Ride of Rememberance

Monday, June 18th, 2007
as Published in Southeastern Rider Magazine - September, 2016

There are times when you throw your leg over the saddle, and know you’re about to make some great memories. You may know that you are about to witness breath taking scenery. Perhaps it’s a ribbon of asphalt with curves that boost your pride with each one you carve up. Sometimes, I have rides not because of what I have seen, but because I felt one with the machine, the road, and the nature surrounding me.
There are times when I’m planning a ride, and I know I’m about to create imprints that will be on my mind for a long time. This is about such a ride, a Ride for Remembrance.
It all started when my brother and I were planning the rides for Gathering of Eagles, Cruiser Club USA’s annual get together, which was to be held in Mineral Wells, West Virginia. I had the idea for one of the event’s rides, however, it would be a journey. The destination would be the Flight 93 Memorial in Somerset County, Pennsylvania.


The Gathering is Tuesday through Thursday, but my brother and I made the trip on Saturday to have a day to pre-ride some of the rides, and leaving Monday to make the trip to the memorial. We weren’t sure who, if anyone,  would arrive this early to join us. Sunday afternoon, several members from our Chapter in Farmville, Virginia showed up, specifically to ride along.
We were a group of about 10 bikes as we left Mineral Wells, and headed east on US 50.  This precursor to the Interstate started out tame enough, but it doesn’t take long to get into the mountains, and the twists and turns that come with the changes in elevation. I only get a chance once a year to ride with the boys from Virginia, so I don’t really know their style. Groups I have ridden in always had stops at about every 70 miles, or and hour and half in the saddle. I’m pretty sure these southern boys go until the bike with smallest tank is dry.
I also got the impression that they might push the speed limit a bit. Jimmy “Big Dog” was off to my right, staggered behind me, as I lead the way. He appeared to be giving me frequent signals that we could cover more ground in a little less time. A few miles down the road, we went single file, carving up the mountain roads. I could hear the exhausts rumbling through tree lined road, bouncing off the trees and rocks.
It was getting close to noon, and I knew I had to deliver a good meal to my riding partners. I had a place on the GPS, but as we approached, I could see it was an old gas station turned into a deli. It appeared to only have a pick up window, no seating. I lead on, and in a few miles, came upon a place that I can only describe as a roadhouse. If I were riding solo, or even just with my brother, who is a big guy, I would have kept on going hungry. I guess I felt comfortable because I had more back up. Besides, who would bother southern gentlemen?
Inside, the place was about as dark as night, it made me wonder if the place was even open. A man greeted us, and asked for pardon, as they were renovating. The signs of carpentry was obvious. It seemed odd since the place was kind of out in the middle of no where. I couldn’t imagine that it was that busy. As we were lead to a table, the man informed us the work was being done as a result of large brawl that occurred a couple weeks earlier.
Most of us took a seat at a big table, with a few overflowing into an adjacent booth. Our conversation filled and echoed the empty eatery. The man that greeted us took our orders, and the chatting continued. Most of us were talking about the ride so far. The chat was stalled once again when a short, portly man, wrapped in an apron stepped up to our tables. He was wringing his hands in front of him, and seemed nervous. He told us that he only had one fryer working, so it might take longer to get the food prepared.
My brother and I joined in the southern hospitality and patience as we all assured the man that there would be no problem. At least nothing like the place had seen in a couple weeks ago. The food came out in good time, and I knew I had done well when the room quieted, only filled with sounds of food being eaten.
A short trip after lunch took us to a gas station where we could fill the tanks on the bikes. The next stop would be a field in Somerset County. I could imagine it was a quiet place until that September 11th. This is were the airplane in route on Flight 93 crashed into the ground. The memorial was no more than open field, a small shack, some tall chain link fences, and gravel parking lot. Only a little bit of dust rolled up, as we slowly rolled up to park.
It may have looked like not much, but there was a lot there you could not see. Emotion was thick in the air, and your memories rush into your mind. We studied the area in the field, such a small scar in the earth for such a large plane and so many lives. I looked over the items hanging from the fence. It was filled with mementos that people had left. They may have been brought to memorialize the locations, others were important piece one might carry, yet left it here in honor of those who perished. One of the Chapter 30 members felt so compelled, he tore a Cruiser Club, USA Patch from his vest and hung on the fence.

I was jolted from my wanderings by Sunshine Bob, a member of the Virginia Chapter who announced that the docent on duty was about to “Give us a talking to”. Not only did all the riders in our group move to the benches to sit down, but the 20 or so other people also moved and took a seat in the benches.
I had never been here, and I’m not sure how much attention she was used to presenting. However, the elderly lady seemed taken aback by the crowd, and the attention. Her hands trembled as she turned the pages. She did a fantastic presentation, and we all learned more about the event of that day.
After the address, we hopped back on the bikes for the 200 miles or so we had to return to the hotel. The route back was a little flatter, and lot straighter. “Big Dog” Jimmy once again was pushing the pace. At about the time that I think he was happy with our speed, we pulled into a town, and in line with traffic. Lots of traffic. Eventually, we had to pull over, to take a break, and let the air cooled bikes lower their temperatures.
After the break, we completed the trip. As we pulled into the hotel parking lot, I thought back on the last 400 miles. I re-collected the sadness that I felt that day. Then anger flowed through my veins, just as it did those days following in 2001. As the bike came to a stop and I kicked down the stand, calm consumed me … We Will Never Forget.
  

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