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Bikers are as quintessentially uniquely American as apple pie, bluegrass, and baseball. They're post-industrial American cowboys on steel horses. Big American Harleys or Indians, beautiful machines, loud and powerful. Bikers come in all colors and sizes and walks of life. They're rebels when it comes to conventional modes of transportation, and usually a lot of other things, as well.

The clubs are brotherhoods of kindred spirits who honor something. Bikers of all types, from the millions of lone injun ride-to-live types whose main ride has been a Harley for 50 years (I know several), to the club members who use clubs for fellowship and socializing, to Sunday bikers, retired cops and firemen, blue collar and professionals, who are American and have the right to play American cowboy on a big steel horse with the wife riding passenger, and riding in company with anyone they please. It's called the right to free association.

All those kinds went to Washington, D.C. on 9-11 in 2013, American flags fluttering off their bikes, from pristine touring bikes to gnarly chopped custom Harleys, all THERE telling the people in D.C. what we out here are thinking, too. They went by the tens of thousands, up 800,000 to 1.2 million. The MSM buried that number in stories, and had headlines that read "Thousands of bikers converge on the Capitol." But it was a lot more than a few hundred thousand.

It was about a million, the rumble of those big sturdy bikes putting fear into the hearts of a lot of civil servants.

God bless American bikers.