Rides and Tales

(I’m tempted to remark on the town of Gonzalez, TX and alleged actions of its police chief who put that cradle of liberty in the national news with his antics and those of his gang, but I won’t.)

My good brother, Curtis (mrider) and his lovely missus have moved across I-10 and into America. That, in itself, is news. They also extended an invite to me and the sexy granny to party with the locals they were entertaining at their new digs in the country. We jumped at it.

Friday, we crossed the super slab at Schulenburg . A friend suggested we stop at Swiss Alp, which is a few miles north of Schulenburg, and check out the the dance hall.

Sure enough, the hall and cafe’ were closed early in the day, but we knew that was probable.

I’m told the place has an interesting history, but I guess that will have to wait for another time. At any rate, I got a photo to prove to my Switzer friend that his words don’t fall on deaf ears.

From there, we eased on down the road, through the curve at
La Grange, and onto the State Highway.

We had directions that we followed till the pavement ended and we spotted genuine American biker folk art wind chimes that marked the entrance to the mriders’ spread.

A beautiful and comfortable spread it is, too, with lots of room for the family dogs to romp and chase critters and for Mr. and Missus to stable their mounts and those of visiting dignitaries. I could tell right away I was in civilized company.

Saturday, Curtis called in his crack barbecue team and they went to work preparing to feed the guests. They cooked a flock of chickens, a squadron of ribs and yards of sausage to go with all the other fixins Mrs mrider had whipped up.

Now, where I live, folks throw horseshoes, and in the Hill Country I’ve seen more than one washer pit but the sport du jour in this locale was beanbag tossin’.

Add a good sound system cranking out solid tunes, dogs and kids running around, plenty of cold drinks and you got yourself a party!

Jokes were told, ride tales exchanged and a good time was had by all.

Sunday, we headed back to the third world relaxed and spiritually rejuvenated.

Not too far into the return trip I saw a vehicle I couldn’t identify, at first, on the shoulder of the road. As we neared, it turned out to be a motorcycle with Voyager Kit-type arrangement. The rider wasn’t having trouble but, rather,  was securing some cargo onto the outriggers in lieu of saddlebags.

The wind picked up, the terrain flattened and our road began to run along bays and little bayous, then, we were crossing the Harbor Bridge spanning Corpus Christi Bay, 220 miles and a world away from the hidden mriders.

When we first  met Shirley, while playing at Timarario’s Restaurant /bar  in Port Aransas, we hit it off  right away. She started raggin’ my ass and messing with me like we’d been friends for ten years rather than ten minutes.
About ten years later, and  three weeks prior to this note, she called  and asked if Jill and I would provide musical accompaniment for her at the last Sunset Sounds concert of ‘08.   I was flattered that she thought of us as there are many fine Port A. musicians she knows and could have called on.

While the explosive development of Mustang Island is not considered a good thing by just everyone,  the influx of big bucks has allowed the City of Port Aransas to do some remodeling of Roberts Point Park, including the construction of a new band shell, the Patsy Jones Amphitheater.

Patsy rides the Hanging Trail, but while on this earth she was a singer/songwriter.   Many people loved her and and her songs, including, “That’s My Island”, the official song of Port Aransas.
Shirley was Patsy’s close  friend and felt honored to be the first to perform in the new amphitheater.
In fact, there was no  electric power to the outlets and the wiring for the  foot lights was finished while we were unloading our sound gear.  I think Shirley was meant to be the first to perform there.

The new band shell is situated so that the the sun is not in the performers’ eyes, nor that of the audience and sits sideways to the  breeze rather than blocking it.  The old one was something of a blinding solar oven.

The breeze that came up  didn’t bother me, but Jill’s big bass fiddle caught it just enough for her to comment on it.

The Gulf Intracoastal Waterway runs past the park and behind the band shell.  Looking  north, towards Saint Joe’s Island, the fishing pier and observation tower are visible, as well as the many pleasure craft and merchant vessels that use the channel.

The Good Book says that a prophet is not honored in his home town and, often, that’s true of artists, as well.
Port A locals support the arts and they support local artists.
They came out with  folding chairs and blankets, ice chests and cameras.  Strangers who wandered up without a place to sit were offered spare folding chairs.

Any fiddler who asked for half a blanket was accommodated.

The night was a success and a great way to wind up the city’s Sunset Sounds Concert Series.

A good time was had by all.

The luckiest girl in Flour Bluff, and I , got an after noon start, Friday, and wended our way towards Riverside Ranch Resort in the general vicinity of San Antonio, TX, passing other friendly Texas motorcyclists on our way.

If one could “mosey” on a motorcycle, that’s what we would have been doing. The sun was out, the wind was down and the temperature was in the neighborhood of 88°F./ 31°C. and we were in no big hurry to get off the road. We had plenty of time to reach our destination and pitch our tent before it would be dark.

In good time we crossed the San Antonio River, which flows by the camping area. She’s rather narrow, here, but it’s evident that, at times, she’s many times as wide.

The San Antonio broadens as she nears the coast.

We checked in , howdied and shook with folks we’d met before and pitched our tent away from the general hubbub. After picnicking on the green, we wandered on over to the pool where we could relax and enjoy Mean Gene Kelton and The Diehards knocking out some Texas blues. Later we wandered on back to our sleeping bags and let Gene rock us to sleep.

Saturday we broke our fast in the dining room and linked up with a couple of other riders for the poker run.

The area being what it is, we rode some country roads, and we had to loop through a couple of towns, and we even had a chance to admire the DPS (state troopers) hard at work ticketing wicked law breakers on I-35. Over on the US highway, we discovered a a herd of bicyclists riding in a long, strung out group. I thought, “Damn! I’ll kiss Scarlet Johannson’s ass if there’s not 1000 riders out here!” I spoke to some of their support people at a poker run stop and was told there was way over 3500 riders.

These folks were on a 150 mile ride from San Antonio to Corpus Christi as part of the MS Society’s “Bike to the Beach” ride. There was all sizes, shapes and colors of people and bikes. This was not the most unusual bike.

Motorcyclists patrolled the route with CB radios, ready to assist any bicyclist that might need assisting.

Our local Gold Wing Road Riders Association is usually asked to volunteer and we spotted a couple of them waving at us as we rode by.

We finally left the big ol’ highway and took a more pastoral route.

We stopped at a remote and interesting watering hole, one that had Patsy Cline concert posters, and other dated objects, on the wall.

Out in the country , folks have a different attitude about things, including entitlement.

Back at the ranch, I drew my usual worthless poker hand, enjoyed the hot tub and, later, some of the best barbecued pork ribs I’ve ever run across. Mean Gene and company tuned up and Jill and I cut a pretty fancy rug. She had so much fun that she didn’t even roll her eyes when I demonstrated the “Skagunga”, a dance created many years ago commemorating the wounding of a local junkie. But, thats neither here, nor there.

After the band shut down, we socialized till the wee hours, exchanging many serious and truthful tales with our fellow rally goers.

Sunday morn found the sexy granny creating a birthday breakfast of apple cobbler for me. That woman can work wonders with a single burner camp stove and a few edibles and spices.

After folding our tent, literally, as well as figuratively, we shook some cheeks, kissed some hands and got in the wind.

Here we are, going straight home.