WASHINGTON — They come from every state in the country, many traveling for hours, most for days.
Nearly always on a motorcycle, nearly always with someone — more often than not with a large group — but always with one singular purpose: to honor their brothers and sisters who gave their lives for their country and to remind us all never to forget their sacrifice.
This is Rolling Thunder, a demonstration in Washington, DC, that began the Sunday before Memorial Day in 1987 when two Vietnam War veterans — Artie Muller and Ray Manzo — desperately wanted to highlight the prisoners of that war and those still listed as missing in action.
They came up with the crazy idea that a little motorcycle march on Washington might just get their cause some attention.
They figured if they asked folks to come in cars, it would look like nothing more than a beltway traffic jam. But if they came on bikes, they might get Washington’s notice.
How did they get the word out? A letter in Outlaw Biker magazine six months earlier. No hashtags. No tweets. No Facebook posts.
Muller and Manzo had no idea if anyone would show up.
Yet, turn up they did: That first year, 2,500 riders rumbled into town, a number that moved both men to tears.
Thirty years later, with a Rolling Thunder march happening annually every Memorial Day weekend, that number is now 900,000-strong, as the veterans march has morphed into a cultural movement that shows no signs of losing momentum. (Although Manzo is no longer involved in the march, Muller still runs Rolling Thunder out of his house in Neshanic, NJ.)
Some folks take days to make the pilgrimage, stopping in state capitals or at rural county courthouses that honor veterans with town-square memorials. They fill tables at diners or motor lodges along the way.
Bystanders line up along the US routes in many small towns and salute the riders parading past, draped in red, white and blue or in somber black to honor the fallen.
It is an ear-numbing, heart-stirring, peaceful demonstration — eerily orderly and filled with haunting moments that can cause even the most stoic old soldier to break down.
Marine Staff Sgt. Tim Chambers is one of those men who has moved other soldiers to tears. Since 2002 he has stood for hours in a sea of riders, holding a salute, as hundreds of thousands of growling motorcycles glide past him in DC.
He never waivers. Never lowers his salute. Never loses his composure.
Despite the deafening decibel of sound, his presence creates a sense of silent respect. Many times, tears stream down the faces of former soldiers who pass him, and often a rider will stop and salute him back.
“You cannot help but feel a deep degree of confidence in the health of our country, that there is such a huge body of energetic patriots who believe in the republic and everything it stands for,” said retired Army Gen. Anthony Cucolo, who has attended his fair share of Rolling Thunder rides.
A West Point graduate, Cucolo served the country in Bosnia and Afghanistan and led the initial withdrawal of US troops from northern Iraq. He feels inspired to see such an affirmation of all that is good about the kinship of the military being celebrated so vibrantly every year.
“The fact that it continues to grow is a testament to our country and to the importance of remembering those who served and never came back on Memorial Day,” he said.
Especially, he said, when our military members have become increasingly isolated in society: “Less than one-half of 1 percent of the US population is in the armed services today, and we are at the lowest rate of military service in history in our Congress.”
In other words, it is a military family disconnected not only from the general populace but also from the men and women who make the laws that impact military lives.
“Rolling Thunder serves as a reminder that Americans have to stay connected to our warriors not just in society, but also as advocates for their causes such as the range of health-care needs they have after returning home from duty,” he explained.
Attending Rolling Thunder gives one a unique insight into America. You see who has kept the country safe, the people to whom you should feel gratitude. You are reminded how fragile the nation’s armed forces and its democracy can be.
And, then, you understand why Memorial Day is so important.
For many Americans, Memorial Day means cookouts and picnics; American flags will flutter from neighborhood lampposts and in front yards, parades will wind through town squares.
Yet, relatively few families today are directly connected to the sense of shared sacrifice and national purpose felt by generations before the Vietnam War.
Rolling Thunder, then, forces us to reconnect with the idea — if only for an overwhelmingly loud and inspiring moment — that we are all in this together, that we are all part of something bigger than ourselves.
After all of the riders have passed and the roar has died, tens of thousands of people will walk along the Vietnam War memorial wall and trace their fingers over the names of fallen soldiers. They’ll catch themselves thinking about that kid from North Dakota or Florida who never came home.
At the World War II Memorial, you may see some of the dwindling ranks of men and women who served in that conflict but who are now disappearing right before our eyes. They will stare at that grand marble monument and remember how, a lifetime ago, they defeated enemies so evil that many of them still have never talked about it.
Others will walk through the Korean War memorial alongside their former brothers-in-arms, many of whom are now immortalized as life-sized statues.
Rolling Thunder is not just another parade or demonstration, not just an amazing blast of sound or a dazzling blur of bikers and flags.
It is a moment that calls upon all Americans to reflect on the costs and consequences of war — and the reasons why we fight in the first place.