Rides and Tales

Observations From Behind Bars

Scooting about.

with 2 comments

An impromptu game of Grabass delayed our being in the wind, Friday, a.m. Not that it mattered, we had no schedule and were answering to no one for the weekend, I just wanted to brag on the fact that someone would actually play Grabass with me. I won by a significant margin, of course. The loser was required to pack the big yella bike with our camping gear.

I shoved an extra T shirt and a ball cap in my saddle bag and, zip-pop, we were ready to head off to the far north, to a small rally near Navasota, TX.

The day was great, the temperature never breaking about 87°F / 30°C, the wind was down, the sun was out and so were a few other riders. Folks were coming to Corpus Christi for a fund raiser or going to rally in Bandera.

We saw these folks crossing Oso Bay (“OH-so” means “bear”). The distinctive bike used to live down the block, but appears to have acquired new owners.


Taking our usual back-road route to US 77 we encountered little traffic.


North-east wind is keeping the bays full, the rivers look healthy, and the land feels ripe with summer and poised for autumn.


The terrain doesn’t change much for about 100 miles then the Coastal Plains start to give way to rolling prairie, inspiring place names like, “High Hill” and, “Swiss Alp”. I suspect there may have been a little tongue-in-cheek going on.

There is an odd feature in this area, though. Just north of I-10, at La Grange, the road makes several hairpin turns and the land falls away, abruptly. There’s only a couple of miles of twisted road, here, and the land returns to otherwise well-behaved prairie.



Sonny Landreth sang, “South of I-10, we really had it made”. Well, there’s folks north of I-10 that have it pretty well knocked , themselves. Rolling through these towns of 300- 400 population, words like, “neat” come to mind.
I pulled over in Fayetteville to fill up with that Good Gulf Gas since I figured that it ought to be about 15c per gallon, judging by the pumps. The station was closed, the gas gone. I guess they don’t keep much on hand.


We see real estate signs in those towns. They don’t know yet that when you sell out to the devil, there are no ‘do-overs’.
Since we couldn’t fuel, there, we rolled a few more miles to Industry. Now here’s a town of under 400 souls that sports two, count them, two gas stations. The older one has a store with a variety of goods. These rubber boots always catch my eye. Not that I’m a big-time shopper, but I haven’t seen them anywhere else.


I thought my Friend, Bekka, would get off to the little ponies.


Soon enough, we made our turn-around point, outside of Navasota. We made camp at the resort, went to town to eat at the diner and pick up supplies, and returned to the campground to enjoy the amenities and the amazing true stories told by other riders. I was a little envious, I guess, so when this goober started to poke fun at my ball cap, which reads, “Osbourne Ranch- Three Rivers, TX”, I may have lead some folks to believe that Ozzy lives there.

Mean Gene Kelton fired up his band, and life was good. I turned in and slept like a big ol’ bearded baby.



First bike out for the poker run was as nine in the ay em. I thought that, though they’ve had better routes, the ride was still pretty good with nice little sweepers and tree-lined two-lanes. Rolling past the big farms felt downright peaceful. Lots of folks disagreed with me, saying the route “sucked” except for the part was when we passed “all that cotton”.

I thought, “Cotton, big deal”, till later when I realized that most of those riders live in urban areas or parts of the state where there’s lots of ranching and the main crop is alfalfa hay. On the other hand, there are still cotton fields within our city limits.

If you’ve never seen baled cotton at a cotton gin (and even if you have), it looks like this:


Those bales are truck-sized.

My poker hand echoed those drawn at other poker runs. I seem to bear our that old saw, “unlucky in gambling, lucky in love”

The big yella bike had the old Bates trunk attached making it even more unwieldy at slow speeds on grass than usual, so the sexy granny and I became bike game spectators, and they were a hoot to spectate. Not long after the last wienie was bitten barbecue was served.

I sometimes joke that really good barbecue can’t be had north of US 290, but the cook makes a liar out of me at this event. Was it good? It was so good I felt like slappin’ my grandma across the head!
Well, that’s just a saying ripped off from a country song but, if you live a good life, when you die and go to Austin you’ll eat barbecue like that. Not to say that I overdone it, but after, I was one of many floating my belly in the hot tub.

The sun went down, the stars came out and love was in the air. Also in the hot tub and on the grass. But, that’s neither here nor there.

Now I’ve seen the elephant and heard the owl and maybe I’m getting jaded, but nothing  made  me shake my head, except this:


What the hell is that all about, anyway?

Sunday, we folded our tent, loaded the scoot and scooted. Getting on the road at 10:00 a.m, Sunday, means that some are in church and the rest are in jail and traffic is sparse.


Trust me, I hardly ever lie to my friends


Written by fiddle mike

September 22, 2008 at 5:35 pm

Posted in motorcycle, travel

Tagged with , ,

2 Responses

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  1. What a load of hooie, your the biggest liar I know south of the Brazos.



    September 22, 2008 at 7:42 pm

  2. Heck, Raymond, he ain’t so big.

    Nice write, Michael.


    September 22, 2008 at 8:02 pm

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