The volunteers didn't have time to look up. They just went on down the line, passing out the cool refreshment to the next sweaty soul. Shortly after 1 p.m. on Wednesday, members of the U. S. Military – Army, the Navy, the Marines, the Air Force, Coast Guard and Reserves – rolled into town. 
They came two-by-two, one-by-one, and dozens-at-a-time, adorned in black vests, black berets, and black boots. 

"We are a bunch of old soldiers on one more mission," said Mark Rittermeyer, coordinator for the Ride for the Wall gang. What mission? To ride for those who can't ride for themselves. "The recruit in camp. The soldier, who, God forbid, might be at this very moment under fire in Baghdad. Those missing-in-action. Those killed-in-action," Rittermeyer said. 

Shortly after daybreak, over 300 participants set out from a truck stop just outside of Los Angeles. They came from Lawton, Oklahoma and Seattle, Washington, from the mountains of Colorado and the Gulf Shores of Florida. 

Some served in Vietnam. Some in Iraq.  Some didn't serve at all, but came to show their respects for the ones who had. 

Dixie, a sturdy woman with beefy arms, rides her motorcycle alone. She's made the trip seven times. Her Crayola-red hair is swept over one shoulder. Her sculpted face is like tanned leather. Her smile 
quick as a firefly's light.  "Something hit me in right smack dab in the forehead," Dixie said, as she parked her bike. Lifting her shirt, she reveals to a group of strangers a puffy red abrasion on her belly. "It was a bumblebee. A big sucker. It fell through two layers of leathers, my jacket and my vest, and under my sweatshirt. Then it bit me." Dixie said, as she continued to rub the lesion. She now sports a patch that reads "Bite me." Who knew bumblebees could be a road hazard?

Stop at Flying J. Fill the tank. Fork over $125. "Two o'nine a gallon. That's not bad," a consumer from Los Angeles said.  Not bad? Wasn't gas only 89 cents a gallon a couple of summers ago? 
 

Perhaps, that's why Kate Halpin couldn't ebb her tears. Kate was only 12 when Richard Halpin, her 26-year brother was killed in Vietnam in 1972. "He was going to go to Georgetown and become an attorney," she said. Instead Richard's plane was shot down as he flew one last mission.  A mission he volunteered to fly. Just because, well, that's the sort of soldier he was. 

Seeing the bikers with their POW & MIA flags and red-white-and-blue doo rags and their "In Memory of" patches pay tribute to the warriors like her brother always makes Kate weep.
"Every year they do this. Every year they remember."

Kate doesn't need a parade to remember. There isn't a day that goes by that she can forget the brother she lost to war. "I want to tell the families of today's causalities to be prepared 
for a lifetime of grief," Kate said. "It doesn't matter how many years pass, 20, 30, 40. It never stops hurting." 

Memorial Day is nearly here. For the next 10 days, hundreds of old soldiers are making the trek from Los Angeles to Needles to Kansas to West Virginia, to D.C. to let the families of dead and missing 
soldiers know their sacrifices are not forgotten.

"And they never will be," the Ride for the Wall gang promised. 
 

Cutting their eyes at one another, they broke into uniform laughter. "Don't worry," McKinney said. "I start each day with the same prayer. That we stay upright and dry." The guys were still laughing moments later when McKinney revved up the engine and pulled out of the parking lot of the Petrified Forest National Park and onto Interstate 40. And without much more hoopla, Run for the Wall's hundreds of bikers were on the way to Window Rock, capital to the Navajo Nation. McKinney asked me to join him in the lead. 

Somewhere on another Harley behind me, Terry McGregor was riding with a veteran from Texas. A tall drink of water named Harvey Gaubatz. "All I did in "Nam was drive a truck," Harvey Gaubatz said. "Thank you for your service," Terry said. "Welcome Home." McKinney didn't serve in Vietnam. "But I have a heart for all those who did," he said as he picked up his speed from 40 to 45 mph. Yelling back over his shoulder at me, McKinney added, "Be sure to look behind us when we reach the top of this hill." Exactly how does one turn to look behind them without shifting weight from one butt cheek to 
another? "Too bad I'm not an owl," I said. McKinney is a wiry guy, with the build of a long-distance runner. His gray-hair was pulled back into a ponytail. A leather band, decorated with a tiny beaded 
flag, held the ponytail in place. 

Sitting up straight as an arrow, I tipped my head down, away from the strong winds, fearing my brain bucket might blow off any minute. A scarf, red, white and blue, kept the desert dust out of my mouth. 
New Mexico is in drought. As we passed mound after mound of sagebrush, I prayed God would send rains to the parched land. Billboards advertising Navajo jewelry and Indian rugs littered the 
expansive scenery. 50. 55. 60. 65.  I tried not to think what it must feel like to crash on a cycle at 
such speeds. I didn't lean. I didn't jerk. I just sat back and watched the rearview mirrors of the line of Christmas lights stretching out for miles and miles behind me. 

Somewhere halfway between the Petrified Forest and Window Rock, I realized that I had not been in a vehicle in parade formation since August, 1966. The day we buried Daddy. Could he see me now? When we lived in Hawaii, Daddy discovered a moped, discarded in a ditch. He brought it home and, despite Mama's protests, got it in running condition. On days off, he would take sister Linda and me on rides through the pineapple fields. Whadya think of this bike, Daddy? Pretty cool, heh?

"We ride for those who can't." That's the Run for the Wall's mantra. "For you, Daddy," I said, uttering a prayer. And you, too, Mama. And widows like Estella Shockley who had called earlier that day to wish Terry McGregor and me Godspeed on our journey. "If only I was 10 years younger, I'd be right there with you," Shockley said. "I wish you were," I said. How long would the line of lights be if every cycle had a widow from the Vietnam war onboard? 

What if that line included all the Vietnamese widows as well? How many states would such a line stretch across? We were escorted by state troopers and county sheriff patrols. Motorists pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Truckers slowed down or sped up to clear lanes for us. 

Why didn't life slow down for our mothers? Why weren't they escorted through the hard times with respect and consideration? A sign was our first welcome to Window Rock: "The Navajo Nation honors all warriors, past and present." 

Native Americans have the highest per capita volunteer rate for military service. I once asked a member of the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation why that was. "Native Americans value freedom," he said. "This was our country first." 

They also value their elders. And it was my ancestors I thought about as McKinney tuned the radio 
to the prayers of the Navajos. Prayers for safe travels for the Run for the Wall bikers. And prayers for our soldiers, past and present, but particularly for those in Iraq. Tears streamed down my cheeks as 
the prayers floated across the wind. 

"Window Rock is a very spiritual place," the veterans had said. "What till you see the people." They turned out in clusters. Like magpies on a fence. A family of five sitting on the hood of 
their Chevy, waving. A lone man, sitting in a pickup at the end of a dirt road, saluting. A school bus of elementary children, noses pressed to window panes, smiles bright as lightening against dark 
skin. McKinney was crying now too. 

I could tell because of the way he kept slapping the left-side of his helmet with his open palm, as if to say, "Stop it! Get a hold of yourself!" I wanted to tell him to just never mind. Crying is a good 
thing. But then, again, he did need to see the road ahead of us. I didn't bother wiping away any tears. I just let the wind dry them. But my cheeks stayed damp, because as quick as they dried, they came 
again. 

"It's 23 miles up this road," McKinney said.  The Navajos might not have much in way of material blessings, but Creator has fashioned a landscape of hand painted rocks. They point all eyes heavenward. 10. 15. 20. As we got closer, the gaps between the clusters grew smaller. Both sides of the roadway were lined with people, waving flags, Vietnamese, American. Or just waving both hands. A group of junior high kids gathered on one corner. Yelling, cheering. Elementary school kids sat on a fence and waved frantically, eager for eye-contact, a nod, some acknowledgement of their enthusiasm. 

"Take the scarf off and yell out `Thanks,'" McKinney instructed. I didn't have all the parade protocol down, but I was sure of one thing – this was a higher honor than being Homecoming Queen at the University of Georgia. The Navajos aren't people of material means, and there wasn't any royalty in the Run for the Wall gang that I'm aware of, but I can't imagine a more meaningful tribute than the one I witnessed at Window Rock. It takes a great amount of grace for wounded people to forgive the past while remembering the sacrifices of all warriors, past and present. 

The Navajo people have created a nation of such grace. And our nation is the better for it.
 
 

We left Gallup, N.M. on Friday after very little sleep. Brother Terry McGregor and I had hooked up the computer in a laundry facility at a KOA stop in Gallup and were there up 1:30 a.m, working to send out stories and photos. A laundry room! We were both so rummy and, sadly enough, we hadn't had a darn thing to drink! 
Chip's Harley in Albuquerque welcomed us for a lunch of burgers. The state police turned out in full force to escort us through downtown. We staged for the ride just outside of town. 

While waiting on the bikes to get into formation, I struck up a conversation with Trooper Nadine Hamby, the only female motor officer in the state. Hamby is 37, and is so beautiful, both men and women were turning their heads to get a glimpse of her. Her long brown locks were pulled back in a purple scrunchie. Her full lips were painted berry red. Her smile white as a summer cloud. Standing next to her BMW motorcycle, Hamby pulled out a tube of sunscreen and rubbed it over her already dark forearms and face. She's the mother of two girls, 5 and 8.  I asked her what they think of their mom on a motorcycle. "They are too young to understand the significance of it all," Hamby said. I asked what her mother thought of it. "She doesn't like it one bit," Hamby said. "She didn't mind when I rode recreationally. But she said it's different having me ride 8 hours a day on the job."  Hamby said handling the BMW is a lot different than maneuvering the Kawasakis. "They are a lot heavier," she said.  That bike of hers looked light as a feather, later as she flew off a ramp and sped past us, ponytail whipping. 
 

The ramps and bridges in Albuquerque are unlike any I've ever seen. They are painted desert colors, and artwork is etched into the cement, bright blue tile decorates the overpasses. It's like a drive-thru Indian Art Museum. 

The first thing you notice isn't the memorial, but the place. High on a ridge overlooking an expansive valley, Angel Fire is located within the Carson National Forest. The road into Angel Fire is snaked together with 20 mph S-curves. Up and down and all around. It's dizzin', but I'm not sure if that's because it's like a trip through an enchanted forest or because of the twist and turns. Trees stretch skyward, like a toddler rising after a long nap. Limbs go every which way. Just when you think you can't possibly climb any higher, there's a bend in the road and up you go again. Like an endless roller coaster. The memorial is on the other side of the village of Angel Fire. The chapel is a white structure that seems to have been molded on a pottery wheel. It's all curves, no edges. It's perched upon the edge of a mountain, an eagle's nest, at 8,500 feet above sea level. An emerald rug covers the valley below it. And the magnificent Sangre De Cristo Mountains provide protection on all sides. Sangre De Cristo, the blood of Jesus. The sacrifice of the innocent. 

My first stop at the memorial was the museum, where I watched a video of footage from Vietnam. Boys talking about their buddies. Boys talking bravado. Boys talking about their fears.  Boys talking about their girls. Boys talking about their mamas. Boys talking about their medals and how little they mean in light of all that was lost to earn them. Lonesome, homesick, war weary boys. Boys young enough to be my boy. And these words about Lt. Gary Scott, one mother's dead boy: "He could not understand the whys of this conflict which killed him." 

As I listened, I thought of the hundreds of boys who've already died in Iraq. And the thousands of homesick, lonesome boys, rising each day in Najaf or Fallujah or points between with the prayer that Christ's blood will give them the protection they need for one more day in combat. 

I left the museum with Terry McGregor. We walked over to the chapel where we lit candles, his blue, mine red, in honor of Capt. Donald McGregor and Staff. Sgt. David Spears. As we knelt at the cross, we held hands and said a prayer for our mothers, for all war widows, and for all the sons and daughters, those past and present. 

Dr. Westphall died last year. Two evergreen trees were planted in Dr Westphall and his wife's honor. 
"Our hearts are broken for losing Dr. Westphall," said Jack McKinney, New Mexico state director for Run for the Wall. J. R. Franklin, assistant national coordinator for Run for the Wall, paid tribute to his friend, Dr. Westphall. "Any help from veterans come from within the veterans community," Franklin said. "We all carry a lot of baggage. We've looked into the Tiger's mouth and seen death, destruction, and our friends maimed. "When I met Dr. Westphall, he was up here, building this memorial by himself. He spoke to me with compassion. He spoke to me about healing. He gave me a safe place to come to. This is a place of healing. We all should be eternally grateful for Dr. Westphall for helping us. Let's remember to help those who are coming back from oversees now. It's our job to help them face the demons inside their heads," Franklin said. 

I then hitchhiked a ride with a biker from Orange County, California. I wanted to experience the enchanted forest, up close and personal. Jim's a Vietnam Veteran. He has 3 kids. All doing well. He's a proud papa. And he's a skillful driver - he drives truck for a living. Some of the turns were so sharp I could've stretched out my arms and touched the asphalt. But Jim handled his bike with finesse. I didn't bother watching the road. I was too busy taking in the wildflowers, the cattails in standing water, the stream trickling by, the evergreens, limbs drawn in arches above our heads. The ride to Cimarron,N.M. was every bit as wonderful as the trip into Window Rock, but in a magical sort of way. 
Dinner was at the Immaculate Conception Parish Hall. It's just a trailer house down from the Idle Hour Café, which had sheets hanging from its window. Apparently the Idle Hour Café had one too many idle hours. Spaghetti. Garlic bread. Iced tea. Mixed salad. Choice of homemade dessert. I took the chocolate cake. A stress reliever. After dinner, I had set up interviews with David and Ruth McDonald, who have twin boys serving in Iraq. And Terry and Jamie Maines who have a daughter serving in Iraq. 
Both couples are from California. The McDonalds are from Manhattan Beach, CA. The Maines are from Yucaipa, CA.

David is a Vietnam veteran. He and wife Ruth are on opposing sides of this war. David said he's no friend of President Bush, but he believes that "all the people who really want to do us harm are in the neighborhood" of Iraq. Ruth thinks our nation's leaders have led us into a "hornet's nest." Ruth and David cannot get away from war worries. They seek constant updates on body counts. David said his mama once told him that the whole time he was in Vietnam she worried. As a young man, he didn't really understand that, but now with two boys in a combat zone, he's come to appreciate the stress he put his mama through. Terry Maines is not a veteran, but he is a proud papa to 2nd Lt. T.J. Berry. Terry has the stereotype good looks of a California surfer. He's tall, blonde, bronzed; with eyes the color of glacier waters. His wife, Jamie, is a button of a woman. Little enough to still be in junior high. Golden freckles are scattered sparsely across her nose and shiny braces light up her smile. She doesn't look old enough to have a daughter in war. They never dreamed they'd be making the ride in honor of their own daughter. The trip to Angel Fire was disturbing for them as parents. The thought of having to build a memorial to one's own child. "No parent wants to see their child's name on the Wall," Jamie said. Yeah, I thought. And no child wants to see their parent's name there either. 

Constant nightmares, one after the other, caused for a fitful sleep. Brother Terry had to wake me from several screaming fits. He was sleeping on a mattress on the floor in the motor home. (Sissy boy) I was roughing it, sleeping nearby, in a recliner. Pablo Gallegos and wife Marie had the motor home's only bed. Pablo is the medic who identified my father's body in 1966. And he's the reason I'm making the trip with Run for the Wall. He's never been to D.C. I'm worried about how he'll react. I'm probably worried about a lot of things I haven't begun to process. One of the nightmares involved Pablo. Terry heard me screaming, "Pablo! Pablo!" 

After he woke me, my heart was pounding. If Pablo or Marie heard me screaming, they never said. The next morning, Terry asked, "Do you remember what you were dreaming about when you called out Pablo's name?" "Yes," I said. But I didn't say anything more, and Terry didn't ask. Some fears are best left unsaid, Jamie Maines has told me the night before. 
I reckon so.

Day Four is a blur. We left Cimarron, headed to Colorado Springs and Limon. I was disconcerted because I knew Terry would be taking off, flying out of Colorado on Sunday, headed home. He'll catch up with us in D.C. later in the week. Who would I buddy around with? Who would wake me from the nightmares? 

To make matters really bad, shortly after lunch in Colorado Springs, we came upon a horrific wreck. We were on the two-lane Highway 24, an unescorted portion of the trip. Dozens of day drivers joined the pack. Helmets are not required in Colorado. The trouble with day riders is that they don't know the rules that are gone over and over again, each morning before that day's journey. 

We were at the tail end of the pack, in the support vehicle, when we came upon the wreck. A motorcycle. A pickup. Two bodies down, the Russells. One male. One female. One helmeted. One not. 
The pickup had seen a break in the long line of cyclists and decided to gun it through the intersection. The cyclist, in an effort to miss the truck, swerved, fishtailed and wiped out. The cycle was in the ditch. The bodies sprawled across the left lane of Highway 24. Ambulances were enroute. A life flight. 
Pablo, a trained medic, got out the help. Terry took pictures. I sat in the motor home, praying, along with Marie. The helicopter landed in the intersection, directly in front of us. The male cyclist was taken out by ambulance. The female was carried out by helicopter. Terry heard the EMTs calling for the woman to "Hold on. Hold on." 

Later, at the KOA camp in Limon, I came upon an orange bike with a Washington license plate. "Where you from?" I asked the driver. "Pullman," he said. Home to Washington State Cougars. My husband earned his Masters from Wazu, I said. Mark Eastman was making his first trip to D.C., along with his friend, Jack Corolla from Burbank, Wash. Both very near my home in Hermiston, Oregon. With his gray mustache and tanned leather face, Mark has that cowboy-on-the-range look. He came back to the motor home with me and looked at Terry's pictures. 

"I've never met a daughter of a KIA,' he said.

I gave him my card.

"Would you ride leg with me sometime?" he asked.

"Sure," I said.

First thing this morning, I ran into Eastman.

"You going to ride with me today?" he asked.

"Not this morning," I answered. "I have some writing to do." "But you will ride?" "Promise," I answered. 

Today, I'm riding with Kate Halpin, the gal whose brother was KIA in Vietnam. Halpin is a friend of Terry's His parting gift to me was his buddy, Kate. She asked me to stay the night in a hotel room (ahhh, sleep, a shower, pillows!) and to ride with her. Twenty miles down the freeway, on our way to Kansas, motorcycles are pulled over. Pablo's motor home is stopped in the left lane. A biker is down. I see Eastman's orange bike. He's stretched out in the road, in front of Pablo's motor home. Pablo is leaning over him, talking. Kate weeps and prays out loud. 

Mark is taken away by ambulance.

"He's okay," Pablo tells me later. "A few broken ribs, maybe a wrist, maybe a leg." "Did you know he asked me to ride with him today," I said. "He wasn't supposed to be riding," Chaplain Dan Dyer tells me. "We tried to get him to put his bike on the trailer." Mark is suffering panic attacks. 
"Bad case of PTSD," Sizzmo, a long term volunteer tells me later.

Before the ambulance took him away, Mark asked them to hold off. He hadn't yet gotten his beads from Sizzmo. Beads are for those who served in Vietnam or those like Terry and me and Kate, the families of those KIA or MIA. Sizzmo wept when she told me what Mark Eastman had done. "He had to have his beads," she said. The road of healing can be a dangerous place. It's not for the faint of heart. Sangre de Cristo 

Tuesday, May 25, 2004 8:55 AM
WENTZVILLE, MO.- Road names. Every rider has one. 
Some are obvious: The Navigator. Stump. Bullet Head. Cruiser. Straightarrow. Wildman.
Most have a story behind them: Sharp is a double-amputee, the result of jumping rail cars and missing one too many of them. He sharpens knives for a living. Rich Harrison is also known as K-Rail. It's a named he earned after tumbling headlong into a concrete barrier in St. Louis, Mo., a couple of years ago. Something malfunctioned on his bike. A ball bearing or some other sort of gizmo. 
"A $35 part ended up costing over $35,000 in medical bills," he said. K-Rail's crash gives a whole new meaning to Run for the Wall, doesn't it? 
We left Salinas, Kansas, early Monday and finished up the day in Wentzville, Missouri. 
I started the morning in the truck with Kate Halpin. It looked like rain might catch up with the bikers, so Kate and I were glad to be in a cage. Cage is more road lingo. It refers to conventional transportation. The kind that keeps you dry and comfortable, like a Lexus or Grand Am. 
Trailing behind the pack isn't always a bad thing. Kate popped in the Miss Saigon CD so we were adequately entertained on that long stretch between Deep Creek and the Missouri River. 
As we pulled into Topeka, we spotted a downed motorist. Deacon from Missouri. He was driving a contraption that looked like an inbred-cross of a Volkswagen, speedster and a motorcycle. Spotting our POW/MIA flags flapping from the truck's window, Deacon waved his arms frantically. A sure sign of trouble. 
It took some doing but Kate turned the truck around and we headed back to offer help. Deacon's engine was blown.
"It was a brand new engine, only had 13 hours on it," he said, obviously frustrated. "Can you reach the pack and send back help?"
"No problem," Kate answered.
We found them under a canopy at a rest area somewhere between Topeka and Kansas City. The barbecue was all gone, but they did have a few ham-n-cheese and turkey sandwiches left. Kate and I had missed breakfast. There was a good chance we were going to miss lunch as well. I grabbed a couple of sandwiches. Some bottled water. We tossed the buns away and rolled the turkey into the cheese and ate on the run. Kate was hitching a ride with K-Rail. I was driving the truck. 
Getting through Kansas City is only easy for those who know it. 
I didn't. 
I was fine as long as I could see the clothesline of cyclists in front of me. I lost them after the first two exits. Vehicles merged between the pack. Not to exit, but so they could be part of the pack. Flash the lights. Motion for them to move over. Curse. Curse again. 
A blue truck approaches from the rear. Flags flapping. Chaplain Dan's. Follow him. 
On the other side of Kansas City, Kate and I switched. 
K-Rail is the Kansas State Coordinator. 
"A very safe driver," Kate reassured me.
She failed to mention he drives with the right hand and smokes with his left. Or that he's a big tease. K-Rail's a lean fellow. Tanned, with a sly grin. He wears his graying blond locks in a ponytail. He's 60. 
He rides a black Harley with a white wolf painted on the tank. 
Roads aren't a high priority with Kansas taxpayers. Some of the potholes were as big as moon craters. I'm pretty sure K-Rail hit every single one of 'em. My 
"What do you call that? A hole in one?" I asked, after flying three inches off the seat.
He patted my leg, as if that would somehow reassure me. 
We were riding about a third of the way back, in the thick of the pack. I finally understood what Staightarrow meant by that "rubberband effect" that comes when hundreds of cyclists are riding two-by-two down an Interstate. 
An ambulance flew past us in the opposite direction. 
"Never like to see that," K-Rail said.
Later we learned a sleeping bag flew off a motorcycle behind us. A biker swerved, dumped his bike and rolled down a 12-foot embankment. Thank God for soft ground. He sustained a broken ankle and broken nose. 
"Continue on the mission,' he said.
 The roads in Missouri are better. Not as many craters. Police provided escort. Honeysuckle grows wild along the banks. On a motorcycle the perfume is heady. Wind gusts cause the pack to sway to the left. Semis on the right cause us to sway to the left. 
So we rock side-to-side, like infants in a cradle as we motor along. I could feel every nerve in my forearms. 
Chills ran down my spine as we passed overpass after overpass, lined with locals waving their POWs or American flags. They sat in the bed of their Dodge pickups, or on lawn chairs, with their feet propped up on coolers, waving and smiling. White-haired grandmas stood by their Altimas, tears in their eyes, perhaps remembering a high school sweetheart who didn't make it back from war.
OHMYGOSH! The entire town of Wentzville turned out to welcome us. They flowed into parking lots at hamburger joints, grocery stores, mini-marts. They sat on their lawns and stood on Main Street. They held their babies high and hugged their mamas. They cheered and cried and carried on like patriotic Americans are prone to do. 
Boys Scouts by the dozens, tall ones, short ones, stood at attention. Old veterans, too. 
Firemen and policemen, their badges and boots shined, stood underneath a flag as wide as a football field. 
The police chief welcomed us with these words: "I can remember a time in this country when it was an embarrassment to mention that you were a Vietnam vet. Well, not here in this town. In Wentzville, we've always honored our veterans. And it's our honor to once again honor the Vietnam veterans by welcoming back Run for the Wall. Thank you for all you do."
At the close of the ceremony, hundreds of black balloons were released as TAPS played in the background. 
Veterans, young and old, all around me broke down in tears, remembering those they've promised never to forget. 

Thanking volunteers from VFW Post 1139, David McDonald and wife Ruth accepted a plate of spaghetti and took a seat among the hundreds gathered at the Immaculate Conception Parish Hall in Cimarron, New Mexico. 
But Ruth didn't feel much like eating. It was Day Three of the Run for the Wall, the annual trek from Los Angeles to D.C. by motorcyclists remembering "those who can't ride for themselves." Veterans and their families come from Sisters, Oregon, Lawton, Oklahoma, and Honolulu, Oahu. With sleeping bags rolled on the backs of big hawgs, and POWs flags flapping, these leather-clad codgers and biker mamas crank up their Harleys, Kawasakis, and BMWs and ride 10 straight days to reach the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall for Memorial Day. 
David is a Vietnam Veteran. The couple is making the trip from their home in Manhattan Beach, California. But it is plainly a hard journey as they honor fallen warriors of wars past, and those serving now. 
Soldiers like their sons. Sgt. Kris Van Beveren, 22, is serving with the First Infantry Division. His twin brother, Lance Corporal Craig Van Beveren, is serving with the First Marine Division in Fallujah 
"Kris is a scout with a mobile unit, so he's in all the hot spots in Iraq," Ruth said. 
Craig's been away so long he missed the birth of his first child, two-month old Mikayla. Neither soldier is expected to return home until next year. 
Ruth fears they may never return. David understands her anxiety. When Kris enlisted, David warned his stepson that military life comes with occupational job hazards. 
A stop on Day Three at the Vietnam Veterans National Memorial in Angel Fire, N.M., drove home that point in a stomach-churning way. The monument, the nation's first for Vietnam Veterans, was built by Dr. Victor Westphall in memory of his son, Lt. David Westphall, who was killed in Vietnam on May 22, 1968. Overlooking the glorious Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the sacred structures underscore Dr. Westphall's philosophy that "war is not the answer to our problems." 
Inside the museum, a video clip quotes a soldier's letter: "Well, Mom, it's finally happened. I've earned a Silver Star, but I'm no hero. I was only helping out my buddies. Heroes are for the late show." 
Listening to first-hand accounts of former combat veterans upsets Ruth. 
"When these guys admit to how lonely and frightened they were in Vietnam, how hot and tired, it brings it all home. I can't help but think of my boys," she said. 
Sun burnt and road weary bikers, Terry and Jamie Maines, of Yucaipa, California, are also occupied with thoughts of their daughter, 2nd Lt. T. J. Berry. Berry, 22, is serving in Najaf. 
Terry's blue eyes swell and his voice cracks when he speaks of his girl. 
"I'm scared for her and I'm proud of her. I tear up a lot." 
The couple pays close attention to the veterans on the trip. 
"When I look at these vets and see all they went through, I think of T.J. and the sorts of problems she might face. I think about it all the time. But there are certain things you fear that you just don't talk about," Jamie said. 
Terry nodded. 
"I'm pretty sure she won't come home the same girl as before. How could she?" 
With all the brouhaha brewing over this current war, they're concerned that their daughter may come home to a nation's lukewarm reception. 
"I think the welcome is fading," Jamie said. "We need to remember that there are still soldiers out there doing their jobs." 
And parents, stateside, fretting. 
"My mom always told me about how much stress she had while I was in Vietnam," David said. "She watched the news to see how many Marines were killed and wondered if I was on that list. Now I'm glued to the news. Every time I walk in the front door, I get that day's body count." 
The couples hoped the trip would give them a break from war worries. Instead, it has made them all the more aware of the sacrifices of this nation's military families. 
All medals and monuments aside, no parent ever wants to see their child become a late show hero in a combat zone.