Hot, sweaty and tired of waiting, the 10,000 bikers who converged on the state’s capitol Sunday vented their impatience with the tempered blasts of revving engines.

Many had ridden more than 200 miles to follow their leader, a Harley-Davidson strutting Maine boy who had vanquished most of his rivals years ago. Some had never seen his face. Others wondered if he would ride alone. Or would his woman accompany him?

Shortly after 1 p.m., a sleek, black Oldsmobile pulled into the cycle-packed parking lot of the Augusta Civic Center. Dudes in sunglasses exited the vehicle and disappeared into the crowd. It was the Big Man’s security force — just checking things out.

Moments later, the first couple of Maine motorcycling arrived heralded by a woman in a tank top near the hot dog stand.

“Oh my God!” she screeched. “It’s Jock and Olympia. Where the hell’s my camera?”

Gov. John R. McKernan was not wearing the colors of his club emblazoned on his back. And unlike many of the other motorcycle mamas, U.S. Rep. Olympia J. Snowe was not in gypsy leathers as she climbed onto the back of a full-dress H-D Electra-Glide.

Instead, the couple wore black United Bikers of Maine T-shirts advertising Sunday as the 10th Annual UBM Toy Run — an event that has made the goals of the state biker association synonymous with the dreams of needy children.

McKernan strapped on a black helmet, cranked the throttle of HOG-1 and exited the civic center lot. With state and club flags flying high, the UBM executive board followed the governor. Behind them were the organization’s county and district officers who led the thousands toward the capitol where three Salvation Army moving trucks were waiting to be filled with more than $150,000 worth of toys and stuffed animals.

As the four-mile long procession crossed the suburban line, it became apparent that the city had been shut down. For the next 90 minutes, the UBM would own downtown Augusta.

The locals didn’t seem to mind the inconvenience posed by passing cyclists. In fact, in a scene reminiscent of U.S. troops entering a liberated Kuwait City, hundreds of people lined the sides of Mount Vernon Avenue waving American flags. They cheered and hooted while the bikers responded with horn honks and peace symbol gestures. One woman held her baby up in the air and forced its hand up and down in a welcoming motion.

As the bikers approached the capitol rotary — long recognized as municipal transportation’s answer to purgatory — an even more remarkable incident took place: no one had to stop. Blocked off by city police, the highway was clear and the motorcyclists rolled on through to the steps of the State Office Building.

Maj. William W. Francis, divisional commander for the Salvation Army in Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont, was all smiles as he helped pass the thousands of donated toys on to UBM volunteers who loaded the charity’s trucks to the roof.

“Bless you, thank you and Merry Christmas,” Francis repeated to each of the bikers who stood in line to drop off their presents.

Christmas in September. Conservative politicians and free-wheeling bikers. The UBM Annual Toy Run has emerged as the summer season’s most colorful potpourri of contrasting images linked by simple two-wheeled excite ment. The mood is festive, combining patriotic tinges of Independence Day, holiday gift-giving, Halloween and the spectacle of a circus coming to town.

Beyond the obvious goal of making Christmas a little brighter for poor Maine children, the event also serves to dispel the negative stereotype bikers have been combating since Marlon Brando made “The Wild One” in 1954. Public relations and partying also have been factors in the growing popularity of the Toy Run, which has exploded from an initial 350 participants to 10,000 in less than a decade.

As McKernan observed, Maine bikers are a diverse collection of caring individuals and “anything but a homogeneous group.”

“I want to thank you for your generosity and for things you’re doing for our state,” the governor said to the bikers who were openly calling him “brother.” “You’re helping to cut down on the type of stereotyping that undermines society. It undermines stereotypes both for you to be involved in the Toy Run, and, frankly, maybe for me to be leading the parade on a Harley.”

The crowd ate up the governor’s remarks and McKernan and Snowe appeared relaxed and genuinely happy to be a part of the festivities.

But the state’s governor and congressional representative have done more than provide moral support for bikers. Snowe voted against a bill this year that would have imposed a national mandatory helmet law. Maine repealed its mandatory helmet law in 1976. McKernan has consistently been a vocal proponent of the “let those who ride decide” philosophy which is also passionately embraced by the UBM leadership.

“I feel the same way about helmets as I do about seat belts,” McKernan said. “For adults there’s only so much you can do to tell them how to live their lives. Kids are another thing. You ought not to have the right to be stupid for your kids. But you ought to have the right to be stupid for yourself.”

Paul K. Vestal Jr., one of the cornerstones of the UBM, its president for several years and current president of the national Motorcycle Riders Foundation, generated nearly as much applause as the governor. The Plymouth resident appealed to the bikers to become involved in the legislative process to safeguard their rights to ride without a helmet and, ultimately, to be able to ride at all.

“A lot of people don’t believe this is happening or that it’s going to happen,” Vestal said. “If we don’t turn this thing back within 10 years, the only place you’re going to see a motorcycle is at Owls Head (Transportation Museum) — and you can believe that.”

With the speeches completed, nearly three-quarters of the bikers turned their machines toward a party on the edge of town where vendors hawked beer, fried chicken, hamburgers and pizza. A band with the dubious moniker of “Between the Lines” belted some Bachman-Turner Overdrive tunes and Neil Young songs as friends tried to find each other among the near carbon copies of black T-shirts and leather jackets.

“This all looks scarier than it really is,” said Peter Roy, an Ellsworth lawyer, as a biker with a bleeding skull patch on his back rumbled by on a Harley. “People have a tendency to get more paranoid about motorcycles than they should. Tomorrow morning, everybody’s got to go back to work.”