The Journey Begins

Since this ride takes place on the East Coast I fly there and rent a motorcycle. In the past when I arrived I rushed to the dealership to pick up my bike before closing, and then at the end raced the clock from New York to D.C. to drop it off, followed by quickly catching a ride to the airport so as to return home the same day. I have anticipated that this year's ride will be more exhausting than past rides, both emotionally and physically, so I have scheduled a little down time before and after, though not much.

For the first time I fly into Newark, then taxi to a hotel near the dealership. After sitting in planes all day the two mile walk for dinner felt good, though a little harried as it was along a two lane highway with no sidewalk. But the food was good and the conversation centered around memories from the past three rides as well as thoughts and expectations for this one.

After breakfast it's off to the Harley-Davidson dealership just a few miles away. With the size of this year's ride I can presume that the accordion affect will be on-going and the riding time much longer, so I have rented the same type bike I have at home for the ease and comfort of handling under less than optimal conditions. Before leaving home I mapped out the 300 mile route from the dealership to the hotel in Somerset, including the gas and lunch stop at the halfway point in Annville, PA. I don't carry a paper map or printouts but instead rely on my best friends Droid and Google. So I rechecked the directions, commit them to memory and hit the road with anticipation.

Within the first couple of miles I am struck with a reminder of why I am here. There, attached to the fence on the first overpass I see is an American flag. As I travel southwest through New Jersey I see them on almost every overpass. I honestly only recall one that was bare. The reality of that tragic day remains a strong memory here. As these thoughts strike me I see a roadside sign announcing the exit for General Washington's Headquarters and realize there is a lot of America's history in this area and I am humbled.

Soon the green rolling hills and towns become more spread out and I am heading west across Pennsylvania. I think about the fact that after today I will have traveled the entire way across this state on two separate occasions yet have never been to Philadelphia to visit sites historic to the birth of our nation. I make a mental note to ensure that I make some extra time for that next year.

The need for food and fuel hit as scheduled and I locate historic Harper's Tavern, just off the highway yet isolated, where it has stood for over 200 years. The menu also notes the building's history and old pictures line the walls. There is even a framed old, yellowed newspaper dated April 15, 1865, announcing that President Lincoln had been shot. Combine that with the ambiance and good food and all this alone would be enough to recommend it to anyone traveling through. But as I look across the room I see yet another reminder of why I am here. There is a small American flag framed along with a certificate of authenticity that it was flown with the 193rd Special Operations Squadron during Operation Iraqi Freedom and presented to Harper's Tavern. I take photos and ask the owner who provided it to them. She tells me that a local young woman had it done while she was deployed and surprised them with the presentation. She said this with a great sense of both pride and honor. With the day's travel only half done it's time to saddle back up and reach Somerset.

I don't know how to say this without sounding strange but here goes. I have never been one to believe in ghosts, spirits or similar ideas. And then in August of 2007, I made my first visit to the United 93 crash site outside Shanksville. As I rode out there I could feel a heaviness in the air envelope me. I saw the flag posted at the impact site, listened to the Park Ranger read transcripts from the flight communications and cell phone calls, looked at the makeshift memorial, and added my own San Jose Police Department Motor Unit baseball cap to the wall. The feeling in the air and emotions were surreal and they left me as I rode away. I figured since this was my first visit it was just a very emotional one. However, when I was there again in 2009 and 2010, the site itself was changed each time but to my surprise I still felt as though I was entering a different airspace. I could again feel the people lost that day, their courage, their fear, and their resolve as Americans to take action and protect their beloved country.

I bring this up because as I was nearing Somerset on the Turnpike I was struck by these feelings again, though they were at a distance. I was suddenly pulled to stare off to my left, out across the countryside, where I knew Shanksville to be. And then I began to envision what those in this area saw in the air that day as the plane suddenly climbed straight up before turning and diving nose down to the earth. As the area moves behind me the feelings fade, but not the thoughts as I exit for the hotel in Somerset. This night will be one to relax, see those from the Foundation who have arrived early, and await the arrival of everyone else.