Doc's 2008 Honor & Remember Ride Diary

[Moderator]

These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission ... to explore strange new worlds ... to seek out new life and new civilizations ... to boldly go where no man has gone before.

Damn, I wish I had written that. It would have been a great opening for the journal. Of course, I would have had to change a few things. For instance, the 15-passenger van wasn't called the Enterprise. It was alternately referred to as the Van O' Stuff, the Garbage Truck, the Ambulance, the Hearse, the Gimp-mobile and the Command Van.

In addition, our mission was scheduled for two weeks, not five years. If we had gone the full two weeks we originally scheduled, it would have probably seemed like five years. The "out east" we explored was definitely a strange new world with new life, but I have serious doubts civilization has improved back there since I moved from Virginia to Minnesota in the mid-70s. I was never so glad to see a "Welcome To Minnesota" sign as when we crossed the Saint Croix River on the way back.

Lastly, millions of people have boldly been there before we arrived, but it was the first time in four attempts that I was able to walk down the path from Constitution Avenue to The Wall in Washington, DC and touch the names of my buddies. The reason I was able to make it this time was because of the people who surrounded me. And that's the underlying theme of everything that happened during 10 magnificent days in June, 2008 ... the diverse group of folks who came together for a single purpose ... to honor and remember.

I've coordinated enough events over the years to know that the best plan includes preparing for the worst-case scenario, hoping for the best-case scenario, and expecting something in-between. The 2008 Honor & Remember Ride To Washington exceeded all of my expectations. Almost nothing happened as planned. Few things happened on schedule. It didn't make any difference. Whether it was a vapor lock in the van in Wisconsin, outrunning a wall cloud in Illinois, a bike choking to death in a downpour in Maryland, an attendant refusing to allow a "motorcycle gang" admittance to a parking garage in DC, one of our riders temporarily leaving the group in an ambulance in Virginia, or the trailer catching fire in West Virginia, we rolled with the flow, dealt with the situation, and then found an ice-cream shop as soon as we could. It's all about priorities.

Battle plans that have been months or years in the making are generally worthless when the first missile is launched or the first trigger is squeezed. The moment the action starts, you might as well fold the plan into a paper airplane and toss it out the nearest window. Events such as the Ride are the same way. Everything that went "wrong" turned out much better after we fixed it. Every time we altered the itinerary, the trip improved because of the change. The entire group simply adapted and moved on.

For instance, we were very fortunate that almost none of the dozens of individuals and groups who said they were going to join us on the way to Washington actually showed up. It would have been a logistical nightmare, given the flooded roads, the detours, the torrential rains, and especially when one of our riders went down. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention the one motel we had booked that had been converted into a rehab center months ago and no one thought it was important to notify people who held reservations. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, OK?

Chance, luck, fate ... whatever you want to call it ... happened at least once a day and usually several times a day. By the time we were heading home, I was telling everyone I might have to start going to church again because of all of the "coincidences" that appeared over and over again. That's not meant to be completely humorous. Except for funerals and my own wedding(s), I haven't been to church since I left the Navy in late 1970. For a sinner like me to even think about getting some religion at this late stage of my probable eternal damnation is worth mentioning. Amen.

I will use nicknames when referring to two of the guys ...

[/i] 8ball ... the dude responsible for suggesting the Ride and literally changing some lives, especially mine. He's much better with a pool cue than he is plugging-in the CB radio on his bike.

John ... aka Kneecap ... my driver and the poor guy who had to listen to me for 10 hours a day for what must have seemed like 10 days in the depths of hell. He earned his nickname the old fashioned way ... by falling off a ladder and landing on a concrete sidewalk two months before we left for DC. By the time we returned to Minnesota, his rebuilt knee probably looked worse than my toasted lungs.[/ul]
Well, boys and girls, saddle-up and let's move out ...

[Moderator]

Walk A Mile In My Boots


We picked up the rental van early Friday afternoon so we could load it and decorate it with several dozen patriotic magnets. As luck would have it, the van they gave us was brand new with just over 1,000 miles on the odometer. It still had that "new ambulance smell".

I wanted to ride in a large van so I could use one of the bench seats to take naps during the day. But because the shot-gun seat was so comfortable and reclined almost all the way back, I never needed to use one of the bench seats. As a result, I felt kind of stupid riding around in a 15-passenger van with only two people onboard, but all those seats sure came in handy while we were in DC. More importantly, the bench seats were put to good use after Terry's accident.

We began congregating at St. Paul Harley-Davidson just before 6 AM on Saturday morning. We had about a dozen people there to see us off, including two who gave me items to leave at The Wall and the National Fallen Firefighters Memorial. Just after 7 AM, a half-dozen bikes and the support vehicles cranked up and 8ball led us out of the parking lot. About 15 minutes later, we crossed the I-94 bridge into Wisconsin. It was the first time I had been outside of Minnesota in more than a decade.

We had been rolling along for just over an hour when our brand new van suddenly started losing power, very similar to the way I feel when I walk up a flight of stairs. All the instruments worked so we knew it wasn't an electrical problem. I made a brief, frantic call over the CB radio while Kneecap guided the breathless van onto the shoulder of the highway.

John let it sit for a minute and then tried to start it. It sounded like it might be vapor-locked. He tried it again and mashed the accelerator to the floor. It started, sputtered a few times, and then began running normally as it gradually cleaned out whatever was causing the problem. After revving it up several times to be sure it was going to keep running, we got back up to speed and eventually passed the bikes who had pulled over to wait for us. Everyone was back into position within a few miles. We didn't have any more problems with the van for the rest of trip.

We met Gunny at our second fuel stop. He was driving an RV and pulling a trailer with his trike on it, so he was easy to spot. That was when I learned a valuable lesson about Google Maps and MapQuest information ... don't believe the information they provide about service stations, restaurants, motels, etc.

Apparently neither website lists businesses who won't pay an advertising fee. If they had 3 service stations listed for a particular Interstate interchange, we would find at least twice that many. It was the same story at every fuel stop and every overnight stop all along our route. At least their incomplete information worked to our benefit.

Just as we settled in for what we thought would be a nice, sunny drive through Wisconsin and into Illinois, we ran out of road. We couldn't get there from here. Mommy Nature had decided to flood the junction of Interstates 39, 90 and 94 so traffic in both directions had to be diverted from a limited access four-lane expressway onto usually two-lane, traffic-clogged, local roads. We measured the distance of the detour on our way back and discovered that the three hours we spent getting through the small towns and flooded fields would have taken us just under 30 minutes if the Interstate had been open.

For almost two hours of the three-hour detour, the riders baked in the sun as they walked their bikes forward a few feet at a time. Kneecap and I ran the air conditioner in the van but kept the windows rolled down so it would at least appear as if we were sharing their pain. We might look stupid, but we're not idiots. That might sound like a terrible way to spend an afternoon, but you have to remember we were with bikers. Bikers turn bile into Budweiser. Bikers make cheeseburgers out of road kill. Bikers can handle damn near anything. We also discovered two of our riders were especially good at public relations.

After the fifteenth time the traffic going in our direction came to a complete stop for yet another 10 minutes, Ron and Woody started visiting with our fellow highway refugees. They would get off their bikes and walk the line of vehicles, presumably looking for babes wearing shorts. It was almost scandalous until I realized what they were doing and decided to join them whenever I could. I'll give up air conditioning, albeit temporarily, if it's for a good reason. That's a good reason.

That's how we met the couple who had a dachsund wearing a leather Harley vest and cap. The first few times they passed us or we passed them at 5 miles per hour, they'd wave and we'd wave. The next few times we started talking back and forth. Then they passed by us and the dog was wearing its nifty biker outfit. It was the only time I've seen a little dog that I didn't think someone should marinate it in mesquite sauce and barbecue it on a grill just to put it out of its misery.

Once we returned to the Interstate, the rest of the day went smoothly except that John and I missed the exit to I-39 in a construction area and started heading east for Chicago on the toll road while everyone else was going south. We caught up with them at the next fuel stop and finally made it to our overnight stop.

There was a pizza place next to the motel, so we walked over to eat. While we were there, a woman approached us after noticing our Patriot Guard Rider patches and told us the PGR had stood for a family member at his funeral. She wanted to thank all of us. We gave her Ride buttons for everyone in her group and finished eating.

That was the third time that day someone had approached us. It happened numerous times throughout the trip. It's a great feeling to exchange a Thank You with family members and friends of American heroes, especially when that was the very reason for the Ride to begin with.

I was asleep before my head hit the pillow that night at about 9 PM. It was the first time in years I had slept for more than a few hours at a time. I was more than a little surprised to wake up alive the next morning. We were one day and about 450 miles closer to completing my dream of touching The Wall.

[Moderator]

Lookin' Out My Back Door


By the time I made it to the motel lobby just before 6 AM, the selection of doughnuts and pastries had dwindled considerably because a half-dozen bikers got to them before I did. There were plenty of corn flakes and granola bars still available, but who the hell wants to eat health food at that time of the morning? All I want is caffeine and sugar and I prefer not to have to walk outside to inhale nicotine. Amidst the munching and the slurping, we were all paying close attention to the local morning news because there was a monster storm approaching the area from the northwest. We were beginning to get more than a little concerned when JD had the good sense to walk outside and look at the sky (mainly because he needed a cigarette).

I have great respect for Mommy Nature. She can destroy anything mankind can build in seconds. I've had the good fortune to see a tornado up close and personal and to be in the middle of several hurricanes. I witnessed some dandy forest fires when I was growing up, one of which I started myself when I accidentally dropped a cigarette I had stolen from my father's pack of Winstons that very morning. Look, you were clumsy when you were seven years old, too, so cut me some slack, OK?

When I'm home and hear that damn beeping on the TV or the tornado sirens start to wail, I do NOT seek cover in an inside room while carrying a flashlight, a battery-operated weather radio, signal flares, and a 4-day supply of dehydrated foodstuffs. No, sir ... I grab a full pack of smokes, a book of dry matches, refill my coffee cup, and plant my skinny butt in my favorite lawn chair in the garage and taunt Mommy Nature. Unless I see small office buildings, semi-trailers and a variety of large farm animals flying down my cul-de-sac, I consider spending all that energy to be a waste.

JD summoned us outside and the sight brought a tear of joy to my bifocaled eyes. There was a magnificent wall cloud off in the distance that looked like it was bringing the End of Days with it. Normally, I would have crawled onto the top of the van, stood up, and defied the storm to head straight for me, but the circumstances were different at the moment.

We had two choices ... stay at the motel and wait several hours for the storm to pass or get the hell out of there. Door #2 involved speed and daring, so the bikers choice was easy. We decided to outrun it. We rounded everyone up, loaded the vehicles as quickly as possible, refilled the coffee mugs, grabbed the remaining pastries, and hauled ass southbound.

I gave Kurt and Lori one of the extra two-way radios I had so the van and the big rig could keep in touch. The bikes and the van communicated using the CB radio. It was my job to relay information back and forth to everyone. Generally speaking, the system worked well unless I pushed the wrong button, keyed the wrong radio, left the voice-activated switch on so Kurt and Lori could hear me talking to Kneecap about them, dropped one or both radios into the door-well or forgot to check the batteries. One or more of them happened one or more times ... daily. If you ever use a system like this for one of your trips, I suggest you pick a radioman who has a functioning brain, who doesn't have arthritis, and who can do that multi-tasking thing. You know, someone other than me.

All of the intelligent people in that part of Illinois were hunkered down inside their fallout shelters in advance of the storm, so we had the highway pretty much to ourselves. Our convoy roared south at speeds previously considered to be impossible to achieve without becoming airborne. The wall cloud kept getting closer. Every now and then a few huge raindrops hit the windshield, encouraging us to go just a little faster.

I kept one eye on the road ahead of us, one eye on the radios, and the other eye looking into the mirror on my side of the van so I could admire Mommy Nature as she prepared to launch all of us into the stratosphere. Kneecap kept a lookout to make sure the big rig traveling behind us was still in view while at the same time making sure we didn't run over Ron, who was riding tail-gunner in the line of bikes. It would have been a shame to flatten a bike with such a marvelous, patriotic, custom paint job, but you gotta do what you gotta do in real life.

About an hour after we hit the road, Mommy Nature surrendered, slowed down, and probably inflicted greater destruction on the area she eventually pummeled out of anger at us. Oh well, that's the way it goes. If you're keeping score at home, we had just tied the game. Mommy had clearly won the first day, but we had the second day in the bag, so to speak. Nature - 1; H&R Riders - 1; middle of the second day. Of course, Mommy would eventually win because Mommy always does. But for those glorious few hours riding through that vast prairie wasteland known as southern Illinois, we had kicked her butt. So, there.

We picked up Tom and Linda at our first fuel stop in Urbana and then we hooked up with Dick in Crawfordsville, Indiana. We rode straight through Indianapolis instead of taking the beltway around the city because it was a Sunday. Except for Woody's problem with hats, the rest of the day went well until we arrived at our overnight stop, aka The Sewer.

Let's talk about Woody's hats first. We were cruising along when Kneecap and I noticed several small flying objects appear out of nowhere and fly past the van. They appeared to be articles of clothing, but we couldn't be sure. Woody was riding towards the rear of the bike column. Ron, the tail-gunner, noticed he was also being attacked by UFOs, and he quickly figured out that one of Woody's side compartments had opened. He pulled alongside Woody to alert him he wouldn't be doing anywhere near as much laundry as he originally planned because his stuff was being sucked out and deposited along Ohio's highways.

After stopping briefly to secure the compartment, Woody decided to use a bungee cord to keep the boonie he was wearing firmly in place. After all, he was running out of hats. It's not something you'll ever see in a fashion catalog, but it worked. More importantly, it gave the rest of us something to mock for the rest of the trip. Everyone did their part to make everyone else feel comfortable.

If you've never been inside a run-down military barracks or a German prison camp, I know where there's a motel in Columbus, Ohio that will give you the same experience for less than a hundred bucks a night. No coupons necessary. When we walked into the lobby, it was somewhat difficult to ignore the smell of raw sewage. No, I mean RAW ... the real deal. The bad news is that the rooms weren't much better, unless you don't mind cigarette burns, light fixtures that had obviously shorted-out years ago, and stains on the "furniture" that CSI-Miami has never seen before.

Just like serving in the military, a person's ability to sleep depends entirely upon how tired he is. I was physically and mentally wasted, so I chose not to think about what I might be laying on and went to sleep, hoping that whatever I got on me during the night would wash off the next morning. I'm still alive almost a month later, so the soap must have worked. And, as an added bonus, I learned yet another use for duct-tape.

The next morning, I noticed a sliver of light coming through the drapes. Upon closer inspection ... but without actually touching anything ... it looked like someone had sliced one of the drapes with a knife, probably during an argument over the price of services rendered during the previous hour. There was no danger the drapes would ever be dry-cleaned, so they had covered the gash with a piece of duct-tape. It was that puke-green-colored tape, which almost exactly matched the rest of the stains.

There is one other thing I have to mention that happened earlier in the day during a fuel stop. While we were taking a break at a Burger King in Ohio, I finished eating and walked outside to have a smoke. A little boy and girl walked up to me and stood in front of me staring at my PGR jacket. Their mom was watching from the car just a few feet away. I gave each of them a Ride button and they ran back towards the car to show them to her. I walked up to the driver's window, intending to give her one as well. She was sitting behind the wheel crying.

She had spotted all of us wearing PGR vests and I just happened to be the person who got closest to their car. She had given her kids permission to approach me. She quickly regained her composure and told me the Ohio PGR had stood for her brother-in-law at his funeral. He was killed in combat in the Sandbox in 2006.

I repeatedly tried to thank her for her family's sacrifice, but she would have no part of it. She insisted on thanking me and everyone in our group because of the mission we were on with the Ride. They were on the way to a family reunion in the next town. I asked her how many people were attending and gave her enough buttons for everyone. By then we were both crying. As I turned to walk away, she said, "Sir, thank you for your service and Welcome Home." We were two days and almost 1,000 miles closer to completing my dream of touching The Wall.

[Moderator]

Who'll Stop The Rain?


Despite the probable health risks of taking a shower in The Sewer, I did it anyway. The bar of soap was still sealed in its original package, so I made the assumption it had never been used before. I'm allergic to penicillin so I had to chance it. I was packed and ready to go just after 5 AM, so I wandered over to sit in front of the group of rooms where the non-smokers were staying. Much to my surprise, several of them were already outside, probably because their rooms were just as disgusting as mine.

All was not lost, however, because the motel offered a continental breakfast. I can't be sure which continent the powdered doughnuts came from, but I guessed they had been shipped to Columbus, Ohio sometime between the day we left Vietnam in the 70s and the day we invaded Grenada in the 80s. The swill that dripped from the juice dispenser reminded me of Tang, that nasty dehydrated orange-juice-wannabe American astronauts drank on the way to the moon and then left there to spare those of us still tethered to Planet Earth.

I'd like to be able to blame all of that for saying one of the dumbest things I've ever said in my entire life as I walked past the open door of 8ball, Terry and Bill's room. I have no problem making idiotic statements to myself, but I really hate it when there are a dozen or more witnesses standing around just waiting for someone to say something incredibly moronic. Well, at least I did my part.

There was supposed to be nearly a hundred riders joining us in Columbus that morning. As I passed by the open door, I thought I saw a bunch of bikers grouped together through what I thought was a window that I thought looked out to what I thought was the other side of the building. One of my main problems is that I have too many thoughts. This would be a good time for you to fetch your Funk & Wagnalls and look up the word dumbass.

Relieved that at least some of the riders who said they were going to meet us had actually done what they said they were going to do, I announced loudly that there were more bikers on the other side of the building. All those who heard me gave me about 3 seconds to reconsider what I had just said so I could take it back and blame it on some sort of mental illness or physical deformity. I missed my one and only chance. Those who heard me quickly informed everyone else who had not.

I was actually looking at a large mirror in the bathroom of their room. There wasn't any window because there couldn't be any window. The building had two rows of rooms back-to-back. I should have known that even at O-Dark-Thirty in the morning. Simply stated, I was looking at myself, several guys who were standing near me, and the group of bikes that were parked behind us, all of two feet away.

No one cared about the sewer smell anymore. No one cared about the maggots they had slept with all night. Nope, they only cared about me now. The insults started coming fast and furious and kept building until damn near all of them were on the verge of death by laughter. Luckily for me, it was time to leave. The memory of my stupidity was quickly washed away that very afternoon by torrential rain in the mountains, so I was spared any additional agony about it.

We headed east and eventually the flat earth gave way to the mountains of West Virginia. We left the Interstate in western Pennsylvania to travel south on U.S. 40 towards western Maryland. That was when the skies opened up and Mommy Nature decided to get even for our Great Escape back in Illinois. The first problem we encountered wasn't really a problem at all. I heard Bill and JD trying to call 8ball on the CB, but he wasn't answering. Bill dropped back to see if 8ball was having an electrical problem or something. It turned out 8ball had unplugged the CB connection from his helmet to the radio. He fixed it at the next fuel stop, but not before we made him promise to have a picture taken when we got to the motel with the wire from his helmet hanging out of his mouth. We figured he would at least be able to talk to himself from then on.

The closer we got to Maryland, the heavier the rain became. There were times when Kneecap and I couldn't see the lead bikes because of the rain. Sometimes we could barely see Ron and Woody and they were immediately in front of us ... or at least we thought they were. As we crossed a bridge that spanned a gorge hundreds of feet deep, I looked out the side window and noticed I was seeing the top of a rain cloud. We were in a Mommy Nature sandwich. Hold the pickle, thank you very much.

It didn't take long to figure out how to know where Ron was. We could smell gas fumes coming from his bike. Let me type that again. Despite riding along at about 50 miles per hour through sheets of sideways rain and cross-winds of probably 30 miles per hour, we could still smell gas fumes from Ron's bike inside the van. The air intake on his motorcycle was sucking up road spray, fouling the gas, and gradually choking his mode of transportation to death. Pretty soon, the sputtering started and Ron began slowing down.

I called the bikes using the CB and then called Kurt on the 2-way to let him know we were probably going to need to use some of the space in the trailer to park Ron's bike. Incredibly, both radio transmissions got through. I have no idea how in the hell Kurt managed to stay close to us through all that rain while hauling a trailer up those mountains, but he did. I wish my lungs worked as well as the diesel engine in his pickup.

Just before we reached a scheduled fuel stop in Hancock, Maryland, Ron's bike sputtered for the last time and he coasted it onto the shoulder. Mommy Nature - 2; H&R Riders - 1; late in the third day. We parked behind him and the big rig arrived just a few minutes later. It was obvious the pit crew of Kurt, Lori and Ron had been through this drill before, because they lowered the trailer ramp, rolled the bike inside, secured it, and closed the trailer back up in less than 10 minutes. We took the next exit and rejoined the bikes.

If you ever find yourself in Hancock, Maryland and need a place to eat, take a shower, get some fuel, have a tire repaired, use wireless internet access, or fax an update of your living will to your lawyer back home, I highly recommend Little Sandy's Truck Stop & Family Restaurant. We decided to eat a full meal like civilized people, so they put us in a back room where we could dry off, eat and smoke, but not necessarily in that order. The food was great, it wasn't raining inside, and we no longer cared that we were about two hours behind schedule.

We rode through non-stop rain all the way to the Virginia border. Just as the rain stopped, the rush hour traffic backup started. We inched our way into Falls Church, Virginia and checked into our motel. That's when I learned that storms earlier in the day had caused a power outage throughout the area. The smoking rooms in our motel were available, but the air conditioning no longer worked in that particular building. I knew the desk clerk was telling the truth because it was about 110 degrees in the sauna they called a lobby.

I'm not a pleasant person when I'm tired, hot and exhausted, so the look on my face apparently convinced the clerk to book a room for me across the street at the other hotel they owned so I would have air-conditioning and be able to smoke simultaneously. He correctly assumed I was either going to get what I wanted or people were going to start dying and he was going to be the very first to go.

I layed down on the bed to relax for a few minutes and woke up 7 hours later at 4 AM. The day I would accomplish my dream of touching The Wall had arrived.

[Moderator]

The Healing


In the 25+ years since the Vietnam Veterans Memorial was dedicated, I've had dozens of guys tell me about the healing power of The Wall. Quite frankly, I was too cynical to believe anything could heal the pain, the loss, the anger, and a hundred other negative feelings those of us who served during the Vietnam War have experienced, both while we served and especially after we served. Just before noon on Tuesday, June 17th of 2008, I found out for myself that they were right and I was wrong.

Washington had been sweltering under record heat and humidity for two weeks before we arrived. The storms that had chased us across Pennsylvania and Maryland blew through the DC area, dropping the temperature and drying the air. That meant I could wear my PGR jacket to The Wall and it also meant I should be able to walk and breathe at the same time. Our group was small enough for all of us to fit into the van and Rob's car for the ride into DC. Most of us waited along Constitution Avenue for the guys to park the two vehicles, stuff the meters full of quarters, and return to where we were.

While we waited, I sat on a bench in the shade. The enormity of what was about to happen grabbed me by the throat. Everyone else seemed to know I needed some space. This journey was 38 years in the making. It started with death under the most dire of circumstances and I honestly didn't know if it would be better or worse when this day ended. When I first met the guys who's names I hoped to touch in a few agonizing minutes, we were teenagers or in our early twenties. When we parted less than a year later, they were dead and I was about 120 years old. They were waiting for me just through the trees. I could feel them calling.

Several cigarettes later, our group was back together and we started down the sidewalk. When we reached the point where I had bailed from my three previous attempts to touch The Wall, I pointed my cane towards the spot and mumbled to whoever was next to me, "That's as close as I got." We made a couple of turns and suddenly we were at the top of the path that led to The Wall. Down into the valley we went.

I quickly noticed I was in the lead ... the very last place I wanted to be. I turned and Bill was walking just behind me. I asked him to move ahead. He took the point. I thought it was very appropriate that Bill, the father of a Global War On Terror veteran, was leading the way. Those who have served during Operations Enduring Freedom, Iraqi Freedom, and Noble Eagle are the only reason it was possible for me to have made it to Washington. Everyone else in our group had my back. This time I knew I was going to make it.

We passed by the East panels on the way down to the center where the East and West sections meet. I knew the names of my guys were all on Panels 12, 13 and 14 West. The panels are only a few feet high at both ends of The Wall and gradually rise until they dwarf the people looking at the names. That's the way it should be. As we approached the West panels, Bill asked me what numbers we were looking for. I knew I couldn't speak, so I showed him the piece of paper I was carrying. When he stopped and faced The Wall, I knew we were there, but I wasn't sure I had the courage to look up. I felt my head rise. My eyes started reading from left to right while my brain counted the lines. I was on auto-pilot, very similar to the way we were trained to react to life and death situations in the service.

Then I saw George's name ... George R Cuthbert. I had been imagining this moment since last November when 8ball first mentioned taking a "trip east to The Wall" and Kneecap had volunteered to drive me. I wondered if I would see what I always saw when I thought of my buddies through all those years ... their suffering, their pain, their destruction, the horrendous waste of good boys who had become good men seemingly overnight. That's not what I saw. All I saw was his name. I felt my right arm rising. The fingers on my hand reached out to touch a combination of 15 consonants and vowels that represented a guy who had given everything for a cause we believed in, even if damn few of our fellow Americans felt the same way.

The instant I touched The Wall, I was swamped with a sense of relief. I saw his smiling face as if he was telling some lame joke or outrageous story. It seemed like he was extricating some of my pain and grief. It was as if he was actually there again. I remember leaning my head against The Wall, leaning on George, and looking down at the tears that were now falling onto the sidewalk. I could see some of the other Riders out of the corner of my eyes to my right and to my left. I knew they had my back. I knew I was safe. That was a feeling I had not had since I served with the guys who had their names chiseled into the marble slabs directly in front of me and into those on each side. That was the instant when the Honor & Remember Platoon was born.

I took a few steps to my left, looked up, and saw Don's name almost at the top of Panel 13. I couldn't touch his name, but he reached down and touched me anyway. "Long time, no see, guy. Where the hell have you been, Four Eyes?" I'm fairly certain I wasn't smiling on the outside, but I was on the inside. I started down the rows, trying to count to Line 50. When I saw Russ Stoddard's name, I felt like I would come apart. It was the cumulative effect of seeing their names. I was overwhelmed with all of the emotions that can't be described with words. I leaned against The Wall and the rain started. Almost four decades of agony began flowing from a place deep inside that I thought would never open again. But instead of grief, I felt a calm filling up the empty, dark hole that was finally seeing the light of day once again.

A few more steps to my left and I was in front of Panel 14. I immediately saw Ken's name way up on Line 14. I wanted to break off an arm and toss it up there to touch his name, but I never had the chance. Gunny was suddenly grabbing me in a bear hug of reassurance and condolence. Seconds later, Woody was there, too. I needed them and there they were. It was just like I was back in the service surrounded by people I could trust with my life. Both Gunny and Woody had been through this before, so they knew exactly what to do next. They weren't about to break off until the mission was completed. I heard Gunny say, "Let it out" ... so I did.

That was when the healing began to run through me like I was receiving a transfusion of liquid life. I've cried a few times since 1970, but I haven't sobbed since I watched one of my buddies die a slow, miserable death and I wasn't able to do anything to stop it from happening. That changed while I was being propped up by Gunny on one side and Woody on the other just a few feet from The Wall on Tuesday, June 17th, 2008. As the demons washed away, I felt better and better. When we broke our huddle, I realized somewhat of a crowd had formed just outside of the protective perimeter the other members of our group had formed around us. A guy wearing a Vietnam Vet baseball cap was standing along the grass-line with tears streaming down his smiling face. He obviously had been healed sometime earlier. His expression told me he knew exactly what had just happened.

While all this was going on, a volunteer had positioned himself close by our group. He asked if I would like him to rub the names onto a piece of paper. I would have declined if I had the chance to say anything, but both Dee and Lori immediately asked him to do it. Thank God, they did. I've spent hours since we returned home looking at those four pieces of paper. I just sit and stare at them. Every time I do, I think of something pleasant about each of the guys.

When the rubbings were completed, it was time to place the item I had brought with me to leave there. 8ball and JD helped me set it up at the base of Panel 13 so it would be in the middle of the four names. When I had it positioned the way I wanted it, I stood up, stepped back, and saluted the three flags attached to it as well as the four guys who were responsible for it to begin with. I tried finding each and every member of our group to thank them for what they had done for me that day. A handshake or a hug had to suffice, because there aren't any words that can express my gratitude. All I know is that I have a new group of friends who mean every bit as much to me as the four names of my guys on The Wall.

After many pictures and a few more glances back at the names, we began walking up the sidewalk past the remaining West panels, on our way to the Three Soldiers Statue and the Vietnam Women's Memorial. Since that day, every time I have remembered something from 1970 it's been a good memory. The healing actually happens. The nightmares have stopped. The anger has been replaced with honoring. The grief has been replaced with remembering. There's peace in the valley ... finally ... there's peace in the valley. Welcome Home, Boys.


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The Statue I Left At The Wall

When I assembled the Military Salute video in the summer of 2003, I had no idea it would evolve into the Military Salute Project or the hundreds of other events and projects me and The Boys would eventually get involved in. I certainly had no expectation that it would enable me to visit Washington, DC five years later to accomplish a mission I had long since abandoned.

Military Salute was created to honor and remember 3 buddies who died while we were patients in the Great Lakes Naval Hospital in 1970, as well as 4 guys I served with who were killed-in-action in Vietnam in early 1970. In 2006, Military Salute was chosen for the Freedom Award by the Military Writers Society of America. They presented me a trophy of an eagle.

Once I decided to attempt to make the trip to Washington, it took me all of 15-seconds to figure out what I wanted to leave at The Wall. The trophy belongs to "my guys". They're the reason I made the video. They're the reason I eventually met the people who made the trip happen. They're the reason I was finally able to accomplish a 38-year longing to reach out and touch their names on The Wall at long last. They're the reason Military Salute received the 2006 Freedom Award. The trophy belongs with them.

I added a United States Flag, flags from the U.S. Marine Corps and the U.S. Navy, and an Honor & Remember Ride button to the trophy. 8ball placed a pin and Gunny provided the set of dog tags hanging from the Eagle. I placed a letter behind the trophy from Monica Mead, State Captain of the Minnesota Patriot Guard Riders. Her hand-written note was addressed to some special Vietnam Veterans and the buddies they served with. I am grateful to have been included with them.

[Moderator]

Chair-Jacked!


While we were at the Three Soldiers Memorial, a Vietnamese gentleman approached me, Gunny and Woody to ask if we would permit his son to take a picture of the four of us together. I was able to understand just enough of what he said to piece together that he was thanking us for what American troops had tried to do to help the people of South Vietnam during the war.

Somewhere between the Korean War Memorial and the World War II Memorial, I was victimized by a wheelchair-jacker. It was a crime of opportunity, boldly perpetrated in broad daylight. The scoundrel looked a lot like Woody. Hundreds of bystanders did absolutely nothing to assist me, including my Chief Wheelchair Pusher and my temporarily former friend, JD. It broke my heart. It also gave me something to whine about for the next few days.

Apparently I was beginning to look like a dead man walking, because JD decided I needed to stop hobbling and start riding. At first I thought it was very nice of him to go get a wheelchair for me, but now that I think about it, he probably did it out of selfishness. I'm guessing he didn't want to risk having to give me mouth-to-mouth when I collapsed under the physical and emotional toll from visiting The Wall. Let's face it, neither of us wanted him to be performing CPR on me and I'm certain no one else in the group wanted to have to watch something that disgusting, especially after they had been slurping on ice cream cones.

The other two medical professionals in our group, Dee and Lori, took turns holding my jacket, probably because they wanted to be able to quickly cover me when I dropped so the rest of them could proceed to the next place of interest while National Park Service Police called for the Geezer Squad to see what was wretching around on the ground under my jacket.

When we were finished at the Korean War Memorial and started the trek to the World War II Memorial, I sat back and relaxed while JD pushed. One of the first things you learn after you get emphysema is to have someone push you around in a wheelchair so you can smoke a cigarette in-between war memorials. We approached a water fountain and I asked my driver to stop for a minute so I could wash down some pain pills. (The "pain pills" stuff is BS, but I'm trying to milk this for all it's worth.)

Before I had a chance to wipe the excess drool off my mouth and return to my chariot, Woody had chair-jacked me. JD was pushing him down the sidewalk, apparently oblivious to the fact his passenger had all of a sudden gained weight ... a LOT of weight. It was an outrageous violation of the Old Farts With Disabilities Act, not to mention complete disregard for the spirit of Take A Four-Eyed Dinosaur To The Reflecting Pool Day.

I didn't get my ride back until we arrived at the WW II Memorial. The only reason they sat me back down in my rightful place was because there were several dozen United States Marines in dress uniforms volunteering at the Memorial that day and the culprits knew I would start crying like a baby for some help. Gunny was already rounding up a squad of volunteers to retake the wheelchair. Gunny wasn't acting out of any concern for me specifically, he simply saw all those Marines standing around talking to WW II Veterans and figured they ought to retake something just because they could. There was no beach to invade or enemy hill to storm, so retaking a wheelchair would have to suffice. That's what Marines do.

While we were at the WW II Memorial, the Marines invited us to attend the Sunset Parade at the Iwo Jima Memorial the next night. One of the Marines we talked to was a 22-year-old Corporal who had been to Afghanistan and Iraq a combined four times already. He was wearing two Purple Hearts and preparing for his fifth deployment later this year.

Kneecap, Gunny and I left the group and returned to Falls Church in the van. Gunny wanted to unload his trike for the ride scheduled the next day and Kneecap and I had to stop walking around before what was left of our sore appendages fell off. The rest of the group toured DC and eventually returned to Falls Church on the Metro, where they picked up their bikes and rode back to the motel. I heard some ugly rumors about some of the things that happened on the Metro, but I wasn't there so the pictures will have to speak for themselves. As far as I know, no one was arrested. Some of the group returned to DC several times during our three days in the area.

[Moderator]

In The Line Of Duty


Weeks before leaving from Minnesota, we checked with several locals and were told there was plenty of street parking available around the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial in DC. All we needed was a bucket of quarters to feed the meters. If it's true that ignorance is bliss, then I was the happiest gimp in the whole USA as our convoy of bikes and the van left the IHOP in Falls Church, Virginia for the 20-minute ride to the LEO Memorial. There were plenty of parking spaces, but they had vehicles in them. Block after block of parking spaces ... in all four directions ... all with vehicles sitting in them.

We circled around looking for a bunch of empty spaces reasonably close together like idiotic tourists do. We found an empty spot here and there, but it was obvious we weren't going to be able to park all of the bikes and the van unless some of us wound up in Atlantic City, New Jersey and walked back into the District. A traffic cop advised us to try a parking garage located within a few blocks of the Memorial, but they wouldn't let the bikes in. I'm guessing it was a personal problem.

After a brief meeting to rethink our mission, we decided to head for the National Fallen Firefighters Memorial about 75 miles to the north in Maryland and try the LEO Memorial some other time. We took a scenic tour through the District of Columbia, trying to find bathrooms and the best way out of the city. Just as we left the DC limits, we passed by one of the gates for the Walter Reed Army Medical Center and gave them a horn salute.

After stopping to eat and refuel, we pulled up to the front gate of the FEMA compound that houses the Firefighters Memorial right on schedule. Security led us to our designated parking area. Ray the Bagpiper led us towards the Memorial. Once there, we placed a wreath and began looking around the site.

We noticed a group of a half-dozen or so people standing just outside the entrance to the Memorial. It was obvious they were crying. When we approached them to give them Ride buttons, they informed us they were from Charleston, South Carolina. The day we had chosen to visit the Memorial just happened to be the one-year anniversary of the deaths of the Charleston Nine, nine firefighters who had been killed when the roof of a huge furniture warehouse collapsed on them while they were inside saving two store employees and trying to stop the spread of the inferno. It was the worst firefighter disaster since September 11, 2001.

One of the guys told me his group was running late that day. They should have been there and left already. They were approaching the Memorial just as we entered it and heard the bagpipes. Several of them tried to express how they felt seeing others there to honor their brother and sister firefighters, but they weren't able to say anything because of the emotion of the moment. They didn't have to. The look of appreciation on their faces said it all.

When we were finished at the Memorial, we followed Ray the Bagpiper from there to the 9/11 Memorial several hundred yards away. By now, many people who were working or training at the compound were aware of our presence. As soon as Ray started playing again, heads began popping out of windows and people began congregating in the doorways of several buildings we passed by on the way to the statue commemorating the 343 firefighters who died heroically on September 11th.

We spent about an hour taking pictures and then invaded the two gift shops. We really didn't care that it was getting close to 4 PM because we knew we were going to get stuck in rush hour traffic anyway as we approached DC on our return to Falls Church. It was then that we decided to try visiting the LEO Memorial again, hoping that parking would no longer be a problem.

There was plenty of parking near the Memorial when we arrived. It was as quiet at 6 PM as it was hectic nine hours earlier. It was so quiet, it was almost eerie ... surreal, even. It was the perfect setting. Details about our visit are available in the photograph section for the presentation we made at the Lino Lakes Police Department on July 3rd.

Later that evening, we had a cookout by the big rig, which was parked in the motel lot. It was a great way to end another memorable day in a string of memorable days that was unfolding one at a time.

[Moderator]

Hallowed Ground


There is only one way to even attempt to understand how much our freedom costs and who pays the price. Every American should be required to look into the eyes of a father who has lost his son and the eyes of two young sons who have lost their father while trying to formulate and speak words that express the thanks and the respect they deserve from all of us.

We began our day at Arlington National Cemetery in the courtyard outside the Visitors Center where we met the father and two sons of USMC SGT Andrew K. Farrar, Jr. who died on January 28, 2005, his 31st birthday, while serving in Iraq. Jim, Bill and Terry presented Mr. Farrar with an American Flag and a number of other items to attempt to convey our gratitude and appreciation for their sacrifice. More information and photos are available in the Flag Presentation album.

While we were waiting for the Farrars to arrive, Ron and Woody learned there was going to be a Patriot Guard Riders Honor Mission at the Cemetery that morning. They left the group and rejoined us at Section 60 just after noon. They attended the interment with the Virginia PGR and then noticed another ceremony was about to begin for the burial of a Marine, so they stayed for that as well.

After making the presentation to the Farrar family, the rest of our group boarded the tram to attend the Changing of the Guard ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknowns before heading to Section 60 to visit the gravesites of six Minnesotans who sacrificed their lives during the Global War On Terror.

Unfortunately, the tram doesn't go anywhere near Section 60, so we wound up walking through two sections of the Cemetery before reaching Section 60. That was a bad mistake on my part. The day had turned very warm and I was rapidly running out of energy. By the time we arrived at Section 60, I was having trouble breathing and my leg and hip were beginning to give out. Kneecap wasn't doing much better. Cutting through the two sections helped me but walking through the grass was very hard on his leg. Between my lungs and his knee, there was a whole lotta swellin' goin' on.

Several members of our group went into Section 60 so they could locate the six gravesites while Kneecap and I sat on the curb in the shade and waited. The minute I stood up, I knew I had to get into air conditioning as soon as possible. I spotted a Cemetery groundskeeper on a riding mower fairly close by and thought I saw a radio hanging from his belt. I decided to spend what little energy I had left to reach him and ask him to call and get me some help.

I only took a few steps and realized I was never going to make it the two hundred yards or so I needed to go. At that very second, I heard the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle approaching from behind me. I turned around and there was Woody riding directly to me. I have no idea how or why he arrived on the scene at exactly the right moment, but there he was. Maybe he was trying to get back in good with God because he had chair-jacked me two days earlier, but I think there's more to it than that.

Not only did he show up at precisely the right time, but for some reason he had Ron's helmet with him. Motorcycle helmets are required in the DC area as well as on all Department of Defense installations throughout the country. Just thinking about why he just happened to have Ron's helmet with him made me forget how bad my lungs were hurting.

I explained my dire predicament to him and he helped me onto his bike. Luckily for me, Ron has a big head (?), so his helmet fit on my little cranium with ease. I jammed the end of my cane into the side of one of my tennis shoes, grabbed onto something with my other hand, and we made a bee-line for the Visitor Center. I let Woody know that Kneecap was also having trouble, so he dropped me off and went back to get him. Kneecap's knee had stiffened up so much he couldn't get onto the bike, so he wound up walking all the way back to the Visitor Center from Section 60.

By the time everyone else arrived, I had cooled off and forced down several containers of bottled water. There just happened to be a volunteer standing by the door I chose to use to get into the air-conditioned building and she asked me if I wanted some water. By then, I had lost count of all the things that "just happened" exactly when they needed to just happen. Kurt and Lori drove Kneecap and I back to Falls Church. We checked on the ballroom to make sure it was being set-up for The Tribute Lady and then I took a coma-nap for a couple of hours to try to regain some strength. I woke up, cleaned up, and met Kneecap for dinner in the restaurant. The rest of the group started filtering back from DC so we could all attend the Tribute Lady's concert.

Susan and Larry Wiseman were finishing setting-up when we walked into the ballroom. The next two-and-a-half hours were almost magical. We were treated to a wonderful performance, at times heart-warming and at times heart-wrenching. During the intermission, JD and Dee surprised the six of us who had served during the Vietnam War with the presentation of a beautiful medallion thanking us for our service.

The rest of us had our own little surprise planned for Dee and JD. It was their 9th wedding anniversary. Gunny had picked-up a rose, a card and a bottle of champagne for a celebration following the concert. The combination of the concert and our get-together afterwards was the perfect way to wrap-up our last day and night in DC.

[Moderator]

Rider Down!


We said goodbye to Bob and Gunny the morning of the 20th. Bob headed home and Gunny planned to stay in the DC area for a couple more days before stopping at the Marine Corps base in Quantico, Virginia on his way back to Wisconsin. Rob had returned home after our visit to the war memorials on Tuesday. JD loaded his cute pink suitcase into Ron's trailer and we headed west towards the Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway.

When we reached Front Royal, the van and the big rig went south on Interstate 81. The bikes rode the Skyline Drive and the Parkway, planning to meet us at our overnight stop in Roanoke. As soon as Kneecap and I arrived at the motel, I went to my room and crashed. Meanwhile, Terry was crashing, too, but his accident was much scarier than my much-needed nap.

A cup of coffee and two cigarettes after I woke up from my afternoon snooze, Kneecap knocked on my door and told me Kurt had just called him to let us know one of the bikes was down on the Parkway. Kurt and Lori had already left to drive the big rig back north so they could help with the bike.

It was about 4:30 PM and we had another problem in addition to worrying about the condition of our rider. The Southern Cruisers Riding Club was going to escort us from Roanoke to the National D-Day Memorial in Bedford the next morning. They had arranged to get the facility opened several hours early just for us. Kneecap had our contact's phone number stored in his cell phone, so I asked him to call to let them know we might have a serious problem on our hands. Our contact was very understanding and told us he would stand by and await further developments.

We received another call a few minutes later and learned Terry was on the way to a hospital in an ambulance. It appeared he wasn't seriously injured. After discussing the best and worst case scenarios with John, I asked him to call the Southern Cruisers again and cancel the escort scheduled for the next morning. I wanted to give them as much time as possible to notify the D-Day Memorial and their riders. It was already past closing time at the Memorial, so we had make a decision as soon as possible. I figured the best scenario was that Terry would be hospitalized overnight for observation and I knew none of us would feel right visiting the Memorial while one of our riders was laying in a hospital.

The van was parked near Kneecap's room, so we moved to the other side of the building, ordered a pizza to be delivered to the motel, and we started plotting a route to get Terry home as soon as possible. A few phone calls later we learned Terry would be discharged from the hospital that same night. He was bruised and battered, but at least he had survived.

Terry's misfortune "solved" two other developing problems. Our little jaunt through the sections of gravesites at Arlington the day before was catching up to me in a hurry. I knew there was no way I could do much more walking and we still had a full week left in the trip. In addition, John's knee was obviously giving him more and more trouble with each passing day. It turned out that Terry's wreck "forced" us into making another decision we were probably going to have to make within a couple of days anyway. It was time to head home.

Several hours later, a few of the riders reached the motel and let us know Terry was going to be "OK", all things considered, and that his bike was being loaded into Ron's trailer. The rest of the group, including Terry, arrived at the motel around midnight. We decided we would worry about tomorrow the next morning and everyone turned in.

[Moderator]

When You Get To The Fork In The Road, Take It


None of us were in any hurry to get going in the morning. We began congregating near Bill and Terry's room to decide what to do about the rest of the trip. About the half of the group planned to head home after we visited the D-Day Memorial right from the beginning, with a stop in Saint Louis to see the Arch. They decided to skip their last stop so we could arrive in Minnesota late Monday instead of sometime Tuesday.

We asked Terry if he thought he would be more comfortable riding in Kurt's pickup or the van for the journey home. The van had more room for him to move around and was lower to the ground to get in and out, so he felt that was the best choice. I didn't need any more encouragement whatsoever to cut the trip short and that sealed the deal as far as I was concerned. Kneecap agreed with the plan, so that took care of the two of us.

Tom and Linda decided to ride the Skyline Drive again and Jim and Dick decided to continue along the Parkway and ride the Dragon into Tennessee. The rest of us decided to make a brief visit to the D-Day Memorial and then backtrack north of Roanoke to go through West Virgina to return to Minnesota. We said our goodbyes and went to have some breakfast before heading to Bedford to see the Memorial.

While we were at the Memorial, Terry and I remained in the van with the air conditioner running so we could stay out of the heat and humidity. We didn't know it at the time, but severe thunderstorms were moving into the area. We found out the hard way about 20 miles northwest of Roanoke as we headed for the westbound Interstate highway. We pulled into a convenience center to escape a torrential downpour and lightning show. While we were waiting inside the store for the rain to stop, we met Jim Borling, the PGR District Captain for Southwest Virginia.

I-64 in West Virginia was the last big section of the Interstate system to be completed, so it didn't exist when I lived on the east coast in the 60s and 70s. In my opinion, that part of West Virginia was the most beautiful scenery we rode through on the entire trip. We had two more brief encounters with Mommy Nature the rest of the way home, but the closer we got to the Minnesota border the less we cared about getting wet.

We made it to Parkersburg, West Virginia that night and scooped up the last available motel rooms in town just before 8 PM. While we were checking in, the lobby filled up behind us with people wanting rooms for the night. That was the second lucky break we had that day, if you count the fire in Ron's trailer as the first one. We were stopping every 100 miles for fuel. For whatever the reason, JD decided to pull off the highway near Pax, West Virgina ... just 60 miles after our previous stop. The big rig followed the bikes and the van into a gas station and convenience store and parked at the edge of the lot. We needed gas in the van, so Kneecap and I were standing there shooting the breeze when someone yelled, "The trailer's on fire!"

Sure enough, there was smoke pouring out of a roof vent as well as from an access panel right by the door that led into the kitchen area at the front of the trailer. Ron turned off the propane feed to the refrigerator while JD grabbed a water bottle and doused the fire. I'm no rocket surgeon and I'm certainly not intelligent enough to be a brain scientist, but I'm smart enough to know that you shouldn't mount an electrical panel for a propane-fed refrigerator on a thin piece of plywood in a "no clearance" wall cavity. There's an engineer-wannabe out there somewhere who needs to stick a fork into a 220-volt outlet.

If we had driven the usual 100 miles during that particular leg, the trailer would have been fully-engulfed in flames before anyone would have been able to spot the fire. The next exit was about 12 miles down the road, so the trailer would have probably burned to the ground, taking the remains of Terry's bike with it. If the propane tanks had exploded, it might have taken Kurt's pickup with it, too.

Once the food had been moved from the reefer into coolers, we pulled the bikes and the van out of the way to the other end of the parking lot. We noticed a stone memorial dedicated to the men and women from the Pax, West Virginia area who died through the years while serving America. We read the names, left a Ride button, took some pictures, and then hit the road again. As we drove northwest, we noticed the road was named the WW II Veterans Memorial Highway. It eventually changed into the Korean War Veterans Memorial Highway and then the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Highway. It was just another one of those "coincidences" we had come to expect.

While we were eating breakfast Sunday morning, Kneecap mentioned he had a hard time getting to sleep the night before because of his leg. He had taken some sleeping medication and he wasn't sure if he was alert enough to drive. Just before we were going to stop for fuel the first time that day, he said we better get someone else to drive so he could get some sleep.

The two of us were trying to figure out which one of the riders would be most likely to agree to park his bike in the trailer and drive the van for a few hours when Sleeping Beauty, aka Terry the Tumbler, suddenly awoke from his narcotic-induced nap, sat straight up and said, "If Lori can drive an ambulance, she can certainly drive this thing." Then he laid back down and resumed snoozing in La-La-Land. Problem solved.

Renting a 15-passenger van for two people suddenly didn't seem like such a bad idea after all. Terry was resting in the first bench seat, coolers were resting in the second bench seat, luggage and assorted medical kits were resting in the third bench seat, and Kneecap was sleeping in the remaining bench seat. Lori was driving and I was dozing off in the shotgun seat. It was sort of like a portable morgue traveling down the highway at 70 miles per hour, complete with a licensed medical professional at the wheel. Is this a great country or what?

The remainder of the trip was the usual 70-80 mph dash down the highway to get back to where we all wanted to be as quickly as we could. Oh, I almost forgot ... when we were just east of Woodbury on I-94, we could see a semi ahead with a set of trailer brakes that were obviously on fire. Ron went flying through the traffic and motioned to the driver that he might want to pull over onto the shoulder of the road. I think he believed Ron once he slowed down and smoke encircled the entire rig.

Just a few minutes later, we were in the parking lot of St. Paul Harley-Davidson unloading Terry's bike and unloading Terry. In exchange for returning her husband, Tumbler's wife gave me a 25-pound bag of chocolate chip cookies that lasted well into the first week of July. Damn, they were great. As a matter of fact, the entire trip was great, all things considered.

[Moderator]

Those Were The Days, My Friends


I'd like to say THANK YOU to ...

Finally, I'd like to thank all of the men and women who have served honorably in the Armed Forces of the United States of America since September 11, 2001. Your sacrifice is responsible for helping many of us who served throughout the Cold War, and especially during Vietnam, to emerge from our self-imposed exile and heal ourselves while at the same time allowing us to publicly honor and remember those we served with and the buddies we lost. We salute you.