In search of VT Thunder 2015 ~ our parade of one ~ 2015, 5.24

getting ready to take the flag for a rid

 It's Memorial Day Weekend, bringing back fond memories and evoking new ones. In my youth, I rode my creamella dun mare in many parades, leading our equine drill team with a very large flag holstered to the saddle horn. It was grand. People would remove their caps, salute or wave. I loved that we filled their hearts and teary eyes with pride. In all the parades we rode in, I have not one single picture, only memories of that spectacle.  Flash forward to this weekend, this day to celebrate our fallen veterans and lost loved ones.  That means parades, flags, ceremonies and motorcycles. I've often day dreamed about riding the vintage low ride, with our 3' x 5' American flag mounted  on the back trolling through parades with the glint of chrome dazzling the crowds. It seemed a feasible task as I ride pillion on an '84 Harley Davidson low ride, and we often would take that flag for a ride on our outings.

  VT Thunder was queing up for their annual ride event from the VT Verteran's memorial in Sharon up to Enosburg VT, rolling north over interstate 89 and thru small towns along the route. When I posed the idea to bikerman, that we could join the well organized ride in Richmond, he spoke in quiet tones, but crystal clear, an answer I seldom would hear. No.  When I asked why, he was short and sweet. "It's not fun...not for me."

 He would explain, "...group rides are not fun for him or even how we like to roll. They are slow moving formations with not a lot of room for error or to recover from any mistake made by anyone." He drives an '84 shovelhead; it's fussy and fickle when it can't run long and fast. "...it would be ok on the open parts of the ride, but would be fatiguing for me in the slow sections..." It would aggravate my heat sensitive MS. But even more of an issue, he doesn't get to be casual at the dash. "...as a driver he is on hyper alert for the whole time. Riding in formation means if anyone makes a mistake, it can cause a problem for everyone near them . Like dominoes, bikes can go down if there is a catastrophic lane-changing event. He has to raise his usual intentional focus to hyper intentional focus, so no."

 He did happily agree to bolt our large flag to the bike and parallel the ride route up to the finish place in Enosburg. There we could park his low ride, get a snack and be part of the spectators and really enjoy the show. It was a plan. I smiled large; a parade of one on Memorial Day, riding the way we like to roll; a worthy compromise. Yup.

  We did our best divining of the parade route that we perceived the large 1000 bike event would take, and we miss-guessed or miss-timed the scene repeatedly.Trolling the velvety roads linking Lamoille and Franklin county for two hours, we nearly gave up. But finally, we did get a glimpse, or more accurately heard it, as we were shade-hoping around St Albans. Bikerman became enthused and we broke onto the road that it would take to Enosburg.

  Route 105 would meander thru the gentle sweepers east of St. Albans and blend into the Main Street of the proposed ceremony soon to come. Our legs needed stretching and our palettes needed  refreshment. As non-residents,  of this small burg, the street-scape was mowed neatly with occasional ugly box buildings punctuating the centennial architecture dominating the lane. It was a classic Vermont town and some where there had to be a creemee stand. Through my polarized goggles, I was scanning the assembling crowds.

 Finally, beyond the waving throngs of ruminating parade goers, adjacent to the park decorated for the somber presentation, I spotted it. A tiny block of a building with tidy flower baskets and a compelling sign posted in the broad gable. Enosburg Delights. We idled the vintage bike closer half an hour ahead of the great parade of 'cycles. Our flag streaming in the light breeze as he stopped to let me off at the front curb. It took some one-legged, backward hopping and shimmying to dismount with the flag pole firmly attached to the sissy bar, but at last I could stand up and stretch.

  A modest voice asked from the waiting line, "...you the first of the parade?" Turning toward her voice, I saw dainty old women sporting epic huarache  sandals  waiting politely on the hot pavement before the ordering window. In moments, I was reminded of my leather riding boots, how hot they are, even hotter on the black tarmac; I wanted cool relief badly. "...no ma'am, we came to watch the end..."

  I considered the line, not long but not moving quickly enough to please me. I imagined solutions; I could be a crass biker chic and scare a kid out of line. I could just cut in front of a patron shuddering at my leathers and road weary body odor. But he beat me to it when he stepped from his bike toward the creemee shack window; a young boy yielded for the leather clad bikerman with the outlaw bike parked on the sidewalk a couple steps a way. They probably didn't notice, but I did with a smile, that he pulled off the lane so the thunderous bikes could stay in formation, so the flag would not slap any patron seated at the painted snack tables, so we could make a smooth get-away when it was time to go. To them, he looked menacing, but I knew he was showing biker courtesy.

  As he placed our orders for the frosty soft serve, a young female rider joined us. Heavily tattooed, with body piercing punctuating her face, she "looked tuff" but spoke with respectful tones to us. She spilled a dozen questions ,"about his shovelhead, about his miles on the road, about her riding the small Honda Rebel, she was gonna get a Harley soon...because real bikers ride Harleys..." I noted, she was trying so hard to impress us, but she didn't need to. We passed the short time waiting, eating our creemees and chatting with the customers who elected to sit on the benches the thoughtful store provided.

  Before we saw them, we could hear them. In all manner of brand and models, the bikes, trikes, can-ams and scooters, nearly 1000 of them, rolled neatly onto Main Street. Happy faces, American flags with the occasional black satin POW/MIA bannar, all waving in full glory. The noise was deafening but the crowds cheered, blasting air horns and hailing praises. It took nearly an hour for the entire ensemble to crowd into the town's cool-green-shady center. We could barely hear the loud speakers, but we bowed our heads to the sounds of a bugle.

 Our ice cream was finished, our thirst quenched with the free water provided by the storekeeper and we prepared to slip out as we heard some motorcycles starting up. That was our que. Until, a deputy parked his cruiser and stepped up to the window. Our escape route was to be down the sidewalk for the half block to a not too far away driveway. The long row of cars parked along the curb would have kept us there longer than we wished. Bikerman, showed little concern when he approached the uniformed man, enjoying his chocolate swirl of ice-cream. Negotiations were made, fines avoided,  smiles all around as I was prompted to mount up, quickly before he changed his mind. The crowds were thinning out and room was made for us to pass on the sidewalk to our departure eased onto the traveled lane to roll home in the evening air.

  He was right; it was a lot of fun to watch the show from the sidelines. The ride home was pensive, soothing, silent reverence. Only the melody of the loud pipes to fill the air...

peace ~ resa