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Evo Red's RFTW
1989 RUN FOR THE WALL --- "An Old School Run" by Evo Red
Taking part in the inaugural Run For The Wall (RFTW) was a turning point for me. It double-clutched my motorcycle riding from pastime to passion. It was my catalyst to write tales in biker magazines, found a motorcycle club (www.windandfiremc.org), to co-organize RFTW in 1992 and to ride over 500,000 Harley-miles through 18 countries. This year marks the 20th time that RFTW motorcycles will cross the USA in a gesture of remembrance and as a statement calling for a “full accounting” of all POW-MIAs.
The people in our Armed Forces are the pillars of our freedom, “Freedom is not free!” The choice of peace or war is not the warrior’s; it’s the decision of politicians. Having escaped combat unscathed after 15½ months “in country” I felt a debt to those left behind. A combination of my veteran’s urge to do something, my enthusiasm for Harley-riding, a desire to search the Wall for a soldier I’d met and my yearning to ride across the USA convinced me that RFTW was a golden opportunity. This is an abridged story of my seizing that opportunity, a little about the riding, a bit about the POW-MIA events and some insight into a few of the RFTW people.
Run For The Wall has undeniably become the blueprint for motorcycle long distance group riding. The event has evolved over the years into a fine tuned machine. The first run though was more heart than machine. It was a bunch of bikers on a mission, led by an impassioned Marine Corps Gunny Sergeant, trucking in the fast lane with dated bikes and no chase vehicle. In that ‘80’s era, society held a much different perspective. Bikers on Harleys were more apt to be considered “scooter trash”. California didn’t have a helmet law. Legal highway speeds rarely topped 55. Cell phones weren’t around. Computers were mainly found at the office. The crowd at the Laughlin River Run, a mere 1,500, was there for the cheap rooms and MDA charity. Honda was the bike seen most on the road. “Harleys” were synonymous with “oil leaks and breakdowns.” American iron was still the bike choice of most law enforcement agencies. The “baby killer” stigma of Vietnam Veteran wasn’t too far gone.
In 1988 the biker nation addressed the fate of American POW-MIAs when vets Artie Muller and Ray Manzo inaugurated a motorcycle ride through Washington D.C. called Rolling Thunder (RT). This event has evolved into a massive annual protest drawing several 100,000 riders to The Capitol on Sunday of Memorial Day Weekend. Having attended the 1988 event, a year later James “Gunny” Gregory and Bill Evans co-founded RFTW as a coast-to-coast hookup to Rolling Thunder. Gunny envisioned the run becoming a huge groundswell of motorcycles riding across the United States. While never reaching the foreseen mass of thousands, RFTW annually draws hundreds of riders into a pack that casts a dramatic impact wherever it passes.
In 1989 the RFTW schedule was nine days on the road, Friday, May 19 to Saturday, May 27. Run money was generated from sales of t-shirts, caps and patches (the pictorial RFTW White Patch and the yellow Jane Fonda American Traitor Bitch patch). Sales profits and financial support enabled The Run to uniquely provide for the riders rather than charge them to participate.
In preparation for my cross-country trek I factored in the rain, camping and states with helmet laws. I ordered a riding suit from Aerostich in Duluth, packed my tent, sleeping bag and my Old Gold full face helmet. Unknowingly, I also sabotaged my trip by installing a custom saddle that would figuratively become a pain in the ass.
So, there I was by my lonesome in San Diego for the start of the 9-day trek. In my head I’d puffed up a bit about having ridden 200+ miles to get to the starting point. I learned later that San Francisco Firefighter Pete had come from the Bay Area, Country Ed had ridden from Oregon, Doc had traveled from Tennessee and Jon had shipped his Harley & its trailer from Hawaii.
I didn’t fit the mold of the stereotypical biker or Vietnam Vet. On cold wet days in my riding suit I appeared more like a gold domed, black/blue Michelin man. In good weather I came closer to the cliché: no helmet, sun glasses, a pretty cool patched jean vest, boots and Levis. At the kickoff in San Diego I was standing near my loaded-up Harley when a TV news crew shuffled past me to get to a guy with “the look”. The service decals adorning his midsize Yamaha, a nice screen image, must have caught the camera crew’s eye. Decal guy rode short and was gone before the day’s end. Nearby in the crowd I spotted a backyard built, custom trike that attempted to look like the Starship Enterprise. Never saw that Star-trike again either, maybe it got beamed-up or blasted off at light-speed.
It seemed to me that the crowd at the San Diego kickoff numbered close to 300. Gunny’s more accurate tally quoted a lesser 115 there at the Marine Corp Depot. Of those, a stark 15 made it to Washington, D.C.
Off we went clipping down the freeway, CHP escorted at 10 mph over and filmed above by a news helicopter. It became immediately evident that, besides needing the basic riding skills to hold a line within a column, a good dodging reflex was essential. At random times various objects would fall from the bikes up ahead. Picking a clear path meant making split second zigzags. The usual obstacle was either a U.S. or POW-MIA flag. At 30 miles into the ride a sleeping bag came bouncing down the lane. Some days later the best/worst award went to a drive-chain that sprung loose and whistled past the head of a trailing rider.
It might have been the first day or maybe the second that, just ahead of the pack, a pickup truck pulling a trailer spontaneously shot across the shoulder, careened off into the dusty flatland and flipped over. Its crash left wreckage strewn everywhere and multiple victims. Without hesitation The Pack pulled over to give assistance. “Doc”, not a road name but the real deal with a medical clinic in Tennessee, swung into action treating the injured.
At the first day’s last stop, the Las Vegas VFW Lodge, all the riders were given plastic badges: “Run For The Wall – All The Way”. Taking a cue from that idea, on The Run’s last day I made “All-The-Way SD to DC 1989” embroidered patches for everyone, everyone who had actually traveled the full route. A variation of those first “All-The-Way” patches has become a RFTW tradition.
The1989 run had support vehicles but no pick up vehicle for downed bikes. I can attest to this because I broke down five times and fended for myself. Rather than the downtime turning each case into a mini crisis, my impromptu repairs became magnets drawing helpful strangers offering assistance. Helpfulness seemed the norm for RFTW encounters. Truckers were initially pissed at us bikers for clogging their highways until they keyed into our mission. Those eighteen wheelers then linked themselves to The Pack as recon units broadcasting advanced notice of our approach. A couple of times tractor-trailers even converted to tow mode and transported broken bikes to repair shops. In Virginia, a Dryers guy, whose truck happened to be sharing a rest stop with us, dug into his freezer compartment and handed The Pack a couple of cases of ice cream bars.
Sometimes The Pack had police, sheriff or highway patrol escorts. More often we worked our seat-of-the-pants roadguard system. Sans flashy arm bands or bike banners, two riders would crank on ahead and block-off onramps or intersections. I’ll never forget glancing over from the column to the sight of a wide-eyed Country Ed parked steadfast across an onramp. He was dead in the sights of a semi rolling downhill towards him with its tires trailing blue smoke. The next instant I figured Ed would be squashed like a bug. Nope. He lived to road guard another day!
When confronted with threats from petty rules-of-the-road infractions, we had our own spin doctor. Don would spew forth his surefire “brother officer” routine. If the surefire was a misfire he’d try “guilt” with a plea aimed towards courtesy for a war veteran run…never failed.
I didn’t know anyone when I joined Run For The Wall. About three days and 1,000 miles down the road, the ever-increasing friendship between the core riders reached family level. We were the ones traveling the complete route. We always rode at the head of the column. We looked out for each other. We knew each other’s riding skills and habits. Whenever a “Core” member was absent that person was missed and asked about.
Why did this feeling of belonging spring forth? The connection was driven by our unspoken unity of riding in appreciation of the sacrifices made to country and freedom by the people in the Armed Forces. Once the ride was underway the sharing began: the day-in day-out intense concentration of pack riding; the heat, cold, rain and snow; waiting in line together, eating breakfast, lunch and dinner together, the somber ceremonies; the heartfelt welcomes; the effort to be on time ready to go; all the while traveling eastward through time zones…getting up earlier and earlier and earlier.
The Core’s mix of random personalities conveyed both a serious and a laid back mood. The driving force of The Run was pack leader Marine Gunny Sergeant James Gregory. Gunny rode his Harley with doubled-up saddle bags, a white RFTW cap that turned charcoal by D.C., a bandana across his bearded face and ski goggles covering his glasses. He radiated enthusiasm, leadership and the roaring voice of a seasoned D.I. His passion rousted the pack’s spirit. With Gunny’s focus being the run’s mission it was no surprise that the quirks of finance and politics ruffled an occasional feather en route. Not immune to glitches, he made one wrong turn, took one Utah “short cut” adding a couple of hours and needed a few push-starts to get his FXR running.
Bill Evans, the cofounder of RFTW, probably suffered the worst fate of anyone making the 1989 trip. To quote Gunny, “Bill and I were in the lead. However, before we reached Ontario, Bill lost some of his gear, blew a tire and then blew his motor. He spent the rest of The Run in the back of a pickup.”
“Country” Ed was a likable, mellow guy, the soul of the ride, whose appearance might evoke the image of a brown-bearded Santa-Biker. Ed quit his job when his boss reneged on a promise to grant him time off for The Run. The Pack tagged Country’s bike, an aging Kawasaki 900, ugliest ride. For the long haul Ed had “stiffened” its suspension by welding metal plates to the frame in place of the rear shocks. With its saddle from a Harley-Davidson, Country tagged his bike a “Kawa-Harley”. Four thousand “hardtail” miles of no rear shocks, Oregon to San Diego to D.C., took a toll on Country’s back tire. No problem; the Core chipped in and bought him a fresh one.
The “Booze Brothers” were three guys so named for consistently, some way or another, having a beer in hand. Gary, brother one, had the best tattoo on the run. It was an awesome full back tatt of a three-mast sailing schooner to which he grumbled, “Yeah, but I never get to see the thing!” He rode most of the way with a hole in one half of his Softail’s fat bobs. My breakdowns and his gas problems occasionally brought us together running catch-up. Gary had the “biker look”: good beard, aged leathers, worn jeans and a clichéd type Harley. Russ, Gary’s actual brother, was a friendly bushy bearded guy with always a smile on his face. Jon was the guy from Hawaii, an adopted brother due to the endless supply of six-packs rolling out of his bike trailer. Remarkably, but understandable from their ingrained riding skills, the three were always heads-up on the road. Off the road, yeah, well, okay, there was that one rumored carpet miscue. The guys’ usual night mode was camping. Probably due to the rain, the three had split a motel room with short-straw Jon getting the floor. Mid slumber at nature’s call, just as in camp, Jon got up and relieved himself “next to his tent”.
“Sportster Tim” was noted for not quite making the gas stops due to his Harley’s peanut tank. Many a time he would ride-in just as The Pack was riding-out. Tim offset his short fuel by hanging an emergency supply from his ape-hangers…two empty hand grenades filled with gasoline. At motor’s sputter, he’d screw off their tops and shake the “pineapples’” juice into the “peanut”.
“Big Bill” was “only” going to Vegas, then “only going to…”, then “only” went to the East Coast with the rest of us. Along the way someone stole his chaps off his bike. Bill was mighty proud when he got a CNN close-up at Rolling Thunder. He turned sheepishly humble when we clued him that his wife was probably watching and wondering about the RFTW groupie on the back of his Harley dresser.
Ralph and Lois, who appeared more like nicely dressed weekenders on a whim, rode double on a 1984 FXR that had racked up over 130,000 miles…figuring in the years and tacking on the 6,000-mile RFTW trip, that’s an annual average of 30,000 miles!
I was a pretty nebulous Core member except for my Softail breakdowns. 3,000 miles of having one or another trailing rider staring at my bike’s vanity plate tagged with the name “Evo Red”. Three times on the way to The Wall my Softail broke down due to electrical problems; the eventual culprit being my custom saddle. The saddle’s pan rode directly atop my battery cables, rubbing the connections loose and ultimately breaking a cable end. My quick fix was to use road alligator shims (18-wheeler tire shreds) that I taped to the frame under the pan as spacers. A few years later, on another RFTW, I had seven breakdowns but with a chase vehicle those were a snap. (Breakdowns aside, “Evo Red” lasted 344,000 miles before I sold it to a friend. He repainted it and plans to ride “Evo Black” All-The-Way this year.)
It was unspoken that we rode to comfort those along the route personally affected by the trauma of war and the POW-MIA fate. Those same people supported us and we tried our best to reciprocate our appreciation. The “doughnut hat trick”, a trivial happening, none-the-less was a hint of this mindset. The column was met at a stop with supporters offering doughnuts and coffee. The pack heartily drank the brew & stuffed itself with doughnuts, giving smiles and thanks. 70-miles down the road the column was met at another stop with supporters offering doughnuts and coffee. The pack heartily drank the brew & stuffed itself with doughnuts, giving smiles and thanks. 90-miles down the road the column was met at a third stop with supporters offering doughnuts and coffee. The pack heartily drank the brew & stuffed itself with doughnuts, giving smiles and thanks. Anyone supporting our cause was a kindred spirit.
The Run itself became a successful outpouring of support. Day-in and day-out an emotion of patriotism carried throughout the trip. All across America groups and individuals cheered, waved and fed us while repeatedly we were filmed and interviewed by the news media.
In Green River, Utah the local ABATE Chapter hosted a spaghetti feed for the pack. The scene was a throw back to the days of the Wild West: an outdoor fire, six-gun packing camp cooks, beer flowing and rowdy laughter filling the air.
The Rockies’ leg with its snowdrift edged highways provided us with a Continental Divide “Kodak Moment”. Snow was a bit unusual. Rain on the other hand was nothing but ordinary and expected.
Our route through Colorado along Highway 50 led to a cold night’s camping at the Gunnison KOA. Vegas JR was running 60w oil in his Shovel. Starting his bike, the next morning at that altitude and temperature, was like trying to kick it over with tar inside. Working it long and hard became a team effort until his Harley finally fired up. A year or so later JR was killed alongside the road, hit by a car while helping another biker.
Our trip through Kansas was unsurpassed, awesome and unforgettable. It began at the border with a State Patrol escort. As we rode down the interstate a small plane flew back-and-forth overhead trailing a banner of large red letters proclaiming “RUN FOR THE WALL”. That little plane somehow proved to us that people really cared about what we were doing. Farther down the interstate we exited at Colby, dropped down through the underpass and emerged into a welcome as if we had just come back home rather than been off riding for 1,500 miles. The underpass blossomed into an archway of red, white and blue. Aligning both sides of the roadway were people with American flags held high. The flagged pathway let to a reception area where speeches rang out from a temporary stage. We were handed buttons proclaiming “Colby, Kansas Run For The Wall”. Near the stage a tent was set up as a service area for free oil changes and needed repairs.
That first Kansas day ended in Salina where we camped in the heart of town at Thomas Park. A local chapter of the Vietnam Veterans’ Motorcycle Club was on site ready to party and feed us a full blown hog roast. The pig feed, band and camaraderie lasted into the wee hours. I vaguely remember seeing a modified (by knocking the legs from one side) picnic table used as a bike jump ramp. I clearly remember Rebel standing tall with his Vietnam Vet club colors, leggings and civil war cap. Meanwhile as the park festivities flourished, Harley-Davidson of Salina had its mechanics wrenching on RFTW bikes until 11:00 p.m. Some of us turned-in at a reasonable hour; others, Stewart included, partied with the best of them. The next morning when the pack pulled out a lone tent set in the grass with its blue-flamed CHP-auction bike parked along side; it took Stewart a day-and-a-half to catch up.
Leaving the park the VVMC and our RFTW column joined forces in a bike caravan to the Kansas Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial. An incomparable ceremony was in store for us there with a color guard setting the tone. Various dignitaries, including a state senator and the governor’s aid, took part. If not for a sudden emergency, the governor had planned to attend. Speeches filled everyone with pride. A patriotic song hushed the crowd as a vocalist rendered a ballad she’d written, dedicated to a veteran. At the ceremony’s end a lone bugler played Taps, followed by a rifle salute and an on-the-deck fly-by from a pair of fighter jets whose engine roar cracked through the stillness.
Our final Kansas experience came at the I-70 toll station. RFTW was provided a dedicated pay lane marked with a yellow diamond sign: “Run For The Wall Only”. ABATE of Kansas had set this up, along with covering the toll charge for all the riders.
In 1989 the scheduled night’s stop before D.C. was Natural Bridge, Virginia, but inadvertently during that day a small town along US Alternate 60 in West Virginia became the RFTW homestead. Unbeknownst to the pack, the citizens of Rainelle had learned that we were coming. Their impromptu welcome spun into a full blown parade. Waving children – set free from school – and much of the population lined the streets to welcome The Pack. Meanwhile, I was back in Ashland, Ohio at a gas station getting another bike repair. In subsequent years I made up for that lost first welcome by getting fully involved with the rides & autographs given to the Rainelle kids and the dinner afterward at the Moose Lodge. With only one small motel in town my usual Rainelle stay was 11 miles up the road at Mrs. Crawford’s Oak Knoll B&B. Her place was a rustic two-story house set alone high upon a knoll. Motherly gray-haired Mrs. Crawford would serve a down-home breakfast for her guests from a large wood table in her kitchen. Mister Crawford would mostly relax in his easy chair before the fireplace in the front room.
For some reason the D.C. area RFTW/RT camp was setup at Front Royal, Virginia about 70 miles from The Wall. I was the sole rider to choose otherwise and camp at an alternate closer site, Burke Lake Park in Fairfax. At Front Royal after riding nearly 3,000 miles from San Diego, “Mate” Pete loaned his Harley to a vet for the final leg to The Wall. His remarkably unselfish act was made even more so by the fact that Mate had wrenched on bikes the entire route helping Core members stay up and running. Sam had another last day story. He and his wife Margo had done grunt work supporting the run the whole trip; but, Sam’s bike gave out that final day. No problem, he still rode into D.C. on a Harley; I packed him there two-up on my Softail. The following year Sam’s resolve to get some POW-MIA answers took him to Vietnam where his try at a first hand look-see almost got him imprisonment by the Communist.
Finally we arrived at the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial Wall. Being there invokes emotions unique to each person. Many visitors leave a souvenir, in effect a piece of self, at the monument. I searched The Wall and its log books for a fellow soldier I had met. We had landed in Vietnam together but then lost contact. Luckily, I didn’t find his name.
The run’s end was on Friday but on Saturday in D.C., besides sightseeing, there were a couple of stellar biker events. The Crow Bar, a famed D.C. biker hangout, had a section of downtown K Street blocked off for a party. Fort Washington H-D, just outside The Beltway, hosted its annual open house, bike show and free barbeque.
On Sunday, Rolling Thunder’s parade/demonstration took to the streets. The RFTW pack showed up at staging, the Pentagon Parking Lot, four hours ahead of time for a spot in front. Around noon the column proceeded four abreast across the Arlington Memorial Bridge into the city proper. Crowds lined the streets and spilled out into the roadway. Traffic was backed up several cars deep on every side road. During the stop-start parade crawl through town, in mid 90 degree heat, my clutch gave out in the middle of Constitution Avenue. Relatively unfazed, I pushed my bike to the side of the road, sat there by the curb on my Softail, shrugged, smiled and waved to the rest of the RFTW crew as they passed by.
My ride out of D.C. back to Fairfax without a clutch was its own adventure. Stop signs and lights were a bitch. I’d have to shut off the motor, wait for the green and then try a push-start while hitting the starter and trying to jump-on and go. Along the way, I paused at the Black Eyed Pea restaurant for my solo birthday dinner, May 28th. From there it was a short no-clutch-putt to my tent at Burke Lake. The following Monday, Memorial Day, I left my Softail at the commuter lot and took the train to the Smithsonian. I half hoped “Evo Red” would get stolen. On Tuesday, Manassas H-D fixed me up. Wednesday’s “good-to-go” lasted about 200 miles, taking me to Nutter Fort, WV where a sporadically running motor called for repair #5. A slight delay was built within B&B H-D’s repair plan; Ma had to come cover the counter upstairs so Pa could wrench on my Harley down in the basement. B&B did a great job of meticulously locating and fixing my ignition wiring problem.
The rest of the 3,000 miles home went pretty clean except for Globe, AZ where I was handed a warning ticket for eye protection…no sunglasses on my trip around the block back to my motel room.
For a rider, who is not a biker, riding RFTW “All-The-Way” is a transformation.
Over the years both The Run’s size and organization have grown. As a visual demonstration, the pack’s size projects the strength of the statement being made. A few RFTW all-the-way veterans choose now to make the ride as “outriders”. They ride the route ahead or behind the pack making the trip more enjoyable. I have no argument with that tact because they have “been there – done that” and are supporting The Run in their own way; but, a good feeling comes from running with the pack. It took me until 2002 to realize the source behind that good feeling. In 2002 to honor the 343 FDNY firefighters killed by the Twin Towers Attack, my club rode from New York to the Firefighter Memorial in Colorado Springs, CO. Our motorcycle pack of over 300 was the first group at Ground Zero for the one year anniversary of September 11th. As with RFTW we had supporters for our effort. It dawned on me that the point of the ride was not enjoyment and the focus behind its support was not to entertain. The ride was for a belief. Supporters and riders both shared the ideal of honoring the FDNY 343. The same holds with RFTW; the focus is the ideal of demanding a full accounting of all POW-MIA’s while making a statement that those who gave all will not be forgotten. Helping to convey this worthwhile message is what creates the good feeling shared by everyone who runs with the pack.
- Evo Red (2/08/2008)
Epilog: Run For The Wall 2008
Maybe it’s my years catching up to me? I’m in this numb, funky mood having just returned from a fairly long, 7,000 mile, road trip. I did what I set out to do, ride in the pack across the USA on the 20th Anniversary run of Run For The Wall (RFTW). My desire to ride the 20th Run stemmed from my being one of the fifteen who rode “All-The-Way” on the 1st Run in 1989. A couple of years later in 1992 Bungee and I took the RFTW helm and joined a long list of people whose efforts have kept the tradition alive. Anyway, my state of mind is adrift as if I’ve returned from an alternate universe. I suppose the sheer intensity of pack-riding 3,000 miles side-by-side blended with emotional visits to veterans’ hospitals, witnessing the open expressions of love for this country and my seeing the gratitude conveyed towards those serving in the armed forces merged into an overdose of things dear to me that I have been missing.
Run For The Wall 2008 was everything I figured and more. The "more" was the organization’s polish and its expression of emotion. RFTW has noticeably been fine tuned to just the right amount of control and planning necessary to facilitate the immense task of moving the pack coast-to-coast; its numbers swelling at times beyond 300 riders stretched in a 3-mile long column. The amazing aspect of this effort is its display of compassion by its stops at VFW locations, memorial sites and veteran’s hospitals. I was truly impressed with the 20th Run. Initially RFTW was created as a POW-MIA ride from California to Washington D.C. meant to support and participate in Rolling Thunder. That focus remains but I believe The Run has become its own entity. It is virtually a “hands on” expression in support of the POW-MIA issue, veterans, military personnel and their families & friends. The Run is a patriotic gesture that touches individual people.
Rolling Thunder is the greatest single motorcycle demonstration ride anywhere; figure every rider from Sturgis Bike Week gathered together in one pack riding through Washington D.C. to support the POW-MIA issue!
In comparison Run For The Wall is a 3,000-mile meet-and-greet motorcycle run that renews people’s beliefs in the ideals of our country. It evokes intense emotional gratitude and relief from those affected by war. People see the column of bikes and realize that the riders care enough about POW-MIA’s, veterans and armed forces personnel to trek all-the-way across the USA.
The RFTW Mission Statement is right on: “To promote healing among ALL veterans and their families and friends, to call for an accounting of all Prisoners of War and those Missing in Action (POW/MIA); to honor the memory of those Killed in Action (KIA) from all wars, and to support our military personnel all over the world.”
A mantra often heard throughout the 10-day run is “This is a Mission, Not a Party.” I think those words are an understatement. RFTW is not “the easy way to get to D.C.” An individual focused on fun or a brand new rider looking for a first time journey should consider a more solo path. Running side-by-side day-after-day requires a certain level of skill and an attitude conducive to sustained concentration. A side benefit of traveling in this harsh environment is that afterwards all other riding seems effortless.
PATCHES: To commemorate RFTW 20 and my several trips all-the-way I had two embroidered patches made…actually the vendor minimum order of 50 each. One was update of the original RFTW “White Patch”; the other was a personal commemorative patch “R.F.T.W. All-The-Way 1989, 91, 92, 94, 95, 98, 2008”.
I gave the updated White Patches to friends, people I thought interested, 15 Australian Veteran bikers traveling to the USA and some old Run cronies.
The “R.F.T.W All-The-Way” patches were personalized by my specific run years. On The 20th Run I thought of a use for the 40+ patches I wouldn’t use. There is a small town in West Virginia called Rainelle that – because of RFTW – has become a Mecca for bikers going to D.C. for Rolling Thunder. The whole town turns out to greet the bikers. Little kids seek biker autographs! Ceremonies happen. The riders get fed free meals and offered free camping. This year RFTW reached out to the town by collecting $18,000.00 that it presented to the school.
I took the patches I’d made, white-taped the back, wrote “My years at Rainelle! Thanks. Evo Red” on each and handed them to forty some kids. I wrote the notes on the back of the patches with a pen I was given in a Hallmark store…the previous day a lady at the counter just handed me a Sharpie when I asked if the shop sold them.
In an unrelated effort I came up with an open minded approach to life and faith, “Live With Understanding – Bless Everyone” (LIWUBE). I designed an emblem expressing this idea incorporating the American flag and the Native American Medicine Wheel. Before I left Santa Barbara I had a plan for the emblems – patches, pins and decals.
I took these along with me to pass out in Gallup, New Mexico. In Gallup the Navajo Nation as usual turned out in force to greet the riders – veterans as warriors are revered – with traditional drum and dance ceremonies. With the Medicine Wheel incorporated into my LIWUBE design, my offerings were well received as I walked about the crowd handing out the various emblems.
Finally in D.C., I took one “R.F.T.W. All-The-Way” patch and left it at The Wall.
SNOW: (One of the days on the trip back from D.C.) The weather looked iffy as we started upgrade from Highway 89 towards Cedar Breaks; but, it was dark North and sunny South where we were headed. So, sans rain gear because I figured, as we'd done already a few times, we'd just ride out of any wet stuff. Well it got cold up in the mountains, snow flurries, then sticky snow. There were deer running around, snow sticking to the face shield of my helmet, the shield fogging up inside from my breath as I wiped it with my glove. My gloves got wet. My hands got cold. It became a nonstop action of snow on the face shield, wipe, fogged up, wipe the inside, wipe the outside and try to watch the road...as I followed the taillights of a motor home winding down the mountain. My leather over-pants had snow caked from knee to ankle almost an inch thick. My gloves (soaked through) had white on the fingers and knuckles. The cold made my right thumb (clamped on the throttle) ache. As the elevation dropped towards Cedar City the snow changed to light rain, rain that soak into any remaining dry spots of clothing the snow had missed. Relief from the cold end the day came that night via the Hampton Inn’s clothes dryer. The scene out the Inn’s window the next morning, June 6th, was shades of Christmastime, with grass blades poking out of a snow blanket and my FXDWG dusted with an inch and a half of white. The riding weather that day surprisingly was the best I’d ever had running from Cedar City, UT to Santa Barbara…86 degrees passing through Baker, CA in the middle of the afternoon. I’ve run through Baker at 119 degrees day and late night 90.
- Evo Red (6/16/2008)
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