The
Twenty-Third
Dedicated to Paul B. Brawner 1949-2012
Yea, though I walk…
Where are all the legs? This was one of those times
when the brain refuses what the eyes capture. While squeezing the brake levers
in front of building 62, dissonance jammed my senses. In every direction, camouflaged warriors roll
and shuffle around on titanium and carbon fiber where flesh and bone used to
be. After a half dozen similar trips with the Wounded Heroes Foundation[1] it
shouldn’t be so disturbing. But then there
is that silent declaration, “Be disturbed and stay disturbed until the rest of
the Soldiers and Marines come back home whole!” Good thing politicians don’t
show up when our band of bikers rolls onto a military base hospital; they’d get
an earful. If all those turkey-lips[2] down
the street in the Capitol were handed a M16[3], stuffed
into a C5 cargo plane, flown to some third-world pile of rocks twelve thousand
miles away from their family[4] and
had to dodge IEDs, wars would end quickly or more likely never get started. Then
we’d get serious about fighting drug crazed jihadists and energy independence so
the young folks in camouflage could stay on two good legs. Well, once again I
have jumped the gun on my story and gotten all worked up.
Green pastures…
Green is a horrible color for a car or motorcycle
but it is the perfect hue for the Ohio River valley in May. The entire
countryside is nearly monochromatic from the ridges and pastureland to the
trenches gouged by the last Ice Age. Green
is invasive; it swallows everything no longer in motion. This verdant tint envelopes OH247 and OH73 as
they tumble to the Ohio and WV10 is swallowed by that shade as it carves its
way sort of south through the coal packed mountains. Later, Skyline Drive would
finish its northern leg with a tunnel of trees before squirting me out into a
cacophony fast food and traffic in Front Royal, VA. The rhythm of the road and the states blanketed
in green lulled me into thoughts of another event that week. Paul will be laid
to rest in green pastures next Monday. Conflicted since the first text of his
death about whether to head west to his funeral or to the Walter Reed National
Military Medical Center for our annual tribute ride for the wounded military,
the front tire remained pointed east.
Still Waters….
The Ohio River may be so lazy it appears still but
any water in West Virginia or Western Virginia has no choice in the matter. All
the blacktop in this part of the country huffs and puffs uphill beside water falling
downhill in the opposite direction then crossing another gap, races another
stream headlong to the bottom of the next valley. Riding is finding vistas that
can leave an everlasting picture in your memory and this ride is no different
as numerous watercourses along US219 and WV92 lead to the rendezvous at Seneca
Rocks. All the other riders came from Chicago with the chase crews and this was
the logical place for me to meet them. They rumbled up to the tourist trap and
bar about an hour later than Skip, the road boss, had forecast but darn near
perfect for a few dozen independents cusses and assorted female companions that
make up these annual trips to military medical centers. Skip is a cold-war vet,
a ball-buster, a M60 tank gunner that has organized these rides for years. His limitless
humor and genuine concern for the younger vets has inspired our tiny band of
volunteers.
When Land Shark, a very successful attorney and the
chairman of our little non-profit, pulled in at the end of the column he parked
beside my oddball ride. Handing him donation checks and exchanging our usual cracks
about following Harleys[5], we caught
up on how the ride had gone so far. After getting my t-shirt and patch the plan
was to drop in behind the file of Milwaukee iron and trail along beside Land
Shark’s BMW for the ride over the Skyline Drive to Front Royal. Two days alone
had changed all that. Solitude had become more important than belonging so while
the crew had lunch, the little Beemer headed east on US33. Johnny B-Good and
Skip told me later they figured I never was gonna ride along. Johnny B thinks
it’s the “need to lead”. Can you keep a secret?
Going fast enough to stay out front and acting
like you know the way isn’t leading.
Nope, not a leader, just an awful follower.
This day there was more to leaving than just chaffing
at the confines of parade riding. There was Paul to consider. We worked together
for many years and nobody deserved respect more than Paul. An Air Force KC-135
pilot that bought the values he lived in our nation’s service to work with him
every day, he was revered by his staff and his boss. The 128th Air Refueling Group in
Milwaukee treated me to a guest ride on a live exercise one Saturday morning.
Two of the Boeing 707 bodied tankers flew patterns over Lake Winnebago as F-16s
from the 132nd Fighter Wing, The Blackhawks, of the Iowa Air
National Guard took turns sipping from the refueling boom. Lying beside the
boom operator and looking into the eyes of fighter pilots as they plugged into
the straw from the behemoth gas tank inspired awe of the skills, the resolve,
of the entire flight crew and skill of the F-16 jockeys holding station mere
feet from the tanker’s wingtips. Yes, Paul wore a suit and tie but he was also
that steely eyed aviator holding station in the clouds.
I shall not want….
For the first time the trip didn’t sneak up on my
calendar creating the last minute havoc of arranging work, family and deferred
cycle maintenance to get away. Retired geezers have time-a lot less money-buts
loads of time. Candidly, time is
the greatest gift and I’ll always be grateful to Barry and Bill, my former
taskmasters, for granting time. After
three heart surgeries, the doctors at Mayo convinced me that pounding away at
the credit crisis any longer would mean never seeing my granddaughter drive her
mom and dad crazy as a teenager. No way
could I miss that!
Eleven cycles means not wanting for travel options
but this trip was about going back to the beginning. The green, there’s that
color again, coulees of Western Wisconsin were the first explorations aboard a
1972 DT360 Yamaha that ‘ring-ding-dinged’ off into parts unknown. This time the simplicity of the BMW F800GS fit
the bill with eighty five horses that are more than enough now that the pounds caused
by years of sitting behind a desk started melting away. The 21 inch front hoop and great brakes meant
it was ready for whatever West Virginia would throw our way and there was
something else this simple putt could do.
Too much of the motorcycle culture has been
high-jacked by the costume ball crowd. No matter the origins or the current
culprit, two wheeled travel has become about what you ride, how you look and do
others approve. Kinda funny when you consider the first cycle gangs were about
separation from the crowd. My favorite line the movie The Wild Ones is Lee Marvin’s line when the old timer asks,
“What are you young fellows rebelling against?” and Marvin replies, “What da ya
got?” I think Lee would approve of a lightweight, weird looking, cross between
a dirt bike and street machine because it meant not caring one wit about style
or acceptance; the machine becomes far less important than the journey and this
journey was becoming even less about machinery. .
Yea, though I walk…revisited
D.C. drivers don’t care what noble pursuit brings
you into their city; they are just outraged that your tight file of cycles and
road captains is disrupting their caffeine laced commute. After several near
mishaps viewed from the sweeper’s vantage, the band of misfits arrived at the
Walter Reed National Military Medical Center and our rally point, Building 62.
While the swag, the gifts, was off loaded, Rockie Lynne and his band headed off
to the inpatient building for face time. The most important part of these
pilgrimages is building relationships with these heroes. Our little group did all
the symbolic rides, raised money and wore the t-shirts but until we sat on
their beds, firmly shook their hands and assured their family, it never really meant much. Sincerity involves risk. Walking a hospital,
you have to ‘cowboy up’ encountering a triple amputee or a marine burned over
95% of his body. Many fellow riders cannot
go into the inpatient wards because that risk is too great. That doesn’t make
them weak, it means they deeply feel. For me, the risk is seeing these men, my son’s age or
younger, as a father does. But it is worth it to learn their name and hear
their story. The best part is taking that risk to brighten their day and when they
demonstrate commitment, loyalty, and honor it makes your day brilliant.
Through the valley of the shadow of
death…
Rockie and his band [www.rockielynne.com] strolled right
in singing songs, greeting families and praying. Yes, this 82nd
Airborne vet doesn’t have much regard for the PC we are subjected to when we
visit hospitals in our nation’s capital. No matter how firmly uniformed personnel
lecture us about the latest “no-no’s” of government facilities, Rockie has earned the right to say a blessing
over a warrior’s bed and nobody interrupts.
A cadre got to tag along and visit other patients. We met a soldier from Minnesota that lost one leg
to an IED and had the other one damaged beyond use. Still, he managed to crawl out and pull his
comrades from the burning vehicle. If we
had any doubt about the veracity of his fantastic tale, his Staff Sergeant was
two doors down and could not say enough about that hero when he told us his
version.
Paul would have loved walking among these veterans
of the valley of the shadow. He would have proudly commended them for their
service and exhorted them to keep up the good fight. Paul was not there so next
best thing was to do it in his honor.
He restoreth my soul…
The most troubling wound encountered did not show up
on an X-ray or leave a stain of blood. A
desperate young wife humbly requested a visit to her Marine curled up on his
bed in a darkened room. There was no cure,
no solace from his demons. There were just kind words, expressions of gratitude
and a promise of remembrance. It did not
end with some miraculous report just a sobbing bride quietly expressing her
‘thank you’ for our visit.
Thou preparest a Table…
By the time we returned to Building 62, Rockie Lynne
and his band were at full tilt in the cafeteria. If you visit his website you
will get a good feel for his music. His military experience, his heart and his
style seemed to connect with all the colors and generations of the warriors in
that room. Skip, Land Shark, Johnny B, Big Dave and the others were handing out
swag while becoming fast friends with anyone who’d stop to tell their story.
The day quickly passed and the time to leave the base was upon us. What came
upon me was a need to be moving. It was as if mental processing couldn’t be
done while sitting still or even moving in the confines of team travel. The brevity of the departure was regrettable even
if most of the crew tolerate my social shortfalls.
Some years back, my administrative assistant, Winnie,
gave me a small pillow for a birthday gift.
Stitched on the cover was, “You never see a motorcycle parked outside a
Psychiatrist’s office.” If she only knew how true that was once Gaithersburg was
behind and Hagerstown was ahead.
He restoreth my soul…part II
No plan was in place when the gates of Walter Reed
were in my mirrors at 1430 hours. The day was uncomfortably warm in D.C. but
every mile in Maryland took my higher and, mercifully, cooler. Perhaps a couple
hundred miles and a cheap motel; maybe Morgantown, WV would be a good tally
after a long day like this. The miles
plied up on my trip odometer as the bar graph on my fuel gage disappeared. The exit signs for the home of the
Mountaineers briefly flashed by heading south to I79 but it never registered to
cease motion.
The sun lost its’ grip on the day settling into
the horizon and the mountains leaned across US50 to lend their shadows to the
road ahead. Good rides are not always remembered in detail because what is
truly good may be going on inside the armored rider and not just what is
passing by. Paul was on my mind, on and off, for the entire eight hours it took
to reach my little farm some 450 miles from Building 62. My favorite day dream
was of him at the yoke of his KC-135 and how much of a hero his was to a jet
fighter pilot who was “bingo”[6] on
fuel. Paul’s twang must have been assuring to those thirsty fighters. Some of us were lucky enough to enjoy it for
years.
A $1000 memorial was given to the WHF in honor of Paul
and his service to this country.
Psalm 23 The Lord
is my shepherd; I shall not want.2 He maketh me to lie down in green
pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.3 He restoreth my
soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.4 Yea,
though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:
for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.5 Thou
preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my
head with oil; my cup runneth over.6 Surely goodness and mercy shall
follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
[1] www.woundedheroesfund.net
[2] Paul Brawner’s favorite pejorative
[3] M16 –yep, that’s an assault rifle, a good one
[4] Let’s not
forget mistresses so Bill Clinton won’t feel left out. He’d never go to war.
Not because he’d miss Hillary-she’d drive anybody into the arms of the
Taliban-but he’d miss blue dresses and never stand for helmet hair.
[5]
“It’s a good thing they are loud ‘cuz they
sure are slow!”
[6] Bingo-Minimum fuel for
a comfortable and safe return to base. Aircraft can fly and fight past bingo
fuel in combat situations, but at considerable peril. www.tailhook.org
