Solitary Rider by Artie Hamlin, A PGR rider speaks

 The Solitary Biker by Artie I Hamlin

    The floor is cold after dragging myself out of bed just as the sun begins to peak in through the shades on my day off.   No lounging around today, for there is a mission to complete, a task not pleasant, but one that must be and ought to be done.  Today I say goodbye and thank you to one of our nation’s fallen heroes.  Cut down in the earliest prime of his life by an enemy’s metal, an enemy that hates the very freedom that I love so dear.   Such freedom that is one reason that I ride my motorcycle…closest to being a free bird that I can achieve, with constant smells, constant temperature changes, and the freedom to go east, the freedom to go west, my choice.  Not today though.  No time for flower sniffin’-a hero’s final rest awaits him as well as my salute and thank you.

     Grabbing a light breakfast for the road—I don’t want to get sleepy from being stuffed. Today is a day toroll on, racking-up mile after mile as my meeting with another’s destiny awaits.  A hot shower that erases the last vestiges of sleep from my body, and then the process of dragging 50lbs of cowhide out of the closet.  Many think we wear the leathers to look “Billy-bad ass” but those of us in the know of the inner circles truth, know it is to protect from the asphalt in case of mine or someone else’s misjudgment, or more importantly today, to keep the chilling wind away from biting my body, robbing me of comfort, of the karma of riding, and of my very strength to ride. Layer after layer of wool and cotton go on before the leather, quietly and deliberately, as I consider the events of the day that will unfold before me, as they have a thousand times before.  The flag draped casket.  The color guard with exquisitely shined brass festoonments and spit-shined shoes all moving as one person with deliberate slowness, a type of professional tenderness of respect  and extreme care as they handle the casket with their fallen comrade inside. 

     The zippers of the chaps begin to slide downward as the leather encases my legs, as it has a thousand times before.  I’m doing this all on autopilot as I continue to consider the events of the coming day.  The firing of the triple volley of three shots each, each one penetrating my soul to its very depths as they are fired one volley after another.  The haunting playing of taps by the bugler, not nearby, but not distant either, letting all around know that this warrior for freedom is now at his place of final rest, that this fighter’s battles are finally done.

     I grab for my vest, covered in patches and pins of trips recent and long ago.  One of my most prized possessions; it is somewhat a roadmap of my adult life’s travels and travails.  Fingers snapping chains on each side of the vest as once again my mind wanders and begins to ponder the events of the coming day.  The thoughts of the flag being perfectly folded after being lifted from our hero’s sarcophagus.    My heart is heavier now as I grab for helmet, keys and shades.

     I open the barely warm garage and am struck by the brightness of the winter sun, seemingly to give warmth but failing as the winter’s chill hits my face all the while sobering me up to the somberness of the mission ahead.  Rolling out of the drive, and roaring up the street, my neighbors are still snug in their beds, many having given little thought to such events as I am to witness.  Many not even personally knowing a soldier, many not even ever having said “thank you for your service” to any of those that stand the line and defend freedom.  Behind the bike there are two flags unfurled in the breeze.  One the symbol of mine and my fellow Patriot Guard Riders, the group that demands and ensures that our heroes be treated with the respect that they have so freely earned, all today by personal choice.  The other, is known by many names, the Star Spangled banner, Old Glory, the Red White and Blue, but I see it as flying proudly as the bloodstained representative of freedom and democracy, a symbol to be revered around the world and throughout history.  A symbol of the bloody cost of freedom.

     I’ve got to stop for gas and roll into the first pumps available, pipes echoing off the cheap metal convenience store building and awning, announcing my presence and mission.  Eyes stare and avert away as I pump gas.  Fathers pull their children closer; ladies clutch their purses just a little tighter as the man in black leather strolls into the store to garner hydration for the trip.  They have no idea what awaits me in the day, nor the price that has been paid that I go to honor. As I swing my leg back over the chrome, leather, and steel horse of mine, I spy Old Glory hanging proudly from the bike and I once again slip into the thoughts of the day to come. Thinking back to the flag being lifted from the casket, smartly and deliberately folded by the honor guard with two folds horizontally lengthwise, and 11 more in triangle fashion, for a total of thirteen.  The tightly folded flag is then presented to and inspected by the ranking member of the honor guard, who then expresses the thanks of a grateful nation as he presents it to the young quietly sobbing widow who clutches it as much as if she was clutching her fallen soul mate.  My soul screams “NO!” in protest of her pain and loss as I slam the bike into gear and angrily grab a fist of enraged throttle.

     Rolling through town now, pipes echoing off of merchant’s stores on both sides of the black ribbon I travel down; merchants and shopkeepers who everyday live the very democracy our hero has died to defend.  No government telling them how much to sell their wares for, no government store competing against them, just themselves and their common sense and the full freedom to exercise such.  Soon buildings give way to countryside, with barren trees, gently sloping hills, and wide radius curves.   The sun is higher in the sky now and the black leather absorbs its’ warmth.  In contrast, each dip into the shade of the trees on the road is a wide range of temperatures, both keeping me alert and awake with the aliveness of the moment.  Alive.  Your fallen hero isn’t alive any more is he?  My thoughts return to the task ahead, to the hero’s family that will thank me for being there.  Thank me?  Thank me for what?  All I did was ride a motorcycle here.  It was you that gave your child to the price of freedom.  It was you who are now hugging me as we both shed tears over such a loss, and shed tears over such a man’s free choice to defend democracy and give his life for it.  It was you, his parents, who instilled in him as a child and boy-man the beauty of freedom, the meanings of the Bill of Rights, the perfect union of thoughts and actions written in the Declarations of Independence.  Thank ME?  For what?  No sir, I thank YOU for the sacrifice of your son, of your daddy, of your husband, of your brother, of your friend. 

     The bike rumbles on as I get into that perfect seating position.  That perfect settling in to the pure oneness of man and machine.  That totally peaceful world of karma where I am so totally aware of everything around me, of any threats near my two wheeled steed; yet able to be deep in thought and contemplation within myself.  As the miles roll on, I contemplate my friend RC’s blog, Big Bend Bikers for Freedom, and how he has been one of the few screaming from the lonely mountaintop of sanity of how our freedoms are being eroded.  An erosion that seems to be deliberate, systematic, and done so slickly that the asleep American people are unaware.  The blog of Freedom.  I wonder how he can write and research day after day, hour after hour sometimes, all with no pay, and then it occurs to me that my brother has stood by my side time and time again as we honor our fallen heroes.  He has ridden side by side with me as we guide them to their final resting place through a world too busy to care and resentful of the interruption of their selfish lives.   He screams about the loss of Freedoms because like myself he has stood and paid homage to its’ great cost. We’ve seen the price and sometimes when seeing the suffering and grief of the families, the price seems too high, but I can take great assurance that those that paid the ultimate sacrifice for Freedom did not think so.  As my friend Poppa Joe reminded me, “they volunteered”.

St John 15:13:  Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. ( King James version as spoken by Jesus Christ)

 Prologue:  There are few things I love as much as riding a motorcycle.  I also love my country and what she has done for me.  It is my absolute joy to be able to combine the two loves through an organization such as Patriot Guard Riders.  I was one of the first 900 at the very beginning when it went nationwide and have been proud of being of service through them ever since.  As of yesterday (Sunday 1-15-2012) we were 255,000 strong.  God Bless America.

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