Biker In Texas

Harvest Classic Weekend.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 21 Oct 2013 19:20:00 +0000

Friday morning, that lucky Flour Bluff woman, and I, were on the road about the time the sun made her appearance. We were bound, ultimately, for the Harvest Classic European and Vintage Motorcycle Rally, at Luckenbach, TX.

Our first 65 miles were ridden on wet streets and in light rain, but by the time we rendezvoused with friends at Seguin, 104 miles later, we were dried.

Another 100 miles of fantastic riding country found us at Armadillo Farm Campground, about a half-mile from the Harvest Classic.

After making camp, we decided to mosey on over to Luckenbach and see what was what, and what wasn't what.

It was still early, for the event, but not too early for music to be played and beer to be consumed. Security rode around on an invisible motorcycle making sure all was secure.

The vendors and the participants in the swap meet and bike show were still setting up. We left them to their preparations and met the Texas chapter of the Valkyrie Riders Cruiser Club, for eats.

1967 Honda CB450

Saturday, we decided to forego an organized ride, and take our own tour of the Willow City Loop, close to near-by Fredericksburg, TX. In the spring, the Loop is a favorite for bluebonnet runs.

No bluebonnets, this time of year, but some of the fenceposts were in bloom, probably due to recent rains.

Boot on fenceposts.

People live on the Loop, but you'd never guess by looking at the terrain.

The view is worth the ride, any time of year.

The fence is made of stone.

Now, I'm not sure what this is all about, but I suspect it has something to do with bragging rights.

Our tour of the Willow City Loop, completed, we rolled back to Luckenbach, to check out some motor cycles. Rather than post small pictures, I've posted them to my picture blog, Click on the link or the pic of the Harley to go to
Road Storyer (a Wordpress blog)

Link to pictures

Later, we stood around a campfire and spun mostly true yarns . The ride back to Corpus Christi could not have been better, we traveled some roads we hadn't seen before, and the weather was fantastic.
After all was said and done, the weekend was an unqualified success.

Bitch Seat

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 10 Oct 2013 23:34:00 +0000

(reposted)

The lovely and talented Joanna called to see if we could go for a putt around the bay; her offer to buy the gumbo was an unnecessary enticement, but where I come from it’s a sin to turn down hospitality. I mounted the big yella bike and was OTB (over the bridge) and at her door in short order.

How the lady had grown into the full flower of womanhood without having been exposed to bikes is anyone’s guess, but she was surely hooked after her first ride. And she didn’t just want to be a passenger; she wanted to be a good passenger and that meant learning about every aspect of motorcycling.

Jo put her stuff in the saddlebag (“A girl needs her stuff.”) then grinned up at me and asked, “So, did you Armor All® the bitch seat, again?”

“I don’t have a bitch seat”, sez I.

She’s not the first woman I’ve ever known so it was no shock that she wouldn’t accept a mere fact as an answer.
“Well, Clarke told me the back seat is called a bitch seat and when you ride there you ride bitch.”

Clarke’s a RUB, a nice guy, but a RUB; that is, after his new Geezer Glide’s second oil change, Clarke still doesn’t know which side of the engine the drain plugs are on.

“Clarke’s a RUB,” I told her, “he probably doesn’t mean to speak like ghetto trash (putting it delicately), but he’s a product of a pop culture that marginalizes women. Back in the day, we referred to riding two-up (as it’s called) as packing”.

“So, what did you call the, uh, passenger seat?”

I looked her in the eye and replied, “The snatch pad”.

After a couple of minutes she had regained some of her composure, dried her eyes, and asked for a description of said pad. Without going into detail, just let me say that her reaction cost us another couple of minutes.
(Yeah, some called it a “P pad” but I always figured it was probably a non-functional
accessory for anyone who couldn’t say “pussy”.)

“Since motorcycling has become more of a genteel sport, or lifestyle”, I told her, “ I usually just use the term, pillion, as they do in the British Isles. The word is Irish, as am I, and can mean either passenger seat or passenger ”.

This talk of passengers and their seats brought me back to my purpose for being there. I backed the bike out onto the parking lot and signaled Jo to mount up.
“So, you have a snatch pad, not a bitch seat; I can’t be a biker bitch, so does that mean…”
I lifted an eyebrow.
You got to love a gal who has the capacity to blush.

Next: Jo renames my snatch pad “the coochie couch”.

Navasota, Texas, Ride 2013

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 16 Sep 2013 23:40:00 +0000

Thursday, early afternoon, the Missus and I set forth on a ride to the vicinity of Navasota, Texas. The weather could not have been better, and traffic in the towns we passed through was light.
Once we made camp, she took her place on the Valk's pillion, where she operated her camera with her usual skill.

We decided to ride into town to eat and get a few necessaries for the weekend; we had to travel from off the beaten track to get to the State highway.

There are a few ranches and a couple of very small, isolated, communities, out this way.

Once on the highway, we crossed the Brazos River. Nearby is Washington-on-the-Brazos, site of the signing of our Declaration of Independence.

"The Filling Station" is our diner of choice, when in Navasota. There's good food, friendly, competent waitresses, and decor I can relate to.

And, they are motorcycle-friendly.

On our way back to camp, we stopped at the local store for supplies; no giant grocery monopoly, here. Jill found Dino, outside, but I told her she'd probably have to explain to the younger set that he was not "Barney".

We returned to the campground the way we came and settled in for the evening.

Friday, one of the neighbors had a little battery trouble. His bud, being the conscientious biker he is, offer a jump start. .

In spite of this help, the rider managed to get his bike road-worthy. It's amazing what some campers bring along, including generators, laptops, fans and battery chargers.

Saturday morning, we set off on a 140-mile poker run, prize: $1000, but, being lucky in love, I didn't expect to come away with anything more than a great ride with good company.

Cotton belt riding.

The old and the new.

Texas makes the biggest Ace bandages in the world. Some are trucked to reducing plants in Louisiana and Arkansas.

Cotton modules, probably bound for Mexico.

Poker run stop.

The area roads were great, with nice turns. I wasn't quite sure how to deal with the lack of fork seal-busting potholes, right at first, but I adapted.

Not interested in riding with the pack, we rode along with a few people we'd met in years past.

Circumstances, being what they were, this lady arrived late, by cage, and without a helmet. I'd taken my half-shell along, to wear in the poker run, so I volunteered my road helmet for her use. I told her she might have to shim it up with a baseball cap, but the darned thing fit her!

There are no coincidences.

Other happy campers.

We stopped at Yankee's Tavern, in Carlos, TX, and found this Harley-Davidson hanging from the ceiling. No one could remember seeing one like this.

We continued on our way.

Back through Navasota town to our starting point.

We spent the remainder of our stay telling almost nearly true stories, and discussing whether time travel could be achieved by pressing together a certain number of nipples, but, that's neither here, nor there.

There was more music and dancing, till we finally called that night a day an found our tent.

On our return trip, we stopped for lunch at the Oakridge Smokehouse Restaurant, in Schulenburg, TX. Once seated, I decide to move the bikes around to where we could watch them from our table.

Jill has a real knack for photographing me when I'm not at my most photogenic, as when I get my boot hung up on the luggage and seat of her motorcycle.

The ride home was cloudy, but we didn't encounter the heavy rain we'd anticipated, it must be all that clean living, paying off.

We're alive, and in Texas.

Native Art

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 07:06:00 +0000

The “ride” was only a few miles long, from our doorstep to the Flour Bluff branch of the public library. There, drum circle members hosted a reception for the opening of an exhibit of art by Larry “Running Turtle” Salazar, holy man, educator and advocate.

Art can’t be carried away in a camera, it’s meant to be viewed first-hand, and so I haven’t tried to re-present the exhibit, here. The photos are to try to convey the feeling of the exhibit.

This item is titled, “South Texas Javelina Dance Stick”. The painted skull honors the spirit of the animal. Coyote and a couple other animals were also represented on dance sticks.

In a corner of the gallery, items made and decorated by Larry, including, a buffalo skull dedicated to, newly-canonized, Saint Kateri Tekakwitha, his walking stick, a buffalo skin bag for collecting medicinal plants, and Larry’s ceremonial shirt.

I found the detail of the elk hide shirt is quite interesting. The centerpiece is a representation of St. Kateri Tekakwitha, and is an example of the beautiful beadwork executed by Larry’s missus.

The tassels are made from the hair of mustangs attached to shell casings of the same caliber ammunition used by the US Army to enforce the Indian Removal Act of 1830.

Depicted on the buffalo hide, the sacred colors of the four cardinal directions on the back of a turtle. “Turtle Island” is the name the Iroquois gave to North America. The birds represent the four directions, note: the Eagle in the north, the Condor in the south. They are part of a prophecy that the eagle and the condor will dance together (a phenomena witnessed first-hand by many) just prior to the spiritual joining of north and south and the return of the Ancestors. The People will be united, the importance and power of women will be recognized and there will be a return to traditional values of respect for the earth and for each other.

After the exhibit was officially opened, the public was invited to stay for refreshments. The practice of smudging with smoke from sage was explained and visitors were invited to participate. A demonstration of drumming and Native song rounded out the event. A final prayer was offered, each person sitting in the drum circle putting his left hand on the drumhead, those outside the circle touching the shoulders of the drummers so that they, too, were connected.

In all, another great afternoon in Paradise.

Riding on the Side

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 06 Nov 2010 04:43:00 +0000

Sitting in the shady patio of a Fredericksburg restaurant, Spider and I sipped cold ones and watched the t&a parade while our womenfolk carried their economic stimulus package
(read: credit cards) to the local shopkeepers. It's a small town in a small world, though, and, directly, we were spotted and approached by Black Bob.

Now, Black Bob is neither "black", nor "Bob", but is, in fact one of those very fair people sometimes called a "glow-in-the-dark Anglo". We already have a "Whitey", though, and "Black Bob" just sounds better than "Black Ernest".

"Long time", sez I, "what's shakin' in the big city?"

Black Bob replied that he'd totaled his bike about eight months back and that at least part of the time since was spent recovering from a broken elbow and "3rd degree burns and miles of road rash."

We allowed as how that sucked pretty bad and inquired as to the details.

"This dude in a truck turned in front of me. I had the choice of T-boning him or laying her down. I laid her down."

Wow, “laid her down”.

I searched my memory, certain I’d never been asked to perform “lay her down”, not back when I initially tested for my license nor 30 years later, when taking the Experienced Rider Course.

But then, youth took a toll on my powers of recall long before age did any ravaging; maybe I’d learned “lay her down” and then forgotten it, along with my ATM password and
Ol' Dumb Wanda's phone number.

I do remember at least part of a long-ago night when, in a similar circumstance, I stood on my little Honda’s drum brakes before T-boning a station wagon.
I got a broken arm, broken leg and my first new motorcycle out of it (no burns or road rash, though).

No new bike for Black Bob. He said that he’s too old for that, now, making me wonder just how hard he'd hit the truck (so I asked).

“Well, actually, I never hit him, I stopped sliding before then, but it was his fault. It’s lucky I laid her down”.

I stared at his back as he wandered off and wondered where he got the idea that the side of his motorcycle would stop him faster than its tires, and why he’d prefer sliding along beside (or possibly under) 700 lbs. of motorcycle, rather than sitting atop it.

Spider’s voice intruded on my thoughts, “The trick is to stay with the bike and bring it back up as you slide out from under the truck on the other side”.
Encouraged by my blank stare, he continued, “Do you remember that Cherokee gal who rode down from Virginia with me on my old Triumph?

I signaled the waitress.

©

Rolling with my homelies

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 01:38:00 +0000

Sunday afternoon, that lucky Flour Bluff girl and I decided to make a little lunch run over to Fulton Beach, in Fulton, Texas; a short 40 miles and a world away. We called our other brother, Darryl, arranged to get up with him, and off we went. We took the scenic route on roads that by-pass the SH-35 by-pass around the towns of Port Aransas and Rockport. The tides have been particularly high, recently, and as we rode Fulton Beach Road, we could see that parts of it had been covered. We’d decided to dine at Alice Faye’s Restaurant, a long-time favorite. However, after asking to be seated on the patio, we were forgotten. I guess we weren’t potential tippers for the dining room twinkie who greeted us, so she blew us off. Well, I like to eat at Alice Faye’s as much as the next guy but it’s against my principles to put up with crappy wait staff, no matter how good the food is. My decision to, “fuck this”, went as un-noticed as our exit. Charlotte Plummer’s Restaurant was more than willing to sell a meal to a handsome stranger.

"We're hungry!", was my answer to the pretty waitress', "How are y'all doin', today?"

"Well, you're in the right place", she assured us.

We were. Seated upstairs, enjoying delicious seafood, with a perfect day just on the other side of the window, we congratulated ourselves on having it dicked.

The second floor has a great view of the marina, as did the deck behind the building.

After, we made our way down the newly paved street.

It seemed obvious to me that the city got a two-for-one deal on some stop signs. Four-way stops, ever few yards, seems a poor idea for a restaurant row in a tourist town. We had quite enough of stop-and-go, toot sweet, and turned off the beach road and into Fulton, proper, making for the state highway that takes us back to where we belong.

Nature on the Texas Coast

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 17:54:00 +0000

The luckiest woman in Flour Bluff, who is also a real Renaissance Man, took a hankering to include photographic images with a craft project she’s cooking up. As you students of art and observers of the human condition have learned, “desire” (hankering) is a powerful force.
Since we hadn’t been out on the scoot for a couple of days I offered to ferry her around to places she figured she’d find subjects.

Our first stop was Packery Channel County Park, so named because a meat packing concern used the channel to ship its product back in the day when that was an important industry on this part of the coast. Even though this area is seeing heavy development, partially because the channel connects the Laguna Madre with the Gulf of Mexico, the park is, pretty much, unspoiled.

The bays and estuaries is where basic elements of the marine food chain get their starts. Combing along the tide line we ran across a lot of hermit crabs living in these shells, called “Sharks Eye”. In the upper right-hand corner you can see one of the critters peeking out.

The seaweed is called, “Sargassum”. Tiny creatures live in it and once it washes up on the beach, sand collects on it and dunes are born. It’s yellow, when it first gets here.

Our next stop was the Padre Balli County Park (Nueces County Park), home of Bob Hall Pier. This part of the island is very popular with families, both local and tourist and, of course, fishermen.

This is the third incarnation of the pier, hurricanes “Carla” and “Beulah” both having done extensive damage to it when they blew through.

About the time we got our helmets off, an admirer of fine motorcyclry approached, complimented my ride, and we commence to blowing smoke about road bikes and wives while Jill wandered off to take pictures.

From Padre Island we rode into town to the Hans and Pat Suter Wildlife Refuge. Named for a couple who were environmentalists before environmentalism was cool, the Refuge is considered to be one of the best sea bird watching areas in the world.
The park wasn’t such a hot spot for birds, the time of the year being what it is, but we did manage to spot Brown Pelicans, skimmers and a roseate Spoonbill (sometimes mistaken for pink Flamingos) seining for his supper. A look over the edge of the nature walk revealed fiddler crabs fiddling for food and doing a little people watching from a safe distance.

We wandered through the park and checked out the local flowers.

These Mexican Hats looked like they were stripping off for a little skinny-dipping.

The Jerusalem Thorn was still wearing some of its spring finery.

This park is not only important as a refuge for plants and wildlife. Oso Bay and Oso Creek were home to the Karankawa and other Native people. This land holds the second largest Native American burial ground in Texas. The Gulf Coast Indian Confederation is working toward placing a monument here.

Rumble on the River 2010

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 15:26:00 +0000

Things are looking up; the wet winter did its part to give us a glorious spring. The fields and empty lots are bright with Blue Bonnets, Indian Blanket and sunflowers, out here, in the vieux carré (French for, “More cops than sidewalks”), but a true sign that spring is well under way is Dan’s annual “Rumble by the River”.

The Rumble features fine music by talented local singer/song writers and fine barbecue by the United States Military Vets MC.

I joked about them needing some camouflage net overhead in order to relax, but that may have been a reaction to last year’s sun and 90°F. /32.2°C. heat.

It sure wasn’t their first rodeo, they had their pits smoking chicken and sausage, hungry people were soon enjoying good eats while helping the club raise funds for their charitable projects.

Good weather sure didn’t hurt turn out, motorcycles and tents reached capacity in the main lot and overflowed to one adjoining. This fellow’s reverse quit on him while he was trying to get parked. It happens.

Soon enough Dan and his guys, aka the band, “Johnson Grass” kicked things off.

They always do a top-notch job but it didn’t hurt that they had the best sound man in this part of the world to run the PA gear.

Our friend, the lovely and talented, Steffan, just seemed to let the sound take her away
(to plagiarize Steppenwolf) while others seemed to follow more intently.

No one was unmoved, not by Johnson Grass or any of the artists that participated that night. After all, fine music is one of the things for which Texas is well known

The weather stayed on the cool side of 80°F, but that aforementioned net paid off mid-afternoon.

There were more bands more singer/songwriters, this year, as well as the regular supporters of the event.

"Hobo" at the Rumble
Uploaded by texray. - See the latest featured music videos.

The Rumble isn’t just a listening thing, either. This beautiful 1965 Norton attracted its fair shared of attention.

Day ended long before the music did.

Finally, the knob was pulled, as the saying goes, but acoustic guitarists and die-hard revelers were encircling the rejuvenated campfire even as we legging it for the truck.

Easter in Texas

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 18:47:00 +0000

Easter was on the horizon and the luckiest girl in Flour Bluff was making noises about riding and camping over the weekend so, naturally, the leaky rear tire I’ve been trying to nurse a few more miles out of, gave up the ghost. A replacement was ordered with hopes it would be delivered in time for the weekend. It turned out that our girl kid, the lovely and talented Olwen, was able to visit and while she’s put a lot of commuter miles riding two-up on her mom’s Magna, the roomy Valkyrie is her perch for recreational outings.

The new tire arrived Friday afternoon and was mounted on the rim by close-of-business; unfortunately, the tire was mounted backwards. Saturday morning, it was remounted and by Saturday afternoon I’d managed (along with cleaning, greasing and a few false starts) to get it all buttoned back up. In the meantime, Jill and Daughter (with assistance from Granddaughter) had managed to bake a flock of cookies, so it all evened out.

During the afternoon, my longest-time compadre extended an invitation for a coffee break, so we took the Baby Shadow into town to get up with him. He’s not all that good-looking, so I didn’t take his picture, but I did get a shot of his snazzy 1974 custom Sportster.

[Foto 1]

Easter Sunday, we Eastered.

To begin with, Jill and Granddaughter had an Easter egg hunt. I suspect things are a little different at our house than they are at her maternal grandparents’ house.

Afterward, the girls broke confetti-filled eggs, called cascarones, on each other.

Egg-hunting done, it was time to enjoy the local flora.

Daughter, poor child, hasn’t seen salt water in months so, at her request, we “rode the loop”, as we call the route around Corpus Christ Bay.

Once in Port Aransas, we decided to find “Charlie’s Pasture”, an area long favored by locals for fishing and recreating, and newly declared a Nature Preserve.

This is another favored by the birders who come from all over the world to observed birds both migratory and local. On the way to the park area, we spotted this majestic Blue Crane making it’s way down the ship channel.

It’s good the realtors and developers haven’t managed to scrape and pave this area, as they have so much of the island; declaring it a Nature Preserve is one way to keep them from doing so.

To the right is the new pavilion and information center.

There’s some pretty extensive boardwalk built to smooth the paths of visitors and help protect the environment. We took the short route, once around the park, as the saying goes, and moseyed on over to Paradise Pond.

Things were a little slow, as bird watching goes, but the park, itself took me back to a couple of pre-teen years spent in semi-rural Virginia.

I was quite the turtle catcher, in those days and it was a pleasant surprise that we arrive just in time for afternoon bask-along.

Other critters were a little more shy, barely discernible, even with binoculars.

At this point I was beginning to feel that no breakfast I’d had ; after a coffee break we pointed our wheel towards home.

That eve our whole nuclear pod dined at “Doc’s no-gumbo-having seafood restaurant before retiring to the big Bluff.

Life’s good on the Third Coast.

Wildflower ride

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 21:03:00 +0000

I guess the time got away from me, what with an actual South Texas winter flying in the face of “global warming” and the accompanying ennui (French for “my ass is dragging”). No sooner had the sun begun trying to make an appearance than a wave of exotic pollen, attacked. The accompanying symptoms kept the sexy granny and me in the barn, warm and out of the damp wind for a couple of weekends.
Not even the intrepid Jo was immune to the chilly grope of early spring (granted, some of our excursions began well after nightfall).
That’s the story of why I have been remiss in posting to Rides and Tales for the past month, that, and the dog peed on it.

Sunday, last, the luckiest girl in Flour Bluff and I snagged a couple of cameras, a couple of warm jackets and one big yella bike and went in search of spring. More to the point, we went in search of wildflowers.
There was a rumor of color of color in, what we considered, and unlikely area. We rode south and west of our town buffeted by wind that blew unimpeded across empty fields, the only color being John Deere Green and Massey-Ferguson red. Plumes of dust against the sky marked where tractors, too far away to be seen with the nekkid eye, plowed.

We made the town of Bishop on US-77 and the optimist in me, who had never crossed 77 at this particular spot, was still hoping for the best. It’s purely coincidental that 666 was the designation of the rode we traveled from thence (thence?)

The view from the saddle improved as we drew closer to the town of Banquete (Spanish: Banquet). The roadside flowers contrasting vividly against the lingering winter browns.

On this end of the road, buttercups flourish, including a white variety I never have noticed in the Bluff

The land rolls, slightly, here, probably due to the number of creeks that flow through the area. You can tell that the land drops, a little, behind the field of yellow and lavender flowers.

As we rode north we discovered that the most vivid displays were not on the right-of-way, but in fields and farmhouse yards.

Reaching an intersection we turned west passing through the bustling burg of Orange Grove on our way to F-M 534, which follows close to the west side of Lake Corpus Christi. We were fortunate that traffic was very light since there is no shoulder and I didn’t want to go off-roading on the Valkyrie.

I’ve been told that the aforementioned town of Orange Grove was name so by German settlers who were impressed by fields of these flowers, rather than by the “proximity” of the orange groves in the Lower Rio Grande Valley, 140 miles away.

What’s a post on Texas wildflowers without flowering Yuccas?

F-M 534 is well maintained, interesting and runs along an area not yet over delvel0ped.

The names of the wide spots along the road are interesting, as well. “Lagarto” is Spanish for “alligator; “Dinero” means “money”, or course and “Swinney Switch is English for “Swinney Switch”.

Swinney Switch is also home of “Horneys”, a very friendly honky tonk where the ever-present smoke from the barbecue pits wafts by ever-present motorcyclists.

Horneys is our turn-around. After leaving, we again found F-M 666 and traveled through San Patricio, home of some of pre-Republic Irish settlers and then onto the super slab and home. Just another day in paradise.

Speaking American

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 21:50:00 +0000

The American language, as Webster called our brand of English, is fun and, at times, a little confusing. Our everyday language changes just about every day and it's not everyone who can keep up. I once stood and listened to a black kid in a newly integrated school tell her instructor that she was “the baddest artist in this class” which, naturally, was misinterpreted. Of course, in my peer group, bad is just, “bad”, and “baddest” is just poor grammar but that doesn’t make it any less descriptive for those for whom baddest is goodest.

Another term which has changed while I watched is “badass”. When I was a lad, "badass" meant an aggressive individual who was a formidable fighter, usually of the street and bar variety_ not what my associate, Jo, had in mind when she referred to the sexy granny as, “badass”. That lucky woman is “badass” in part because she rides her own bike (in any weather), is capable and skilled and pretty much marches to her own beat.

One of the things she thinks makes my missus look badass is her badass chaps. Jo thinks those chaps look so badass that nothing would do but she find some for herself. Now, both women wear badass chaps even though, in my personal opinion, they are “good ass” chaps: tomato, tomato.

Even before Jo picked up her badass chaps, she came across, and acquired, the now-famous “Killer Pussy” helmet sticker. Yeah, that one threatened to set me back on my heels; killer pussy, what a horrifying concept! It read like the title of a scary movie from the 1950s. I recall, however, a recent incident wherein a young man came by the bandstand during a break and told me, “Sir, your music is killer!” Killer music, killer pussy_ OK, I get it.

Now, about Killer Whales: I think it’s time they were renamed.

Winter Diversion

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 06:03:00 +0000

When you trust the National Weather Service to forecast accurately, you sometimes sit out a cold sunny Saturday and ride on a cold gray Sunday. This particular cold gray Sunday, the ladies and I ended up at a small nature park on the outskirts of Rockport, TX that is one of many bird watching hot spots in our
part of the world.

The area was soggy and the trail through it was partly submerged. Abundant standing water means the birds aren’t flying around looking for it so bird watching gets pretty slow. Mid-forties for temperatures probably wasn't stimulating them none, either.

Easing through the brush, following bird noises is part of the adventure, though, so ease we did. Jill got excited over some tiny bird I had never heard of and, in fact, have still never seen. Looking like a couple of misplaced urban guerrillas, she and Jo went stealthing among the brambles till they spotted the thing.

Jo found and collected the shell of a Lightening Whelk. The park's hand crafted birth bath was a handy place to clean the sand out of it.

Birds watched, shell collected, participants thoroughly chilled, we decided lunch was entirely called for. We rode back into Aransas Pass and dined at Taqueria Guadalajara before wending our way back to the warmth of our respective hearths. A cool time was had by all.

Bells and Whistles

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 20:17:00 +0000

It was a pleasant summer afternoon and I’d ridden the Baby Shadow into town to do a little rat killin’. Before heading back to the big Bluff I stopped at my favorite (non-corporate) coffee shop, settled the scoot under a tree and parked my ass on the patio to enjoy the fresh coffee and do a little people watching and light lusting.

While seated there, I noticed a fellow ride by on a beautiful Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Even from many yards away I caught a whiff of that ‘new rider smell’. After parking his bike, he walked over to the, otherwise empty, patio and asked if I’d mind sharing my table for a few minutes. He was a clean-cut guy who looked to be on the fair side of 30, probably Navy. I told him to make hisself to home and, and believe it or not, we got to talking motorcycles.

The fellow allowed as how he was fairly new to motorcycling but was all hot, wet and quivering to ride some roads and see the country from behind bars. He spoke of a desire to tour the Texas Hill Country and to visit Big Bend National Park. He asked if I knew anything about a road a friend mentioned called the Dragon’s Tail and I told him of the roads my Missus and I had ridden and what we’d seen.

I told him to strike while the iron is hot. It’s coincidental that I use that expression since he told me that he couldn’t see getting his missus to “ride in this heat”.
My first impulse was to tell him he was married to the wrong woman, to trade her in. If I had known him for twenty years rather than twenty minutes I might have risked making the comment but, instead, told him that cooler weather was just around the corner.

Out-of-towners sometimes remark on the scarcity of motorcycles where I live, an area where a bike can be ridden nearly every single day. I can only chalk it up to pussification. A person can get up in the a.m. go to work, have lunch and return home without ever having been out of an air conditioned environment for more than a minute. If they were to get out on a motorcycle any time except February they’d risk the possibility of perspiration.

Well it’s hardly surprising that some inventive type has answered the need. Along with clip-to-the-windshield swamp misters and camel hump water-filled backpacks, add: motorcycle air conditioning by EntroSys (LINK)

I’ve got this picture in my mind of a fellow on a bike with a 30” windscreen, stereo, airbag jacket, motorcycle air conditioning unit and a sticker on his helmet that reads, “Cars suck!”

Checking out the Low Life

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 23:53:00 +0000

I don’t even remember how long it’s been since I unplugged my television, five years, maybe? Not unplugged, actually, just unplugged the cable; the television shows I watch, these days, orginate on the Internet, so I’m not exactly in touch with the cutting edge of pop culture.

While browsing Hulu dot COM, recently, I came across a series of shows from 2007 titled, “Livin’ The Low Life” which showcased several California low rider car clubs, their histories, as well as the history of low rider customizing.

I’ve always been a fan of low rider customs, not that I’m a “car guy”, but I like the vintage cars they use and appreciated the creativity of the builders. I find the wild custom paint jobs and dramatic murals appealing, as well, especially the fantasy art featuring sexy Aztecas or pin-up girls.

Glamorous women are very much a part of low rider car shows and photography and the host of “Living The Low Life” held true to form. I hadn’t heard of Vida Guerra, before, but I was entirely impressed with her easy,confident manner and sense of humor. She also matches my scoot, making her a possible subject for a fuel tank mural.

Windmills and Woodcocks

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 20:05:00 +0000

Well, to say that the year 2009 wasn’t exactly a bowl of canaries, for at least some of us, is to state the obvious. The New Year started out well, though, with the sun coming out after weeks of off-and-on drizzle, rain and general gloominess.

“Me and my ol’ lady, we like to, like, get outside.”

I hadn’t even had my minimum morning requirement of coffee before I was informed that there were three ladies who’d had enough of being indoors and were all HWQ* for a bit of saddle time.

Our daughter, the lovely and talented Olwen, reclaimed her position as Jill’s pillion, while Nurse Jo reserved the big yella bike’s “coochie couch”. Daughter took a turn as cameraman as we rode down scenic Ocean Drive around Corpus Christi Bay. Just before we merge into Shoreline Drive she took this shot of Cole Park.

A while back, Nurse Jo had expressed a desire to visit the Papalote Creek wind farm, on the other side of the bay. This day seemed like a good one for a follow through so follow through we did.

Daughter took this picture on the fly as we entered the area.

The wind driven generators are visible from miles away but only when we were in the farm did we truly appreciate their size.

The hub of the generator stands over 260 feet above the ground and the blades are reported to be 135 feet long.

The huge blades made a soft sighing sound as they turned that would be like a sleeping pill for those of us who like white noise when we turn in at night.

If you look behind the three beautiful trespassers you can see a maintenance hatch. Inside, a ladder leads to the computer controlled, liquid-cooled generator. I’m told there’s quite a view from up there. I'll stick with the one at ground level.

There are 109 wind-powered generators in this project that, together, produce enough electricity to power 54,000 homes in San Antonio, 140 miles away.

Windmill watching accomplished, we hauled our sweet behinds back to Corpus town "with songs in our hearts and smiles on our faces", as the saying sort of goes.

We weren’t alone enjoying the sunny skies and brisk temperature, either. There was an unusual number of motorcyclists out, this weekend, even considering that Friday was New Year’s Day.

Snake Road is a name some of us natives remember hearing from our elders.
The name was derived from the twisted configuration of the road itself, rather than from the reptiles living in the brush, nearby. Whether that was ever the actual name of the road is neither here, nor there, but the fact that the brush it runs through surrounding the estuary called, “Oso Bay”, has been kept out of the clutches of developers, is.

Hans and Pat Sutter Wildlife Refuge is a favorite of birders (bird watchers), the Sexy Granny, one of which, is. That is, she watches birds, as do Daughter and Nurse Jo. We walked out the long "boardwalk" that elevates visitors above the marsh to check out the many water birds, some local, some migratory.

Across the bay is Ward Island, formerly part of the Naval Air Station, and now home to Texas A&M Corpus Christi.

It was time to mosey, the afternoon was turning cooler and hot chocolate was calling to the ladies. We admired the local flora on our way to the parking lot, taking a couple of parting shots before getting in the wind once more.

* Hot, wet and quivering

Bar Scene

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 20:01:00 +0000

Click on photos to enlarge.

Saturday morning the day promised to be cool and damp with the temperature never reaching above 60°F/16°C and the humidity never reaching below 97%. This isn't our first winter. We dressed appropriate for a day we planned to spend in the wind, riding the Santa's Helpers toy drive poker run out of beautiful Aransas Pass, Texas.

On our way to the event, we collected our traveling companion, Nurse Jo, who abandoned her title of "back rest" in favor of "back warmer" which suited me just fine, given the conditions.

Into the mouth of the Hawk we rode, accompanied by our Indian companions, Cool Arrow and Reacharound who were headed for a bead pulling contest on the west end of town. Our roads diverged as we crossed the harbor and set our wheels on the Nueces Bay Causeway. Arriving at the Aransas Pass Moose Lodge, we said your howdies, shook some hands, hugged some necks and admired the new paint on Bob's trike

The second Saturday in December is entirely likely to be cold and wet; dabblers tend to stay at home with their bikes safe from the great outdoors. Motorcycles were heavily outnumbered by cars and I thought one of our trio might draw the high poker hand, this year, if only by default.

There were a few other riders out there and, for a short time, they bottle necked at the ever-popular Blue Marlin Saloon on Corpus Christi's "North Beach".

Since we were not really in need of anything cold to drink, we exchanged pleasantries and made our way back outside. We'd seen this Harley earlier, in Port Aransas, and Jo got off to the riders unusual helmet. That must be why we overlooked the unusual handlebars. As we were admiring them Jo asks me if I feel "intimidated". What is it with chicks, anyhow?

I suppose I could have told her that I modeled for the things but experience has taught that such claims usually result in derisive laughter. The world has changed considerably since those days when we bought "titty grips" to replace the stock items.

My taste runs more to the bars on this sharp 750 Shadow.

From thence (thence?) we made our way back across the bays to the City of Ingleside. About three years ago, my band participated in a fund raiser/poker run, there, at the Buckhorn Saloon. The rider turn out was fantastic and the number of musicians who pitched in and the quality of their performances is remembered vividly by those who attended. This time out, it was considerably quieter.

There were about ten Harley-Davidson motorcycles parked on the street and a nearly equal number of riders shooting pool inside. Our stop here was brief and as we departed the pool shooters invited the lovely Nurse Jo to stay and socialize, a bit. Bikers are a friendly bunch. She graciously declined, perhaps bedazzled by my stylish bumblebee jacket and tan Frogg Toggs, a bold fashion statement midst a sea of leather jackets and chaps.

We returned to the lodge where I had the high poker hand for just about as long as it takes to tell about it. The music was good and the company was good but soon enough it was time to begin our return trek.

A lot of the flavor of the event was lost, in my estimation, when it moved from its ten-year home at the biker bar, to the lodge. The few bikes that were ridden were squeezed out of the, otherwise, spacious parking lots.

Next year I may just mail a donation.

Parading Around

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 05:41:00 +0000

Sunday, December 6, Jill, Nurse Jo and I putted on over to Texas A&M, Corpus Christi where the 25th annual "Toys for Tots" parade formed up. The parade is "old home day" and we get the chance to visit with folks, some of whom we haven't seen since the previous December.
The weather was cool and damp, not as good as last year, but a whole lot better than some previous years.

We parked our bikes and commenced to people and scooter watch. We spotted this Suzuki parked near some Winger friends. I like the looks of it but the last time I threw my leg over a sport bike both legs cramped, immediately; I'll stick to just looking.

While I invited my passenger, some folks just went ahead and purchased one (not that there's anything wrong with that).

One thing you can count on in this part of the world is the presence, rain or shine, hot or cold, of the Christian Motorcycle Association. They brought hot coffee and hot chocolate out in this very cool truck, this year.

There was the usual variety of bikes, of course, but I think I may have seen more new Harley-Davidsons, this year, as well as more Gold Wings.

At or about 11:00 am the lead bike moved off and we motored around Corpus Christi Bay.

An old concrete plant turned concert venue is the toy drop-off point, also the point to drink beer (or CMA coffee) and eat barbecued brisket while listening to live music and admiring the graceful strides of fine biker women.

It's good to see the little ones at this kind of event where they are exposed to the very best of the sub-culture. Not till after we got home did I see the way the banner in the background showed up over the lad’s head. It says it all.

The early afternoon wore on and we decided that, while we had liked listening to the band, the auctioneer wasn’t moving us, so we moved ourselves. Consensus was that a ride around the bay would have more therapeutic value than returning home the way we came.

To ride around the bay, one must cross the ferry at Port Aransas. As the ferry left the landing an empty oil tanker, the Overseas Beryl, was making her way up the ship channel, bound for open water.
When a ship is moving her bow forms a wave called, appropriately enough, a bow wave. Dolphins often swim in these bow waves and we spotted several doing just that.

The lettering on her stern indicates she is registered in the Marshall Islands.

The sight of the dolphins in the ship channel inspired us to make a stop at the Leonabelle Turnbull Birding Center, in Port Aransas.
During migration season, bird watchers (“birders”) from all over the world come to our area of the state.

This Tri-color Heron moved aside for us to climb the observation tower.

This reserve shelters various coastal and migratory birds, wrens, sparrows and finches as well as nutria and alligator.

Jill is a knowledgeable birder and she and Nurse Jo enjoyed spotting and identifying the birds.

I took a turn at the telescope and spotted a crane. It was way over at one of the construction yards where drilling platforms are built.

Directly, the call of the wild was replaced by the call of coffee and we answered it in a leisurely fashion. It was that kind of day.

Texas Ren Fair

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 22:02:00 +0000

Click on photos for large view

The sexy granny and I have returned from another jaunt. Circumstances dictated that we truck, rather than motorcycle, far to the north of I-10, across US 290 and into the wild lands northwest of Houston, TX, where we attended Highland Fling weekend at the 35the annual Texas Renaissance Festival.

We arrived at the festival campgrounds, late, Friday night, but we're no rookies when it comes to pitching a tent in near dark and home away from home was soon established in the "quiet family area". The other campgrounds might be named the "rowdy revelers area", I'm not certain.

Saturday morning, we moseyed on down to New Market town. Of all the themed weekends at TRF, the Highland weekend is the best attended. As we entered, King Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon officially opened the festival. That Henry is some snappy dresser, by the way.

We made our way over to the arena, where Highland games were scheduled and found this pipe and drum trio.

The games are a modern contest of strength and skills used in battle. Shown are examples of men "tossing the caber" (KAY-bur). Originally the caber was used to facilitate the scaling of English castle walls. The pole is flipped end over end (to clear the moat) and comes to rest leaning upright against a castle wall. Other games such as stone tossing (like shot put), hay bale tossing (originally burning bales tossed over English castle walls) and an event similar to the hammer throw originated as means to help kill the English. The contests are similar to the carburetor throw and beer keg toss seen at some biker rallies. You got to keep your hand in, you know?

A few hours later, we witnessed other games played by later warrior cultures in the form of the joust. The riders and horses are all accomplished Another element of fun is added by dividing the crowd into German, English, Spanish and French cheering sections who support their knight and boo the others.

Below, you see the English and Spanish knights going at it.

Of course, all over New Market there are musicians, dancers and other entertainment, such as the famous, Ded Bob Show.

and these Irish rouges.

For those who can't fling, there are dance lessons and then a contest.

This lad was having such a good time he didn't even notice when the music ended.

After the dancing, we wandered past the Executioner and his helper. And folks wonder why the Highland weekend is so popular.

Now, this was Highland Fling weekend, but there were still a good number of gypsies, barbarians, Cavaliers and, God bless them, belly dancers.

A Spaniard and an American head the Shunyata Bellydance troupe up. Their movements were very subtle and appealing and the music and choreography flawless.

Here, the each dancer balances a scimitar on her hip,

and, then, on her head.

Entertainment is only part of the attraction of the festival; craftsmen demonstrate pre-Industrial Age production.

These women make thread

and this woman uses it to make cloth.

This smith and his helper make tools.

The bellows on the forge is driven by this water wheel.

By this time I was developing a hankering for some gumbo in a bread bowl and we began our meander toward the vendor who vends such. On the way we were fortunate enough to catch a performance by the group, "Circa Paleo", featuring the beautiful gypsy violinist.

It's good to be a fiddler.

If you've never eaten gumbo in a bread bowl, you are missing out. We found a bench under a tree and people watched while we renewed our strength. This couple sat near us and I couldn't help but admire him and his girl who wore a wonderful leather choker with large dog collar spikes. They stood out in a crowd of traditionally garbed Highlanders but, at the same time, seemed a natural part of the scene.

Next stop was the "Agora", Greek for a "gathering place", where we gathered with other folk to enjoy another belly dance show. We'd seen these folks on a previous trip. The troupe is the baby of a talented Egyptian composer/musician/emcee and is a little more "cabaret" in nature, as opposed to the Shunyata group we'd seen earlier, and included skits and a 'battle of the belly dancers' between the new girl and a rival.

We had time before the close of the weekend's festivities, time well-spent having desert, ogling the fairy women and barbarian girls and admiring the mini kilts worn by some of the Highland womenfolk. Jill shopped.

As darkness fell we returned to the jousting arena to witness an amazing fireworks display accompanied by the music of the rockin' pipe and drum band, "Tartanic".

Now, that was the official close of the Festival, but certainly not the end of fun and games. The huge campground I characterized as the "rowdy revelers area" saw reveling into the wee hours. That hot granny and I wandered around till my hooves were sore.

One of the things that fun to watch is the fire breathers and fire whirlers (I guess you'd call them).

This fearless young woman breathed fire then took a turn at whirling fire, as well.

We watched some of the guys (who wore a whole lot more clothing on their upper bodies) and witnessed these tents going up, inflated by the heat of the fires placed beneath them.

Jill had carried her bodhrán, (a flat Irish drum), and wanted to join the drummers at a large bonfire. While they drummed, revelers dance around the fire, getting in touch with some basic self and blowing off the steam of the everyday. I sat on a big log, rested my feet and enjoyed the spectacle.

We're alive and in Texas.

Hangin' at the Blue Marlin' Saloon

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 03:45:00 +0000

Things have been pretty slow, here, at the end of the block, but we'd got a call from our friend, singer/songwriter Pete Devlin (aka "English Pete", aka "Pedro") to be musical accompaniment at an event benefiting one of the locals, Saturday. Besides having a good time playing music with Pete, this was also an opportunity to work off a little karma.

We arrived at the Blue Marlin bar a little early and spoke with some folks and looked around.

Bikes were already lined up across the street from the crowded parking lot, the riders inside signing up for the poker run.

.

Decent folk were still in church and motorcyclists had streets nearly to themselves.

Chris, who hosts a jam session at the Blue Marlin, volunteered his sound equipment and tent so, along with high clouds, low wind and temperature (82°F/ 27.7°C), we had it made in the shade.

At sixty past noon, Pete kicked things off, and while some folks were poker running others enjoyed barbecue and shopped the auction items, some store bought or donated, some hand crafted.

We finished and cleared the bandstand only to find that the next pickers were running behind so another talented sing/songwriter, Harley racer and Renaissance man, Dan Brodhag (aka “Dano”) was persuaded to entertain in the meantime.

I don’t get much opportunity to play music with Dan, so when he asked if I’d care to accompany him I jumped at the chance.

I don’t see most of these folks as often as I’d like to so Jill and I hung out and socialized, some.
One of the bikers from across the bay, who is of my generation, introduced me to a young couple he had in tow who are new to motorcycling. The young woman told him she hadn’t known that bikers “do so much”. He’s been showing them around, like that old tramp who schools the young, passing down the traditions; they are in good company.

A good day, all told. We were able to help one neighbor while entertaining others. We’re lucky that way.

Sunday, it rained.

My Backwater

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 16:54:00 +0000

Click on photos for larger size
Sunday, I watched a gifted amateur photographer take some pictures at a local hospital. He's entered a contest, the subject of which is breast cancer awareness. The sexy granny and our friend, Jo, were two of seven people who volunteered to don hospital gowns and help out.
Since the plan o' the day included a ride to supper, we arrived at the hospital by motorcycle (not that Jill would have caged, anyhow).

Once the shooting was done, we shot across to Mustang Island and rode through Port Aransas to the ferry landing. We had only a sketchy idea of our destination.

Now, recently, I've received a couple of comments critical of the way I've illustrated my posts for the past month, or so. I quote:
"...need more pictures of the sexy granny and none of you."
and:
"BTW, I noticed there were no pretty girls in your pics this time. Not even the sexy granny got a word from ya? You dead? "

Well, both of these comments come from folks who I've ridden with and who know Jill so I decide that, this trip around the bay, I'd try to accommodate them.

Bikes don't wait at the Port A. ferry but since outbound traffic was light the traffic directors put us in line. I got Jo off the big yella bike and had her stand next to Jill for a photo. The flagger was trying to get out of the shot when Jo started taking off her jacket; maybe he thought it was best not to be evidence in whatever we were up to, but I reassured him.

And here, my friends, you have the flower of Texas womanhood. There might be some as good, but there ain't none better.

When boarding the ferry, a deckhand tells you where to park and they've become pretty rigid about rules on the boat, with extra security, and all, and the bikes cannot be left unattended. For some reason, he put Jill and I in different lanes so Jill had to sight see from the saddle. She's looked over the rail countless times so, if there's no dolphins about, she's cool with it.

Jo, on the other hand, wandered over by the rail to take in the view.

Exiting the ferry, we made our way through Aransas Pass and on up the coast to Rockport-Fulton. I decided it was probably time to pick a restaurant so I suggested our old stand-by, Alice Faye's.

We always have fun with the waitresses at Alice Faye's, the view is nice and the food is great. They don't have any trouble brewing fresh coffee for hungry motorcyclists, either.

Looking over where the shrimp boat, "Jackie Tam" is docked, we could see someone repairing the nets, maybe Jackie, himself. The object that looks like a large wooden pallet is a
Turtle Excluder Device (called a "Ted"). TEDs are designed to keep turtles, especially the endangered "Kemp's Ridley Turtle" from being drowned in the nets. The 1987 Federal order for fishermen to use them was very controversial and tempers ran high in this part of the world.

It's said that "Time's fun, when you're having flies" and as we let the day slip away from us the moon rose over the water as round and red as a freshly spanked behind. It was time to wend our ways home.

Are Bikers Dead?

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 19:44:00 +0000

Friday morning, I buried the gold in the pump house, the Hot Granny turned the horses loose and we headed north, intending to hole up in East Texas till the heat died down. Near the town of Navasota, we found some other fugitives from the everyday and followed them to their camp and pitched our tent.

Their camp is a private resort hidden away in the woods, one that hosts a motorcycle weekend every year.
We had to pay a few bucks enter the site, where they banded us like migratory birds. One of the ladies who registered us asked, "Did you ride your bikes?"
I told her, "Well, yeah, this is a motorsickle thangy, ain't it?" She may have been a little embarrassed, not so much by my response, as by Jill's chuckle.

At any rate, we entered and pitched our tent on a flat grassy spot, away from the bandstand and foot traffic but near the dining area where top-notch breakfast is served. You got to plan ahead, you know.

We'd met some of the other riders on previous escapes from the ordinary and we joined them in the huge hot tub and and exchanged probably true yarns and caught up.

Since we would be hiding out for a few days we needed entertainment. A poker run with a route through the beautiful Sam Houston National Forest seemed like an excellent diversion so we teamed up with a couple of other riders (even though a couple were, obviously, characters) for the 135 mile ride. If Jill or I had won the $1000 high hand purse, or any of the lower hands, for that matter, I guess I'd have mentioned it by now but I discovered long ago that I'm not in it for the money.

We returned to the campsite and relaxed and waited for the bike games to commence. Since it didn't seem neighborly to let my faulty petcock leak gasoline on the camp's lawn, I merely spectated, this time out. There were enthusiastic participants but in the wienie bite contest the gals seemed to have had a problem with "going up" on the foot-long. I'm working on a more "real world" design for the wienie holder, but, that's neither here, nor there.

While the games were in progress I took a few minutes to look over some of the entries in the bike contest (some of the bike game participants entered before final judging, too). As per usual, all bikes (with the exception of scooters and vintage) had to be ridden, not trailered, in the poker run.

This beauty is a 1947 Harley-Davidson. Someone smarter than me can tell more about it, but I do know that it was ridden, skillfully, in the bike games and that it stood out in a sea of Ultra Glides.

Earlier in the day, Jill and I came across this Triumph parked in front of a man's tent. He "howdied" us as we walked by and I took that as an invitation to ask about his scoot. The owner told me that its a 1958 200cc Triumph Tiger Cub and somewhat rare due to it's having been marketed to kids and new riders. He thanked me for stopping and looking over his bike, making me wonder how many people attending were real motorcycling enthusiasts, as opposed to those indulging in a trendy past-time.
I was put in mind of an article I'd seen titled, "Are Bikers Dead?"

Now, to be honest, what drew me to the motorcycle contest, and the vintage bikes in particular, was the sight of scrambler "high pipes" and two-tone paint on a beautiful little Honda. I didn't have the opportunity to speak with the owner but the Wackypedia claims the CL200 was only made in 1974, had a five-speed gearbox and was painted "Candy Riviera Blue".

I moseyed on over by the trikes, as well. The machine in the middle is a Can-Am Spyder.

When the thing came by, two wheels in front with a woman pilot and a male pillion, a bystander remarked that the rig looked like it was running down the road backward.

These fiberglass VW trikes used to be six for a nickle. Maybe that's why the rider went to such lengths to personalize this one.

Of course, Texas readers will recognize the historic "Come and Take It" flag, first flown at Gonzales, TX where the godless Mexican army found out that when Texans tell someone to 'stay put', they'd best do so. The flag is used by those who support the Constitutional right to keep and bear arms.

There was only one real custom; the paint looked like colored Mylar. It's really a slick machine, though I don't know if I'd want to ride the poker run route on it.

(click for a larger view)

In the afternoon we ate delicious barbecue and, later, there was great live music and so-so dancing (at least on my part).

Sunday, we broke our fast, said our goodbyes and headed south. Despite my petcock problem, I'm calling the ride a howling success. The weather was perfect, traffic was light and the cops had wooden legs.

Oh, are bikers dead? Without getting into a lot of hair-splitting over what constitutes being a "biker":
Jill thinks they might be endangered, but not dead, though it's hard to tell from this kind of event, but I'll tell you this: When the event ended , one of the people who tried to look like a biker loaded his ride on a trailer behind his fifth wheel and had his dog tied up where he couldn't get out of the sun. When he finally appeared he informed me that his rig was coming through the spot where my bike was parked. Not riding and no respect for those who are (and careless with his dog), so, probably not a biker, despite the biker suit.

Another fellow wasn't going for "the look", but had a beautiful low-mileage Honda Valkyrie Standard entered in the games and show. The bike is, arguably, the best cruiser, ever, and a hell of a road bike.

Need I add?

I guess you're going to find folks trying to blend in anywhere there's fast bikes and whiskey, long-haired girls and fun . It's good that the folks who ride in the rain and know that trailers are for boats are still there, too. They told me so.

High Humidity

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 23:41:00 +0000

Saturday, early afternoon, the weather radar indicated that the heavy rain had moved off and was falling where farmland used to be. That was welcome news; I had a couple of rats to kill in town and didn't want to experience the local traffic low viz conditions. I'd guess that fully 1/4 of the cagers in my town have no business being behind the wheel. The rest of them ain't that swift, either.

That said, I uncovered the Baby Shadow and snagged my gear. I donned the 3/4 helmet I wear when expecting rain and my denim riding jacket. I figured the armored jacket would be a better choice than Frogg Toggs, given the circumstances. I warmed up the Shadow while pulling on my gloves and off I went.
Putting through the neighborhood, I admired the varied sky. One of the clouds looked like it was considering spawning a tropical funnel but really wasn't expending much effort towards that end. As I crossed the bridge that spans Oso Bay I could tell that rain was falling in town, but didn't look like much from my vantage point.
There are times when rain appears to be far away but is actually fairly close. As I was attempting to maneuver my way into the Julio lane and get to my exit I found out just how close the rain was and just how hard it was falling.

It was close. It was falling hard, too. Not just hard, it was falling big; the raindrops were the size of pecans, fitting, in a county named,"Nuts (Nueces)", in Spanish. The looks I got from some of the cagers indicated that they too were thinking, "nuts", but they're cagers.

Once I turned off the feeder road, the rain abated. As I finished my rat killin' and pointed my wheel east, the rain rebated and poured upon the just, and upon the unjust, till I got home. It's been quite a while since I've been soaked to the skin while riding; musical accompaniment to the strip I did on the porch, would have been nice.

For the last couple of months, locals had been telling immigrants that," if we don't get a hurricane, September will be very wet".
Two Red Wings full of rainwater say the locals are on the mark.

FM's 911 Address

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 07:46:00 +0000

It's the "Gitterdone" season when Americans not of Muslim faith revert to that old time religion:
Trendy Post-9-11-01 Patriotism.
"We will never forget", by God.

The victims of MOVE, in Philadelphia, are conveniently forgotten. There is no memorial for the dead at Waco, no financial jackpot for their survivors. In fact, the anniversary of their deaths was overshadowed by the deaths of the many children in OK City day care center housed, illegally, in the FBI building. We demonized Saddam for using human shields just as we later condemned him and "Chemical Ali" for gassing civilians.

Here's a little blurb for you to chew on while you remember the attacks by the godless rag heads:

"Attorney General Janet Reno called him “a dangerous criminal.” Fort Worth News columnist Bill Thompson called him “a vile mass murderer,” and Bill Clinton referred to him as “dangerous, irrational, and probably insane.”

These people practice what V. I. Lenin advised: “Call your enemy what you are, and always tell the exact opposite of the truth.” David Koresh was demonized to try to justify their heinous crime.

Another most despicable crime of the Waco murderers was the spraying of CS gas into the compound at the women and small children. U.S. Congressman Ron Paul stated that

“CS gas is banned under the Paris Convention on chemical warfare. The U.S. could not use it in war. It is illegal, but they would use it against their own citizens.”

— The Washington Times, April 23,1993. <

Reno and Clinton are still part of the government. Think about it.

Texas Amble

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 10:23:00 +0000

After my critique of last week’s challenging mini truck trip to Austin town, I guess it should come to no surprise that I spent part of the Labor Day weekend in that same danged truck. This time out we I was hauling the people and equipment required to perform Americana music as the trio, “Rosewood”.

Singer-song writer and friend, Al Barlow, had arranged for us to play Sunday afternoon at Oma Gruene’s Secret Garden, in historic town of Gruene
(Locally pronounced, “Green”) in greater New Braunfels, Texas. Oma (German for, “Grandma”) Gruene’s garden is a shaded biergarten, of course, where a variety of beers and German foods are served.

The laid-back atmosphere typifies that of the Texas Hill Country; it’s the kind of place where you can make new friends and meet their kids and their dogs, at the same time. Gruene is also home to “Gruene Hall”, well known to aficionados as the oldest dance hall in Texas and host to many musical heavy-hitters.

There is never a shortage of motorcycles in Gruene, either, since the Texas Hill Country is known for it’s scenic roads and biker friendly businesses.

Darryl and I with Tracy, the lady who makes it all happen at Oma Gruene's Secret Garden.

That said, we had a successful afternoon, saw familiar faces and met new people. We packed our gear, ate Oma’s excellent fare and put our fine selves on the road back to the third world.

The return was pretty uneventful except for the warning I was issued by a DPS trooper. I was going five mph over the posted limit but I believe he may have been driving 25 mph under it. I came up behind him pretty quickly before I changed lanes and passed. His lit up immediately. The consensus was that he couldn’t have clocked me, though I know he could have written me a ticket for something, if he wanted to. After we were rolling, again, Jill noticed that my state inspection sticker is expired; I don’t know how the trooper could have missed it.

During the drive back, Darryl, who I sometimes refer to as, “Guitar Boy”, invited me to join him and a mutual friend for a ride to Riviera, TX, the following day. I accepted.

Darryl rides a 650 Yamaha V Star, our bud, a Kawasaki Vulcan 800 and I followed on the Baby Shadow (1995 Honda VT600-C Shadow VLX).

The little Shadow is fun to ride, and while no “neck snapper”, she has enough power to get out of the way at 70 mph.

Since I’m considering riding the Baby Shadow, rather than my big Valkyrie, to an upcoming event I figured Monday’s 125 mile round trip would be illuminating.

To begin with the Shadow has forward controls that, combined with the stock handlebars and risers, cause me to lean back, slightly. Riding position on the Valkyrie is like sitting in a chair. I’ve replaced the Valkyrie's stock handlebars with ones that let me lean forward, slightly. At the end of the day, I could feel the difference in my back, not that I was hurting or stiff, I could just feel it. I may try putting some risers on backward to see if they’ll push the bars forward, a little.

The riding position wasn’t so much of a concern as the width of the seat. The stock Valkyrie seat is a couch compared to the stock VLX seat. The main problem turned out to be the seat strap, which tends to wedge in between the rider and pillion sections causing it to push against my lower back. That was fixed on the fly.

Mainly, though, I wanted to see if I could have a little fun on a Labor Day afternoon. I rode drag and the others took turns at point. The day clouded up, a little, and the wind was down.

We got out of town and ran into one of the isolated showers that have been occurring in these parts. It wasn’t enough to get us wet but it was enough to remind me now nicely rain stings the face when a bike has an ornamental, rather than functional, windscreen. We have enjoyed summer but the cooling effect of the clouds and the area showers was welcome.

Darryl took us to visit his kin and we all met for cold drinks in Riviera where amazing true stories were exchanged. On our return trip we enjoyed the night air on motorcycles that performed the way God intended. I’m calling the day an unqualified success.

I Am a Truck Drivin' Man.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 19:54:00 +0000

I had to drive up to Austin, this past Saturday. Austin is only a couple of hundred miles away, but when I have to drive the truck it seems twice that.
There I was, mini trucking up the Interstate, when I looked in the rear view mirror and thought, “Dammit, that scooter’s right on my ass!” so I fired a couple of.22 rounds rearward (deafening Jill) to make the crazy sumbitch back off. The bike didn’t back off an inch! I moved to shoot again, then, I remembered that the motorcycle was my daughter’s Yamaha that we’d loaded into the bed only an hour before.

Okay, it wasn’t quite like that.

Daughter has moved to Austin to attend college and I promised I’d get her motorcycle to her.
I guess I thought I was going to load the bike, take it to Austin, eat lunch and drive back to Corpus town. I didn’t figure on my little woman wanting to visit with the kid and see some long-time friends we hadn’t seen in a long time. My little up-and-back errand became a weekend jaunt.

Now, I can imagine nothing more boring than a road trip in a cage except, possibly, sitting in church while listening to my brother talk about how much money he has. Yep, my eyes glazed, right away.

I was watching the scenery change and checking out the familiar features I’d see whenever I drove my folks back and forth to San Antonio. San Antonio? Our route wasn’t supposed to take us toward San Antonio!
I realized, then, that I’d missed a turn, the turn, seventy miles back.
The lucky Flour Bluff girl hadn’t said anything; after all, you can ride the Interstate through San Antonio to get to Austin, that’s just not the shortest or most pleasant route.

Just south of San Antonio is the town of Pleasanton (“Birthplace of the Cowboy”). There, we hung a “Northeast” and a short 52 miles later we were back on track_ for a while, at least.
I’d printed out maps for a route that skirted Austin and its infamous traffic and should have taken us into the city practically at Daughter’s door. “Should have”, had I not neglected to print the part the part of the map that shows a crucial junction. It just wasn’t my day for turns.

After a scenic ride in the country, we regained the Interstate and a few miles and minutes later, found our exit. Motoring the short distance to the apartment complex and into the parking lot, I looked at my instrument panel just in time to see the temperature needle peg “Hot”.
I parked.
The layout of the complex looked so familiar that, while Jill looked for Daughter’s building, I just looked around. Some residents in the swimming pool eyeballed me as if they’d never seen a truck driving man.

After we unloaded the bike, and while Missus and Daughter confabbed, I looked under the hood.
The overheating appears to have been caused by a failed radiator cap. I filled the radiator and had no further cooling system problems; I'd say that's reason for, at least, cautious optimism.

Our visit was enjoyable and the return trip uneventful. I guess that's the best I could hope for.