Started in 1988 by Vietnam War veterans, Rolling to Remember has drawn thousands of motorcyclists from around the world to gather in the Pentagon parking lot on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend. They come to demand a full accounting for America’s POWs and MIAs and to raise awareness of the mental health crisis, claiming the lives of 22 veterans each day. The demonstration ride begins at the Pentagon’s North parking lot and rolls through Washington, D.C.

As an Army Reserve Veteran and a supporter of Mission 22, I knew I had to participate in this demonstration. However, riding my beloved Harley-Davidson Sportster from the West Coast to Washington, D.C., wasn’t possible this year. I've done the coast-to-coast trip three times already, but with other motorcycle vacations planned, I decided to spend Memorial Day weekend in our nation's capital. I managed to get a five-day weekend, which was enough time to catch a red-eye flight, rent a motorcycle for five days, and then fly back home.

Twisted Road offers 20% off or a free day the first time you rent a motorcycle with them. I found my dream bike, a Harley-Davidson Low Rider ST, but ultimately ended up with the same motorcycle I have at home, a 2009 Nightster. It was perfect for a vertically challenged person like myself to ride through Washington, D.C., with three thousand other bikers.

I'm not a morning person, so I couldn't believe I agreed to meet hundreds of other motorcyclists at Patriot Harley-Davidson for a free breakfast at 6:30 AM. But I’m glad I did. The military ceremony roused me from sleep and set the tone for the day.

The Moto Police blocked the roads and closed off the Interstate from Fairfax to the Pentagon. As a special guest of Patriot H-D, I rode right up front next to the Patriot Drill Team. It was an honor I will never forget. We rolled down the Interstate at 35 MPH, which was fine; I was in no hurry for this moment to end. The police flicked their sirens as we approached overpasses lined with pedestrians and news crews.

We arrived at the Pentagon, where thousands of other motorcyclists had already gathered. The bikes were more diverse than any bike show I had ever seen—beautiful show bikes, well-traveled cruisers, crotch rockets, adventure bikes, three-wheelers, and even side-by-sides. I was disappointed I didn't get the memo that others would decorate their bikes with flags. This demonstration was to honor veterans, and I was pleasantly surprised to see everyone leave their political views at home.

B.A.C.A. (Bikers Against Child Abuse) handed out free snacks and water. The sky was blue, and the temperature was rising quickly. Wet bandanas helped cool everyone off. With fire trucks on either end of the parking lot blasting cold water, I was no longer concerned that I had slept in too late for a shower. I dropped my chaps and walked straight into the fire hose. My boots were squishy, but they dried quickly.

A group of thirty or more Marines swayed back and forth, arms around each other in a circle, belting out Billy Joel's "Good Night Saigon." I had heard the song before, but it will never sound the same again.

We were sitting on our bikes, ready to start our engines, waiting for the flag to drop—not exactly like the Indianapolis 500, but there were neon-vested volunteers waving flags to make sure everyone was ready to roll out in formation. I was bouncing in my seat with excitement, or maybe because the black leather seat was burning my bum. Sweat was dripping off me, yet I had goosebumps from excitement.

Before I arrived in D.C., I saw pictures of the endless line of motorcycles passing the saluting Marine standing on the median of 1st Street NW. The photo alone choked me up. When I made the corner around the roundabout in front of the Capitol Building and came face to face with the stocky Marine in his Dress Blues, the tension in my face and jaw became stronger.

I clenched my muscles to keep the emotions at bay, but it was useless—my eyes filled with tears, and I could no longer hold them back. I wanted to break formation, put my kickstand down, and thank him for his service.

I lifted my Scorpion modular helmet to wipe the tears away, then turned to my right to see the perfect view of the Washington Monument as I rode down Constitution Boulevard. Pedestrians lined the streets of downtown D.C., waving flags and cheering over the rumble of thousands of motorcycles. Some onlookers encouraged bikers to rev their engines. The Vance & Hines pipes on my rental bike roared like a lion. The parade seemed to last forever but was over too soon.

Friday evening, I rode down to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, also known as The Wall, to find a place to sprinkle a tablespoon of my dad's ashes. I knew parking would be sparse in D.C., so I was tickled to find a couple dozen bikes parked on the grass.

I rode up the sidewalk and claimed my spot next to a Tri Glide with a freshly painted eagle on the trunk. I had been to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial before, but this evening it was quieter and busier than any other time. Piles of teddy bears, letters, motorcycle vests, framed pictures, and other trinkets lay in front of the wall. When it came time to part with my dad's ashes, I didn't lay them down; I decided my dad belonged in my vest pocket next to my heart.

As I was getting on Liberty, what I named my weekend rental bike, I found myself in conversation with two Vietnam vets. I shared with them that my dad died ten years ago from Agent Orange.

After a few hugs, one of the veterans gave me a key chain handmade by a Vietnam veteran. It was two strings of beads—one with the colors of the Vietnam flag and the other with orange beads representing Agent Orange. I clenched it in the palm of my hand while pressing my lips tightly together, trying to hold back the tears. After we hugged a few more times, I clipped the key chain to my shorts. One last hug as I told the two old men to ride back to Minnesota safely.

A Memorial Day weekend I will never forget.