I wrote this in '98 for a biker rag called Thunder Press here in NY. It's about my experiences at The Wall.

To anyone who served, you have my gratitude and thanks.

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I did not go to Viet Nam. Nor did I have any relatives or friends that went. I was born in 1960, and for me, Viet Nam was something that appeared on the evening news, or was discussed by my parents and their friends at parties.
Viet Nam meant air raid drills in school. And as my skirts got shorter, it meant learning how to curl myself up along the wall with out my drawers showing. During this time period, I knew two things about Viet Nam -- 1) It was a faraway country with a hot unfriendly climate 2) Our boys, as my mother called them, were over there. Unlike the movies I watched with my dad about W.W.II, the evening news showed lots of helicopters in this place called Viet Nam. The fight scenes were harder to follow than the old W.W.II movies and it all seemed very confusing to me. My dad was my narrator, explaining that this was not a movie, this was happening right now.

So why is someone with no personal ties to Viet Nam writing about last weekends Run To The Wall? Good question. I should also mention that I dont ride a motorcycle -- I ride on the back of my husband's bike. The Run To the Wall is something that I wanted to do after visiting DC last August.

The day we went to the Wall, my 4 year old daughter was becoming increasingly unwell, so I never got closer than the remote parking spot we managed to find. From where the car was parked, I could see the Wall and a throng of people wading past it. While waiting for my friend to return to the car, I realized that this, should have been our first stop on our 2 1/2 day visit -- not our last. And then I remembered that there was a run every Memorial Day weekend to the Wall. I knew where Id be next Memorial Day......So for what its worth, heres what I saw, heard, and felt at the Run:

I had no expectations about the run, I didnt know what would happen, or how many bikes would be there. We got there on Saturday in the late afternoon, a day before the Run. Constitution Avenue was packed with bikes, folks were queuing up at the Wall, and the vendors were everywhere.

Everywhere I looked I saw the rockers -- Nam Knights, Viet Nam Vets, In Country. Most of the T-shirts for sale werent about being In the Wind, they had slogans like One Shot, One Kill or POW/MIA. Many had no writing on them at all, just vivid reflections of Soldiers coming from within the Wall itself, touching the hand of a man in his late 40s leaning against the Wall. Others showed sketches of soldiers walking through swamps in full gear.

The images on the shirts, along with the hundreds of Nam Vets on every corner, and along every stretch of pavement kept whizzing through my head as I walked around. For a bike event, the place seemed unusually quiet.

Ten of us came from the New York, New Jersey area. Only one of us was in Nam. And I always managed to steer clear of prodding him with any of my curiosities about what it was like. You see, I didnt want to pry. Even here I felt like any question I had would come off as an invasion of a memory, nightmare or pain that was none of my damn business.

So I said nothing. Just kept walking, catching scraps of conversation from one group or another, never making eye contact. Never wanting to appear as if I was snooping. But, the scraps I heard made me glad that I had on sunglasses, because of the trickling of my tears. I kept moving, never wanting to hear a complete story. If I got far enough away from the conversation to turn my head back and take a quick look at who was talking, I shifted my gaze as soon as I made eye contact.

I did this in part because I knew Id start crying again, and in part because at 37 years of age Viet Nam was finally more than just in my living room on the evening news -- It was here. I guess I felt a combination of gratitude and awe for what these men went through....and still I felt like an outsider.

At the Wall we saw the remembrances left by those who came before us, pictures, poetry, letters, an old combat boot with a red rose sticking out from its boot top. There was a blind woman there with a friend helping her feel the etching of a name. She stood there staring off into the sky, metal cane in one hand, the other moving rhythmically across the letters. Her eyes showed no emotion -- the contortions of her mouth spoke volumes. I kept my respective distance and never got to see the name she touched so gingerly. I felt as though I would be intruding if I got any closer.

I had nobody to visit at the Wall, so I watched the people around me -- some came to visit, touching names, hugging, crying. It occurred to me that many of the people embracing did not necessarily come to the Wall together, rather the Wall brought them together for a brief moment. And it was that very Wall that brought all of the bikes here. I stood back and took in a long-shot of the Wall -- This incredible monolith had the power to draw hundreds of folks together. It offered no door prize, no meal ticket, no band, no trophy for first place rider, no sign up fee.

The concept was simple -- just come. And what looked like more than 100,000 bikes did just that. It occurred to me that the Run took place in two phases -- the first part was your personal journey to DC. The second part took place the next day and you had a choice of two roles that you could play -- either in the parade, or alongside it. Whatever you chose to do, you got a good deal.

I watched the parade on the opposite side of the street from my husband. I was too late for me to get across and up the block, so I stood in a crowd by myself. And then the bikes came....for two hours they came. They came sometimes 3 abreast, sometimes 5 abreast. They came from as far away as LA It didnt matter what you rode, you just rode. People cheered, waved, smiled. There were no attitudes.

At one point, I noticed that I was standing near a few Viet Nam Vets wearing their fatigue jackets and medals. As the bikes rolled past, I heard the ones closest to our side of the crowd say Welcome Home Soldier. Many saluted them. And once again, I was glad for the sunglasses. This was their homecoming parade too. And right at that moment, more than anything in the world, I wanted to say the same thing to them. But I was frozen in my place.

Later, while the bikes were still rolling past, I began walking up the block until I was parallel to where my husband was standing, while trying to catch his eye, I caught a bit of conversation happening just behind me. Some vets were squatted down talking to several kids. The kids looked to be no more than 7 or 8 years old. And the vets were saying, You need to know something ....., You see, I was in a place called Viet Nam......, I was in a war that you need to know about....., Remember this story that I tell you and tell it to your friends, your children....., Please dont forget me, or what Ive said. Its important to all of us......

I stood there with tears burning in my eyes, listening, looking at the faces of the kids. Anyone familiar with kids knows the look...... quizzical, trusting, mesmerized.....big beautiful eyes following the features on each mans face.....Its a picture that Ill keep in my heart forever.

I think I know where Ill be next Memorial Day weekend. But Ill be back before then, and Ill bring my daughter. Ill take her to hear the stories told by these gallant knights.....to shake their hands, to tell them Welcome Home Soldier.


Elyse Pivnik
1960
N. Massapequa, NY USA
pivnike@yahoo.com

Viet Nam, The Wall, Run to the Wall