What Not To Say at a Motorcycle Rally

Well, it looked like tortoise-shell to me!

Just as you don't question the legitimacy of the "gay" lifestyle in San Francisco, you don't call a motorcycle painted like the one above "tortoise-shell." At least not at a serious motorcycle rally. Its young owner looked at me as if I were three steps beneath dirt and said that the paint job was of flames. He clearly thought I should apologize or even leave the fairgrounds altogether. Just as clearly, I shrugged, said, "Oh, flames, OK," and then walked away without further comment.

You meet interesting people at a motorcycle rally, especially if it is dedicated to America's Prisoners of War and to those who went Missing in Action. POW/MIA rallies and motorcycles seem to go together these days. The men who attend them are now getting a bit long in the tooth, although a few of them are veterans of more recent shootouts than Vietnam. Some are survivors of the "first" Gulf War (under GHW Bush) or of the two unpleasantries still in progress today in Afghanistan and Iraq. The typical Vietnam veteran does not exist. They are in all walks of life and subscribe to all types of belief systems, be they political or religious.

But the typical BIKER Vietnam veteran wears Levi's, black boots, a black leather jacket with lots of slogans and clever phrases on it (some of them actually quotable in polite company,) and skin which has either been exposed to the sun almost constantly since birth, or possibly spent several months ON the sun. It's difficult to tell. With this leather background, tattoos are also in evidence, although many of them are oozing out in various directions and becoming unclear.

The wives (Let's be generous in our assumptions, shall we?) of these gentlemen either dress just like their men or do so only up to the waste. At that point all attempts to clothe themselves seem to stop, although t-shirts which are tight enough to perform the function of the non-existent brassiere are often seen. Also seen in this important tactical role are lots of leather halters, a title which is more fanciful than descriptive since they halt nothing and actually seem to encourage as much movement as possible. The children of bikers also like to imitate the attire of their parents. I saw a little doll of maybe 4 or 5 who was wearing a tiny black vest which proclaimed to all the world that she was "Daddy's little biker."

There are substrata in this society, as well. Some of them are obviously just regular folks who dress up for the part and go to the rallies, rather like a bank teller who tries never to miss a Mountain Man rendezvous and has won the tomahawk throwing contest three years running. Others --and these guys usually seem to be single -- are more tough-looking. They seem to be casting about for a possible insult to be avenged -- all the time. You get the impression that they LIVE on their bikes.

The one thing all of these folks seem to have in common is a profound and undeniable love of country. This made me feel quite comfortable among them, at least to the extent that an old History-teaching geek in a cotton shirt can feel comfortable among a couple of thousand former warriors clad in black leather. And, their doubtful position on being law-abiding citizens notwithstanding, most of them seem to be nice folks, quick to return a friendly greeting or to assist you in finding your way.

Another thing unites them. They hate (and I'm using that word advisedly and with ample consideration here) Peter Fonda's sister. Henry Fonda's daughter. Jane Fonda. "Hanoi Jane." A photograph which I took of the latrine will make this attitude abundantly clear. So would some of the jacket patches that were for sale at the rally, if only you could see them or if only I could quote them. But I try to keep this blog at about a PG or PG-13 level.

Many of the bikes have had attention, money, time, effort, and love lavished on them with marvelous results. Photos of examples are below. Let me explain one bike in particular. You will see here a photo of one Keith Grover, Captain, USA, Nat'l. Guard. His little son is asleep in his back-pack. He flies the Apache helicopter. His crew chief painted his bike. You'll see three photos of it just below Capt. Grover's picture. Keith is about the same age as my son, Joseph. They went through Air Force Junior ROTC (reserve officer training corps) together at Madison High in their senior year. Lots of good kids came out of that class and out of that program. My friends Fred Carcione (MSgt USAF, ret'd) and Rick Bensemon (Maj USAF, ret'd) were their instructors. You'll notice that Keith's footpegs are made of the 30mm rounds that he fires from his aircraft. You'll notice, too, that the flash suppressors from the same guns form his tail pipes.

Dave Wilkins, fellow High Priest and a veteran of some truly horrible days in Vietnam, paid $15 to get me into this event yesterday. Because of the spirituality which he has worked to build in his life, he says that he feels a little uncomfortable among the overtly and unrepentantly worldly folks that one meets at such a rally. But I'm glad I went. I came away refreshed in my belief in the old George Orwell quotation: "People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."