My Backwater

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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?

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 .

And, yes, the folks who ride in the rain and know that trailers are for boats are still there, too.  They told me so.

High Humidity

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.