Luling, TX Ride Report

The lunch ride was comprised of folks from surrounding towns who had made contact on the Internet; six bikes and seven people made up our group.
The ride leader set the pace near the posted speed suggestion and we skinned it back for Luling, TX, watermelon capitol and home of great barbecue.

We started and ended under a few clouds but the day averaged about 96°F, perfect for a ride in the country.

The town of Luling and the restaurant where we ate were jammed, and I mean jammed, with people attending the watermelon festival. Seating was at a premium but this sweet thing offered to let me sit with her and her friend. Fine barbecue with two honeys
was tempting, but I already have more women than I deserve so I sent over one of the other men. Spread the wealth, I say.

There were lots of bikes in town, mostly Harleys, but a contingent of urban bikers from Houston rode  tricked out sport bikes that drew a lot of attention.

The ride leader and the Corpus bunch decided to return via the San Antonio area. I elected to follow the only woman rider (imagine that) since her route took would take her through a bit of the rolling prairie, with a stop to see her parents, before riding south and homeward.
Her folks were at a family reunion at their church so I went in to say howdy. I met her kin, ate delicious apple pie and talked with Uncle Floyd about the Matchless motorcycle he rode in 1950.I surely enjoyed our stop, and am pleased that such an unlikely side trip was part of my day’s adventure.

As we continued south the day cooled off, slightly, but we still made a couple of stops for water and fuel, giving us a chance to blow a little smoke before parting ways in Beeville.

The sea breeze was blowing directly head-on and the big yella bike wanted to stretch her legs so I twisted the wick, a little, and rolled up to our four-way stop just as the Sexy Granny did. Instead of having to cook, she dined on barbecue imported from Luling while I regaled her with tales of my excursion. She is a very lucky woman.

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Life in the Sunshine

Well, here I am, getting on down the trail, and I still have problems with those danged girls messing with my stuff.

Monday, grand daughter came over and hung out for a while, and does she have quick hands! Nothing is safe.

The young and quick are no match for the old and crafty, though. It happened that UPS had delivered the replacement for my crashed crash bar carefully boxed and protected against scratching with a sheet of bubble wrap.
I took whatever it was she shouldn’t have been messing with away from the little one, draped her in bubbles, and went out to put the new part in the shed.
Directly, there came the sound of Chinese New Year as the kid found that the bubbles popped nicely when she stomped all over them.

What’s quicker than a kid with bubble wrap? Grandma with a camera.

Now, as if life wasn’t good enough, my sister, Susie, and brother-in-law, Charlie, who we haven’t seen in way too many years, turned up for a visit. They rode Charlie’s beautiful Kawasaki Nomad in from Albuquerque, NM, just shy of 1000 miles away.

We met them at Mom’s house, then rode around the bay to our favorite seafood restaurant, Pier 99, on North Beach. We found a shady spot out on the patio and enjoyed fish sandwiches and great company.

Did we have fun?

Oh, yeah.

England fuel tax protest

Jun 5, ‘08 2:02 PM for everyone

Ripped off the Net, but I don’t have the original source.

Hundreds of motorbike riders protest on the motorway

Hundreds of motorbike riders protesting against high fuel prices have caused delays on motorways outside Manchester.

The protest, which included some other vehicles, left Birch services just after 0800 BST on junction 18 of the M62, to head into the city centre.

Rolling-roadblocks were used to lessen delays, but traffic backed up behind the convoy on the M60.

Greater Manchester Police said a “small number” of lorry drivers were warned by police for driving too slow.

An estimated 500 bikers on the M602 were greeted by applauding onlookers as they made their way through Salford.

The protesters had travelled on the M62 and M60 before joining the M602 towards Salford Quays.

The protest is understood to have been led by two motorcycling fuel protesters, known only as Maverick and Triumph Man.

Maverick told the BBC that thousands of people had supported the protest, and organisers “could not have asked for anything better”.

I think it’s brilliant - it’s a pity they’re not blocking off Downing Street and London too Michael Cleary Garage owner

“This is just to show the government that there’s one voice here, that we all want the same thing - a reduction, if not a complete cut in the VAT on fuel,” he said.

“We’ve had the lorries out, we’ve had vans out - we’ve even had an ice cream van out here.

“It has been absolutely fantastic and I can’t thank these guys enough from the bottom of my heart.”

Assistant Chief Constable Ian Hopkins of Greater Manchester Police, said some trucks were stopped and warned for driving “unacceptably slow”.

“The vast majority of those taking part have expressed their views in a way that was agreed with police, that was safe for motorists and that caused minimum disruption,” he said.

“We are disappointed that a small number of other demonstrators let them down and acted in an unacceptable way, causing added disruption to some drivers.”

The protest was welcomed by Salford garage owner Michael Cleary, 56.

“I think it’s brilliant. It’s a pity they’re not blocking off Downing Street and London too,” he said.

“It’s disgusting, the price of fuel, especially for taxis.

‘Lot of support’

“People are cutting down on servicing because they can’t see what they’re getting out of it.”

Biker Steve Sutcliffe, from Edenfield, Lancashire, who took part, said he spoke to motorcyclists from Greater Manchester, West Yorkshire and Lancashire.

“It was very good-natured, people were waving from the side of the road and there was a lot of support,” he said.

“I’ve never done anything like this before, but I felt I needed to make it known that people are fed up about fuel prices.”

Skidmarks

It’s not often that the sexy granny and I can spend an
entire weekend together, so we decide to make the most of it by riding roughly
100 miles to the Coleto Creek State Park and relaxing with a little light
camping.

Well, we got all the way across town before Jill pulled
off the expressway. Seems her bike wasn’t handling. Seems the rear
tire was flat. I seem to have this power that cracks valve stems.

We limped the Magna back to the Bluff, reloaded the
Valkyrie and restarted our adventure.

We rode through Goliad, rode east on US-59 and finally turned
at the highway crossover to the park. That’s when the tires slid on that
coarse sand found around highway construction. They slid quickly, too, right out from under us, but I tried to minimize damage to the bike by sliding on my elbow and hip.

Jill was scratched a little; she elected to wear a riding jacket while the last
thing I did before leaving was to hang mine up.
I figured there was little need for the armor once we cleared the city limit.
That armor would have been between my elbow and the pavement instead of just the long sleeve shirt I wore.

Needless to say, the incident put a damper on the day.
Jill dressed my wound at the ranger station and we went to the Cajun restaurant for some medicinal gumbo, then rode on home.

Later, while changing my bandage, Jill discovered that one
particularly unpleasant looking raspberry was actually a hole in my skin.
At the emergency room, I got two stitches and the nurse gave me candy and
a roll of first aid tape.

Jill is OK. In a surprising reversal of rolls, I made her stiff, but like the nurse said, she’s a tough
cookie and doesn’t crumble under pressure.

The bike suffered minor cosmetic damage, mostly to the windshield and engine guard. Jill put me on light duty, though, so I can’t get the Magna’s wheel fixed or fool with the Valkyrie, this week.

As you might guess, there are not very many crappy days in paradise, but Saturday came pretty close.

Still, my worse day under a motorcycle is better than my best day under a mini truck.

Rosewood Band

“”Rosewood”, the trio I play in, has been hard at work in Gilley’s Recording Studio, here in Corpus town.
Dennis hadn’t recorded an acoustic band before so he took some video of us to display on his website, and passed some still photos from it on to me.

“The area we began recording in is almost like a waiting room. The board that has all the sliders and knobs is almost window dressing, as modern recording is digital and lots of the engineer’s work is done with a keyboard mouse. Every function of the actual board can be displayed on the computer monitor and operated from there.

“There are different ways to record a band. We recored live, that is, we played as if we were performing with the instruments plugged directly into the recording equipment, rather than amplifiers.
“Each instrument has its own track (think of it as a file on a computer) that can be manipulated, over-dubbed or removed altogether without affecting the recorded sound of the other instruments.

“The singing is recorded first on what is called a scratch track. Since the microphone picks up the sound of the instruments, another recording of the vocals is made in the sound-proof booth and the original discarded, or scratched.
Some of the instruments were also re-recorded in the booth. Their rich sounds are captured better this way.

“There is still some of the business of the music business to attend to, fees paid to comply with copyright law and we’ll have to created art for the CD cover. Dennis will work his engineering magic on the recordings to make a master CD which we’ll use to burn copies. When it all comes together, its a beautiful thing. I’ll get back to you as things develop.

Rumble on the River.

Memorial Day, time for Dan’s third annual “Rumble on the River” Memorial Day party. This year the barbecue vendor was the
United States Military Veterans Motorcycle Club.
We “thanked a vet” by enjoying both their cooking and another day in the promised land.

Dan’s place is on the Nueces River. “Nueces” (locally: noo ACE es) is a Spanish word that means, “nuts”. The plentiful Pecans (our state tree) may have inspired the name but the term has taken on a more personal, and no less accurate, meaning in this neck o’ the woods.

We arrived early in the afternoon, unloaded our instruments and kissed some cheeks and hugged some necks. Some of the more local riders had already arrived and begun to enjoy the day.

USMV MC had the pit fired up preparing for the hungry revelers they’d see a little later.

I took a short meditiation by the river. Then, my coffe cup went dry.
Wow! I never realized what a nice ass I have!

Folks began turning up by bike and car and we hobbed and knobbed with friends, some of whom we hadn’t seen since last year.

90°F? Not a problem for this bunch.

The music began and hasn’t stopped yet, for all I know. I was pleased to see pickers from the upcoming generation performing, as well the gray beards.
There was some rock, rockabilly, bluegrass, and lots of Texas music being played by enthusiastic musicians.

It’s good to be the fiddler. I had my annual picture taken with Steffan. This gal is a for-real singer and a genuine sweet heart. If she ever takes up fiddling I’ll be out of business.

So there you have it. Between great barbecue and cold drinks, boat rides and swimming, fast bikes, pretty women and excellent entertainment, it truely was, another day in paradise. A good time was had by all.

Except this guy.

In the Breeze

Well I climbed back aboard my old semi,
Then like a flash I was gone,
I got them old truck wheels a rollin’,
Now I’m on my way to San Antone.
(T. Fell)

OK, it was “my old scooter” and “bike wheels”, but you get the drift: reaching escape velocity, we freed ourselves from the suck of the city and put our wheels on US-181 bound northwest for the general vicinity of the town of San Antonio.

Some twenty miles outside the town, on the river San Antonio, lays Riverside Ranch, host of the annual Breezy Ride. I thought Breezy Ride referred to the fact that Riverside Ranch is a nudist resort, but there is an old biker living there named “Breezy”.

Riverside Ranch is a nudist resort and community with rules of conduct. It is not a swingers club, and while the riders had fun hanging out (so to speak) with them, the highlight of the weekend, for the residents, was a poker tournament. Some riders particularly like this kind of venue because the atmosphere is laid-back, and they know who is armed.

I was surprised at how rural this area is, being nearly in the loop of San Antonio. Our travels usually take us to the south of the city.

At the rally site, we got acquainted and pitched our tent. Some folks we’d met at other events showed up but, overall, the turnout was sparse, perhaps due to the high price of fuel, not good for the vendors, but OK by me, as it keeps the dabblers away. I’m told a total of twenty-four bikes rode the poker run.

The weather guesser was a little off, again, but Friday’s all night rain was pleasant and mostly deflected by the tree we camped under. When we finally had to zip up the windows the temperature was a little lower and we slept in comfort.
The rain pretty much ended in the morning and the skies cleared as Saturday progressed.

Saturday’s poker run was one hundred fourteen miles of mostly back-road riding and stops at honky tonks and icehouses, the likes of which are pure Americana from days past.
One sweet old gal had a sausage and cheese buffet set out for the riders, which, of course, went down well with beer or soda.

My personal favorite was this remote watering hole, “ Mule Skinners Inn”. The cactus’ painted leaves is pure folk art and the bottle cap paved parking lot took me back to another time.

Jill was aghast at woman who decided that a couple plants did not measure up socially, pulled them, and threw them over by the old stock pen. .
Really, who gets on a motorcycle, goes off to play for the weekend and weeds a back-woods beer joint? Times has changed and I have not changed with them, I guess.



Once again, I drew a trash poker hand, but the ride to get it was gooder than snuff on a rag.

Later, there were off-bike games and the weenie bite, which Jill won.
I love it; she puts in the effort, I get the congratulations.

Still later, we ate barbecue. I got to tell you, the resort might look a little rustic but the cook really outdoes herself. Her food is excellent and there is plenty of it. We snagged a little extra brisket for a midnight snack.

As the sun went down, the band fired up. I was pleased that they’d booked
“Mean Gene Kelton and the Die Hards”. I like white blues bands and this trio rocks.
They played originals, including, “My Baby Don’t Wear No Panties” and
“Too White To Play the Blues”, as well as covers of blues bands, rockers (both southern and generic) and even a few very old country-western tunes (the best kind).
We abandoned the hot tub for the lawn where I tried to entice Jill into dancing the skagunga with me. You’d think that after all this time it would be impossible to embarrass her.

Gene has a CD titled, “Going Back To Memphis: A Biker Band Tribute To Elvis”.
He announced that a portion of the receipts go to Bikers Against Child Abuse (BACA).
Mean Gene is the real deal.

The remainder of the night, and part of the early morning, was spent in the hot tub with riders from around the state, relating unembellished stories about motorcycling and intellectual pursuits.

Finally, my sleeping bag called and I slept the sleep of the un-indicted.

Sunday was a ‘ten’. Since we were close to home, Jill dawdled over breaking camp while I helped by drinking coffee brewed on her new camp stove.

After settling our tab we hung around the pool, a little, with the few who were staving off Monday, made some dates for future rallies and then got in the wind.

Any ride you can walk away from is a good ride. If the bike is still usable, it’s a great ride. Our ride home was great, light wind in our face and no-one a-swerving in our lane.

Life is good in the Republic.

Prelude to a Road Trip

Friday saw time for another adventure in the great Republic.

Thursday night’s deluge had temporarily emptied the sky of rain and Friday morn found that lucky Flour Bluff woman, and me, leisurely packing, fueling and airing up tires on our bikes. Our destination was the Riverside Ranch, near the town of Elmendorf, 147 miles from our door and 23 miles outside of San Antonio, Texas.

On the way out of town, with Jill leading, we traveled a little faster than surrounding traffic as a safety measure. Riding in the left lane, we passed several cars and a man on a very spiffy BMW motorcycle, which fell in behind me.

Shortly thereafter I heard an awful racket that I quickly ascertained was not coming from my bike, but from somewhere up ahead, perhaps from the extension ladder that was sliding down the road in our lane.

I swerved into the empty center lane and shot past Jill who, as I could see in my rear view, was hard braking with a mini van hard on her rear fender. She thinks the van brushed her saddle bag as it went by. I’ll bet the driver didn’t even drop her cell phone.
At any rate, Jill and the BMW rider missed hitting the ladder or being hit by one of the brain dead cagers of Corpus Christi. We all got off the expressway safely and pulled into a stop-and-rob to check out Jill’s bike which was unmarked and undamaged.
I was pretty angry at first but, later, had to admit that things could have turned tragic, but didn’t. I thank the Creator that we emerged unscathed.

We spoke, briefly, with the young man on the Beemer, who was justifiably impressed with the little woman’s riding skill, and thanked him for hanging in with us. It’s good to know that the “biker brotherhood” is not just an empty phrase.

‘And then, like a flash, we were gone’.

The ride continues in the following post, “The Breeze”,

The “Dammit Report”

In one of the few streets in my end of town that was fairly drivable, there was a hole about the size and depth of a dinner plate. The City of Corpus Christi sent three men , supervised by three foreman, who worked for three days turning it into a shallow crater with an area approximating that of a Volkswagen.

While headed into town, trying to negotiate around it, I found another deep, albeit small, hole ; found it with the front wheel of my motorcycle, the Baby Shadow. Whatever I might have saved on fuel by riding the Shadow is now shot in the ass, fork seal repair running no less than $150 USD for labor alone.
This city is becoming more of a sleazy border town, every day.

Now, I may have mentioned my annoyance at recyclable material turning up in stores reconstituted as Chinese Crap. This is no less annoying because the City has quit recycling (or whatever they do with it) glass. Glass is plentiful, easily turned into raw material and as useful as an opposable thumb. One of its many uses is as an ingredient in “hot mix”, that’s the stuff roads are made of, the stuff lots of folks know as “asphalt” or McAdam. Of course, if cheaper materials meant the roads staying in better repair, the City and State might find it harder to extort the public.

My son never fails to remind us that Penn and Teller say that recycling is, “Bullshit”.

But, don’t get me started.

p.s.
Did you know these little pull rings (pop tops) are made of aluminum. They don’t have to be crushed, nor do they have a coating to be dealt with.

I’m told that only one recycler will handle them, and then only for
Ronald McDonald House.

THC Excursion

Friday, ante meridian, I, along with my faithful Indian guide, “Sexy Granny”, loaded up the scoots and headed for the beautiful Texas Hill Country. It was sunny and 80°F. in the Sparkling City, but we soon rode under cloud cover and I no longer felt over dressed in my riding jacket.
In fact, one couldn’t have asked for a better ride. We blasted up I-37 to the town of Three Rivers where we stopped for fuel and coffee, and to get on State roads. Good roads they are, too, running through mostly ranch land with fence lines sporting brilliant yellow cactus blooms, the spiny Huisachetree singing back-up with it’s own gold blossoms. The roadside was covered in Black Eyed Susan, with a few Astors and Thistles for contrast, and unused pastures were dotted with White Prickly Poppies. A reg’lar Feria de las Flores ( Flowers Fair), as the Mexicans say.

We turned onto SH16 and into the  Free State of McMullen. “McMullenCounty is one of the few counties, if not the only county, in the US which does not take and has never taken federal subsidies of any kind”. Veering off on SH 173 we ridethrough Camp Verde, home of the U.S. Army experiments with camels, and into Kerrville.

Since Friday night hail storms were a possibility, we had reserved one of the park’s new-looking cabins and there we unloaded the bikes and headed to town. After riding to the Lakehouse restaurant to attend the needs of the flesh, we hiked one of the park’s nature trails, then relaxed and planned for the morning.

Saturday we vacated the cabin and found a fairly cozy spot to pitch our home away from home. First order of business was tacos and coffee at Sombrero de Jalisco Mexican Restaurant. Then we became moto-tourists and motored to a cave we’d never visited (Cave Without a Name), near Boerne. After the cave tour we cruised over to Luckenbach to take the obligatory photo in front of the store for our northern friends. In Luckenbach we ran into an old friend whose cut-off western shirt, straw hat and mullet haircut made him invisible, right at first. We caught up, listened to and discussed music, got introduced around, and then it was time for us to fly.

Fly we did, to the German town of Fredericksburg, home of Admiral Nimitz and good eats. Fredericksburg is a laid-back town where tourists meander the sidewalks carrying drinks they bought from the store-front brewery or wine shop. The “Auslander Restaurant” is another familiar haunt and there we assuaged our hunger with “Opa’s Sausage” and schnitzel.

Since our Made in USA Coleman stove had let us down in the field a second time, and camp firewood was soaked, we picked up a bag of charcoal on the way back to camp. I’m not real proud of that, but I am real proud of the the camp coffee and apple cobbler Jill cooked over it. The park host, again, came by with news of a Thunderstorm Watch, but we never saw a drop of rain.

Predicted heavy rain was the main reason for an early start back to Corpus town. We packed our kit, cleaned our site and headed south. We stopped in Bandera, the Cowboy Capitol, for breakfast at OST (Old Spanish Trail). That is as good a place as can be found for people and motorcycle watching. Danged good for breakfast, too, with pancakes “as big as your head” if that’s what you’ve a hankerin’ for.

The ride home was cloudy and definitely cooler than the ride up. As we neared the city we began to see wet roads and when we were not ten miles from our door we ran into light rain, remnant of the cold front that had ignored Kerrville. The bar ditches in our neighborhood were flooded, evidence of very heavy rain storms, the same storms that were only a few miles in front of us and headed into the Gulf. Nicely timed.

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