Thundering for the Kids — The Flash Version

I’ve never liked motorcycles much — the noise, the exhaust fumes — raw aggression. On the highway I hear them, roaring up behind me, often two abreast, weaving in and out of traffic, going fast and loud. Or gunning their engines at stop signs. Threatening, all in black, hidden behind big, intimidating helmets or goggles. Anonymous power. Darth Vader on wheels.

Yet, on a crisp bright Sunday morning in autumn I am on Delaware Avenue in Philadelphia with thousands of bikers. Even on a beautiful sunny day, they’re big, tough, and scary. They have to be to manage the Harleys.

This is the 28th annual ABATE Run for the Kids, “America’s Largest Toy Run.” At 12:00 sharp, they will start their engines and roar out to Children’s Hospital of Pennsylvania. Each of the bikers has a toy, or more, to deliver to sick kids.

ABATE stands for Alliance of Bikers Aimed Toward Education, a national organization that lobbies for bikers’ rights and provides education and safety instruction. The ABATE run was started in 1980 to counteract their “bad guy” image. Just to look at them, there are a lot of “bad guys” on Columbus Avenue this Sunday morning, the kind of guys you wouldn’t want to find perched on the next bar stool.

Near the front is a lean man with a craggy face. On the left chest of his blue denim jacket are the words “Combat Vet” and an American flag. He’s a member of ABATE and has done the ride for many years. “For the kids,” he says, as do all the other guys I talk to. “But I can’t do it no more.” He says the noise of the ride is too much for him. Then he pauses, becomes thoughtful. “These kids,” he says, and even in the din of the motorcycles, there’s a pool of quiet around him. “These kids. Some of them won’t be here tomorrow.” He pauses again. “There was a 10-month old baby I saw once, with tubes coming out all over…” His voice trails off and he looks into the distance. “I just can’t do it no more.”

He won’t go into CHOP with the rest of the bikers. He’ll go ahead of the ride to help organize the parking, underground, where the noise — the noise that he says is too much for him — must be deafening.

So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be perched on a bar stool next to one of these guys. But I’ll still be careful of them on the highway. For their sake, as well as mine.