-twins, gathered to make the parade, and say something that is profound about our people.
 
I pulled on my leather jacket and shook my head when Phil asked if I needed an escort back up the hill to Big Pink. "I got this one, but thanks. This was fantastic."
 
"Next year we ride downtown," said Phil.
 
I flicked the starter button, and felt the massive machine vibrate between my legs, and thunder emit from the exhaust.
 
I said "Right on."

Copyright 2009 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com