Rolling
Thunder 1999
Brian Phillips Sunday,
May 30, 1999 marked the 12th Annual Rolling Thunder gathering in Washington,
DC. The weather gods challenged the mettle of participants by delivering
cloudless skies and steadily rising temperatures. By noon, the tarmac in
the Pentagon staging area was reflecting as much heat as the sun was emitting.
It was not a good day for air-cooled motorcycles. It was a good day to
be an American.
The scope of this affair was enormous. I've never seen more motorcycles
in one place…ever. To get an idea of the size of this event, I spoke with
one of the organizers and learned that the 75 Rolling Thunder Chapters
provide 15 to 25 volunteers each to help handle the numbers. Over 1125
volunteers just to direct traffic! There were also large numbers of vendors,
police/security and paramedics. Most events are considered successful when
the numbers of participants are in the thousands. Rolling Thunder officials
were estimating 400,000 to 500,000. While Harley Davidson was the machine
du jour to be sure, one's make and model didn't seem to matter. There were
no negative attitudes perceived. For veterans, love of country and a sense
of duty done bound these thousands of bikers together like glue.
The mood at the Pentagon staging area was one of unabashed patriotism.
Bikers milled about in the thousands in a shadeless parking lot. Strangers
came up to shake hands and ask what battalion of Sea Bees I served with
and related their battalion designation. Young and old, men and women of
every imaginable background gather each year to ride their bikes to Washington.
But for what purpose? These people didn't come to party, they came just
to be there, to make a statement by virtue of their sheer numbers - honoring
those who have fallen or have been lost in the service of their country.
While waiting nearly three hours for the run to start, I had the pleasure
of meeting some truly original people:
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There was a Gospel singer from Southern Virginia named Clyde (I never did
get his last name) who was kind enough to lead me into Washington after
we rendezvoused through a relative in Upperville, VA.
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I also had the pleasure of meeting Malcolm "Mac" Garner who brought his
specially equipped Harley Davidson Road King. His bike has modifications
because Mac lost his arm at Khe Sanh during the failed North Vietnamese
siege.
These men and numerous others, whose names I lost track of, made the hours
of waiting in a blazing sun pass pleasantly and memorably. We riders in
the middle had grown accustomed to the rumbling exhaust of the thousands
of bikes leaving ahead of us. Sounds were reminiscent of a large jet on
some distant runway.
Two hours after the line started across the Arlington Memorial Bridge,
our group was fed into it. The overhead bridges approaching the city and
streets of Washington, DC were lined with enthusiastic viewers.
Earlier, a biker told me that spectators would be waiting to touch our
hands as we rode by. I thought he had been in the sun a little too long.
We cruised up Constitution and down Independence Avenues. People were stepping
into the street to touch us and pat us on the back as we went by. This
show of emotion for a churning mass of motorcyclists was moving to say
the least.
I wish I could compare Rolling Thunder to some other life-defining event
like Woodstock or Times Square on New Year's Eve. Alas, I wasn't at Woodstock
or Times Square to ring in the New Year but I will count Rolling Thunder
as a genuine milestone, a "mark it down in the book of life" event.
Hundreds of thousands of motorcycles gathered in one area and rode together
down the cager-free streets of Washington, DC to cheers and accolades of
countless thousands. If you weren't near tears or feeling chills running
down your back, you must have icewater coursing through your veins. Rolling
Thunder was that unique. The event overwhelmed me with a vindication for
having served my country some 32 years ago. It was as if the "people" rose
as one and said: "Good job, we're proud of you and we're glad you came
home".
The ride culminated at the Wall. Riders were asked to go to the reflecting
pool where invited speakers gathered.
This was only my second trip to the Wall since its dedication. I found
it emotionally debilitating. All the young men and women who didn't come
home are right there. Their names carved in black stone, stare back at
you. Most never had the chance to marry, have children and watch them grow.
That's the hook about the Wall. We stand in front of all those names and
can't help thinking "Why am I here and they're gone"? The Wall cuts right
to the core of the individual veteran's angst.
If you want to make the run for the Wall in 2000, learn from my ever-present
list of gaffs and foul-ups:
Make Washington, DC area hotel reservations now for next Memorial Day
weekend. This year, there wasn't a vacant hotel room within a 20-mile radius
of the city. Riding three and a half-hours home after a day of expending
physical and emotional reserves was NOT fun.
Bring plenty of bottled water and sunscreen. Vendors ran out of bottled
water by 11:30AM. Drinking soda on a hot day does nothing for your thirst.
If you don't know your way in and out of Washington, go with someone
who does. Getting lost outside the Capital Complex will test your social
skill to the max. I eventually had to rely on a Washington DC fire station
staff to get me back on the right track and out of town.
As always, good planning makes for a good trip. I keep saying and writing
that line, if only I'd follow my own advice.
Much akin to Muslims traveling to Mecca or Christians making a pilgrimage
to Jerusalem, every veteran who rides should attend at least one Rolling
Thunder.
It's a trip that's hard on the body but uplifting for the soul.
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