Blue Lake resident Tisha Sloan took off last week to join her veteran dad on a pre-Rolling Thunder journey called the Run For The Wall (www.rftw.org). She shot a lot of photos along the way and asked if she might share them with our readers. We do so in honor of our military men and women, living and dead, to help remember them this Memorial Day. Tisha takes it from here:
Two weeks ago I boarded a plane for LAX to meet up with my dad for the 23rd annual Run For The Wall, a motorcycle ride from L.A. to DC made up of military vets and supporters, arriving the weekend of Memorial Day. The purpose of the ride is to raise awareness of veterans’ issues, and of POW/MIAs still unaccounted for. I come from Humboldt County, CA, and did not think of myself as a “patriotic” person — I am not a fan of the war machine. But being on this ride, and meeting these men and women, I am learning that many of them aren’t either. Many of them had no choice in the matter. And they have told me their stories. Grown men have shed tears telling me how much this ride means to them. It has changed their lives to be able to ride together and share their grief, and let go, and heal.
My father, Jim Sloan, CVA-43 USS Coral Sea, US Navy ’61-’63, has participated in the run for six years. For the last four as a chase truck following the hundreds of bikes across the country towing a trailer to pick up any bikes that break down and get them to the next bike shop for repairs. They call him “Sweeper”. Over the years, he’s been telling me stories of the ride and the amazing things that happen, and I kept finding parallels to my Burning Man experiences. Both events bring together people who feel, on some level, that they are not accepted in mainstream society and offer them a sense of connection, of family. Both events create a harsh survival environment which brings the participant to the brink of exhaustion, and therefore more able to drop the walls keeping them from expressing their true selves. Both events seem infused with an inordinately high degree of kismet or synchronicity. Both groups take on nick-names, and have their own sets of rules, mores and traditions. Both help people grow and change by breaking them out of the normal constructs of society.
After flight delays at SFO, I arrived later than expected and went straight to the hotel. The next morning the place was crawling with older bikers in their vests covered with patches and pins, and the parking lot seemed filled with bikes. I admit that I had a few moments of “Oh my god, what have I gotten myself into…. 10 days of this??”, but after meeting some of my dad’s friends and receiving very warm welcomes and lots of hugs, I found myself in the lobby after lunch speaking with Terry, a biker and Veteran from Las Vegas. He told me that the ride had made a different person out of him. He’d never been able to talk about his experiences in Vietnam. Then he paused. He was crying. We’d been talking for about two minutes. He showed me a medal of honor that another vet had given him on a previous run. Said it was one of the proudest things he had. Then he said that he wouldn’t be going “All The Way” (a RFTW battle cry) because he had to go home for medical treatments. He told me very matter-of-factly that he had cancer due to Agent Orange. Whoa, I thought. This is going to be intense. Then, while explaining how much the run meant to him and how amazing it was that they were all there for each other, he admitted that on his first run in ‘03 he couldn’t bring himself to go down to the wall when they arrived in DC. It was too much. The second year, two other riders, “Ghost” and “Spook”, took him by the hand and led him down to it. His voice caught, and as he wiped away a tear he said, “See?”
I was beginning to.
Bikes lined up in Rancho Cucamonga the day before leaving.
Bikes in the lot of the meeting hotel in Rancho. Almost all the bikes have the little POW/MIA, and an American flag attached to the back.
My plan was to ride with my dad in the chase truck and just take in the
experience. Maybe get on a bike if the opportunity presented itself. We got up
at 5:30 a.m. (a time I’d rather see at the end of my day, not the beginning) and
headed for the staging area.
Approximately 500 bikes were signed up to start the run. Hundreds more would
join in along the way. The group split into two packs, one would take a southern
route, and we were on a more central route. A few dozen people were there to see
us off, and the local fire department hung a giant American flag from their
ladder trucks for the bikes to pass under. This was a mild sendoff compared to
what I’d see further east.
It had been raining in California, but by the time we got to our first rest stop
in Barstow the rain had stopped and bikers were shedding rain gear. An older
gent was sitting on a curb having trouble getting his rain pants off and said,
“Excuse me miss, would you take off my pants?” I responded, “Of course, sir. Day
one and I’m already taking off some guys pants!” I’d worried a bit about dirty
old bikers, but in truth, these were some of the most respectful and kind people
I’d ever met. This moment was about as raunchy as it got. And it was the
beginning of a theme… the next day we picked up a broken down bike and the rider
got in the truck. When we dropped him at a shop, he left his rain pants in the
truck. So my dad thought it would be funny for me to get on the microphone at
the morning meeting and announce that I was looking for this guy because “I have
his pants.” That got a good laugh. Later we picked up Tim, a Canadian vet who
had taken ill. He had to ride in the truck for a few days, so he loaned me his
leather chaps and jacket and sent me off to find a ride on a bike. Dealing with
three pairs of pants in the first few days earned me a road name. Just call me
“Pants”.
As we start the pack goes on for 2 miles.
Our first night was spent in Williams, AZ, and we were greeted with something
the Run had never seen: snow. Amazingly none of the bikes had any trouble riding
in it, although a few fell over while parking. It was a bit nerve-wracking for
everyone, but seemed to
exhilarate the group, too. In the morning, everything was covered in a couple
inches of fresh snow, and we got an early start as it would be slow going. It
took the bikes a while to clean off the snow and warm up, so I got a chance to
chat with some of the other chase truck drivers about their experience and why
they do this. One turned it on me and asked why I was doing it. I said that I
was just along for the ride to share my dad’s experience. He then explained, “We
do this so that what happened to us when we got back from ‘Nam does not happen
to another vet. You have no idea what this means to us. To feel supported. You
are doing that for us.” Just by being there. I began to feel that I owed more to
this experience and to these people than just going along for the ride. I got
that they were hurting, and that this was a mission of healing. I also saw that
these were mostly older guys sitting on bikes all day every day through
sometimes grueling conditions. So I got online and found some massage therapists
near our next stop and sent a note explaining the run and asking if anyone would
be willing to meet us at dinner and offer the guys a few minutes in a massage
chair for free. Darcy from Red River, NM responded and was there. She worked on
the guys for almost 3 hours, and the effect it had on them was visible. I plan
to start early next year and hook up therapists for every stop on the run.
The next stop was at Angel Fire, NM, a beautiful memorial that looks like a white sail rising up out of the hills of New Mexico. A father started building it 5 days after he lost his son in Vietnam in '68. Years later the father brought a handful of New Mexico soil to Vietnam. He walked in the places his son walked, and spread the soil near where he was killed. He then scooped up a handful of Vietnamese soil and brought it back to spread around the memorial. Everyone was feeling it there. This was the first really emotional stop on the run. Had a chat with Jaime from Santa Clarita who I ended up riding with for a few days later. He said that he never even told anyone he was a vet. No one wanted to hear about it. He was raised in the JFK era, “You know, ask not what your country can do…”, so when he joined up, he thought he was doing the right thing. He then extended his tour so his little brother wouldn’t get drafted, since he had a wife and kids. When he came home, he left his uniform in the airport bathroom after changing so no one would know he was a soldier. The last time he had come home on leave he was greeted at the airport by protesters who called him "baby-killer" and spit on him. He never talked about it again, until he came on the ride. "Now," he said, "I'm not alone. I travel with a pack." This allows him to talk about it. And get over it. I told him I was writing about this and trying to explain to the folks at home what I'm starting to understand; that these guys aren't the ones to blame for what happened. It's wrong for me to hate on the soldiers for what the politicians made them do. They didn't want to be there either. That I can be a liberal hippie and still appreciate and respect these guys, and feel their pain and maybe help the healing. He grabbed my hand and, with tears in his eyes, said "That's it. That's exactly it. Thank you."
By day three on the road, I had friends. People that I looked forward to
seeing, and who made a point of checking in with me each day. This is Scott.
This pic didn't really capture it, but since we had a police escort we just flew
through Missouri with no traffic, and he just looked as happy as a pig in shit
the whole time to just be cruisin down the highway. He actually looks kinda mean
here, but not so. Nice guy who saw some gnarly stuff and has managed to get over
it and be happy to be alive. On the last day, he gave me a big hug and said that
I had "made the ride" for him. As in 'made my day'. All I did was say hi. I am
so glad I did this.
Freeway overpasses were often packed with greeters waving flags and saluting.
The
schedule was fairly tight, but these people must have arrived hours before we
did to set
up and wait to see us.
My dad in front of the Armory bldg in Goodland, KS. This town also went all out with the flags and an amazing meat and potatoes dinner. Boy scouts helped serve the dinner and cleared our places. They had a BIG ASS flag covering an entire wall.
The moon over his shoulder.
The further east we went, the more enthusiastic the welcome. Junction City,
KS is a very patriotic town, and literally hundreds of people lined the streets
holding flags as we entered. There’d been a wrong turn on the way, sending us on
a detour around Topeka (the now infamous “Topeka Turnaround”) so we were about
an hour late. These folks had been standing in the hot sun for 2-3 hours waiting
to greet us.
There were often vets in the crowd who were visibly moved by our presence. One
of the riders reminded me that they are part of why they do this. “We ride for
those who can’t” refers to soldiers lost in battle, MIAs, POWs, and those who
can’t or just don’t ride. He also explained that as we moved into the smaller
towns in the mid-west, the percentage of the population involved in the military
went up. For the youngsters in these little towns, military service is one of
the only ways out of Podunk, USA, so they have more enlistees. Because they have
more soldiers, they have an inordinately large number of soldiers missing,
wounded, and killed in action. They *have* to be patriotic to believe that their
losses meant something and to remind each other that they remember.
Honor guard that placed and removed the flags for the ceremony. These guys are not young, and their steps and moves were dead on.
On the way out of Wentzville, MO we stopped at their Vietnam Memorial (the
first in the nation). There was a white-haired grandma in a white USA sweatshirt
standing up at the curb for our arrival, held up on either side by younger
family members. She was trembling with emotion as we parked, and the bike I was
on ended up parking right in front of her. She was so moved to see us (and I
her, apparently) that I got off the bike, didn't even take off my helmet, and
went to her to shake her hand and say thank you. She brushed my hand aside and
embraced me like she was my own grandma and said into my ear, “No, thank you.
Thank you so much for coming here.” And she kissed my cheek. Turns out she was
one of the last two people alive who worked to create the memorial. I
can't imagine what she must have lost in that war. There was a ceremony to lay a
wreath at the base of the memorial. The officers standing guard on either side
had been there, at attention, for hours.
The pack lined up ready to leave our lunch stop yesterday in Concordia, MO. They really pack ‘em in for staging, then they roll out in rows of two (“2 up”).
Scott, our sideman for a while yesterday. This picture didn’t really capture it, but for the first time in a while, we had a police escort, so we just flew thru Missouri with no traffic, and he just looked as happy as a pig in shit the whole time to just be cruising down the highway. Nice guy who saw some gnarly shit and has managed to get over it and be happy to be alive.
Several cars on the run are decorated like this.
People lined up on bridges to greet us all along our route. Huge flag hanging from a scissor lift!
This is Josh at the VA hospital in WV. He was in Iraq for 10 years. Told me they used to get equal time off for time served in active duty. After putting in a year, they changed in to half time. So he got to see his daughter born, then got shipped out. When he got back she was walking and talking. He offered me a ride the next day into Rainelle - one of the more impressive receptions. Josh was riding for his cousin, killed in action in Iraq 9th of Jan. ‘08.
We stopped at several VA hospitals along the way. They wheeled guys out in wheelchairs and on gurneys to talk to us. It was mostly chitchat, or biker talk, but it was clear they were stoked. As we left they lined up on the sidewalk to see us go. As we rolled by I saw an older man alone in a wheelchair in hospital jammies with his army cap on. I saluted him. His head followed me by, then his lip began to tremble. I was stunned. Then it struck me just how much it means to them to know that what they went through mattered and is remembered. In a way I don't feel worthy of their gratitude. I was so anti-military, and I'm really having a blast on this trip. I've said as much to some of the ones I've gotten to know - that all I'm doing is going along and chatting with them and enjoying the ride. They say that's the point. Just being here with them and listening to them is good for them, even if it's just about the weather. Or just a simple salute as we pass.
Sometimes the picture says more than any words could.
Lined up to leave the memorial in WV. About 800 by now.
The war memorial in Kentucky is designed like a sundial. On the ground are the names of the state’s fallen. It’s designed so that the point of the shadow falls on the soldiers name at the time and on the day of his death.
This guy was up there the whole time, taking pix, and spent a long time kneeling and touching one name (missed that pic) then he stood and watched the riders take off while tears ran down his face.
Lindsay and her little brother PJ. She can read and spell and do simple math. She’s 3. We had a great chat.
Platoon leaders. The pack is split up into 8 platoons with their own leaders, assistant leaders, and ‘rear gunner’ at the back. Keeps the pack organized and provides breaks in the pack for trucks and cars to get thru if necessary. They also act as camp counselors when problems come up.
Me and my dad in front of the WV war memorial. I have no idea what’s up with my expression here. Note the big green pin. It says “FNG” - stands for “Fuckin New Guy,” a military expression for newbies. When we get to the wall, someone random turns it upside down to show that you are no longer the “FNG”. Also got a compliment on this day on my cool boots from a gnarly biker. :)
Plaque on one of the side sections to honor recent KIAs from WV. Desert Storm guys would be my age.
WWII KIAs outnumber other wars by an insane number. Two of my grandpas were there. My dad’s step-dad was a 101st airborne paratrooper who was at Normandy. My dad’s dad was a Medic in WWII, awarded the Bronze Star because he went out into an active battlefield to retrieve a wounded soldier that 3 other medic teams had died trying to get. He got him. He never talked about it until his last years. Came home a shut-down man. Became an accountant and played golf. He died of a heart attack while I was directing “The Laramie Project” in ‘02. Dedicated the show to him. There were several times during this trip that I felt their gaze.
The WWI wall is opposite the Vietnam wall. I noticed that most of the guys that were able to go into the middle stayed as far away from the Vietnam wall as they could. One guy only made it to the railing outside the circle, and was leaning on it white-knuckled and trying to contain himself. As we were walking out, my dad stopped and put a hand on his back. The man exhaled, turned and accepted my dad’s hug. I hear my dad say, “It’s all right…” before I left them. He later said, “THAT is why we are here.”
This is just the West Virginians lost in Vietnam.
We finally arrived in DC last Friday. After a few well-deserved drinks and a
good nights rest, we prepared for our ride to Arlington and the wall. I got to
ride with Bud, a friend of my dad’s who was leading the pack as the flag man,
with his custom made, full size flag pipes on the back of his bike. He was a
road guard. They help to control traffic as we move through towns and down
highways, and position the bikes at the staging areas. Bud is a retired L.A.
cop. He kind of adopted me on the run, and took me around to see the White
House, and the Pentagon Memorial as well.
As we rode through Arlington Nat’l Cemetary, one thought kept repeating in my
mind, “So many. There are just so many.”
Arch over entrance to Arlington. “On fame’s eternal camping ground their silent
tents are spread, and glory guards with solemn round, the bivouac of the dead.”
The west face of the arch is inscribed with the words:
“Rest on embalmed and sainted dead, dear as the blood ye gave, no impious footsteps here shall tread on the herbage of your grave.”
So. Many.
“Here Rests In Honored Glory An American Soldier Known But To God”
The walls of the Lincoln Memorial are inscribed with a speech of his. This is the end of it. It was spoken in reference to the Civil War, but rang so true in our current context.
Almost the entire contingent of Run For The Wall just after the group photo in front of the Lincoln Memorial, which is behind me. In the distance are the empty reflection pool (drained for repairs), the Washington Monument, and the Capitol.
The one name I was able to find on the wall of the two that people gave me: a college friend of my college professor. So many names…
Unfortunately, I let my memory card fill up at that point and didn’t get other photos I wanted of the final experience. It seems anti-climactic, but it also reinforces a lesson that I am often reminded of… it isn’t about the destination. It’s about the journey. I feel I learned more about our country and about patriotism and about politics than I could post in several essays. I learned a few things about myself, about my dad, and about my beliefs. And I think I was there to help a few of these guys. I am still reeling from all of it. Can only sum up the entire experience in a few words: honor. gratitude. loss. grief. family. debt. pride.
And the words of a trucker somewhere in middle of the ride upon seeing the pack of bikes flying the colors, in his mid-west drawl, “Now that’s America - right there on those bikes.”
Mission accomplished.