Motorcycle ‘Hoods

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I received a telephone call last week from Jim, my long time friend and adopted cousin. By way of introduction, Jim is married to Becky, my actual first cousin. I am fond of them both. Jim is not much older than I, but in remarkably good condition, considering. In his youth, which I believe lasted into his 50s, he raced cars, motorcycles and anything else with wheels. He was good at it, too, he says. I learned recently that he raced formula Fords at Daytona. That is cool. Anyway, he invited me to join him and his friend Terry for a ride the following Wednesday. Our objective was to eat lunch at a small café in Lometa, Texas. Before this invitation, I have never ridden with Jim, but I expected he was competent and quick.

I promptly accepted and agreed to meet at his home in Waxahachie at 0930 Wednesday morning. I could hardly wait.

In the days between the call and the trip, I groomed every aspect of my motorcycle. Reliable as a wood stove, everything checked out. I aired the tires to the recommended pressure, connected the battery to the charger and generally cleaned and inspected all the other parts. I was set. Then, the night before the ride, I went into the garage to perform one last minute check. I slipped the key into the ignition and hit the start button. Usually, the engine starts so fast I do not even hear the starter motor. I did not hear it this time either, but for a different and bad reason. The battery was dead. “No, no, no. This cannot be happening.” I thought to myself. Quickly, I plugged in the charger and began praying. As a precaution, I called Jim and alerted him I might be a little late. It seemed I might not make the trip, after all. I checked the battery just before retiring for the night. It was fully charged. I was reassured, but left the charger connected over night to be certain. Confident, I retired and slept the sleep of the Just.

Wednesday morning arrived cool and dark. The temperature hovered around 45 and thick clouds hung in the sky. “Why does it always have to be cold and cloudy?” I whined. It was not a real problem. The highest of the high-tech motorcycle gear cloaked me. It is wind and rainproof. There is armor in all the places where one might get a “boo-boo” should one suddenly find one’s self sliding along on the earth without the benefit of a motorcycle. It happens. A full helmet shielded my coconut. Steve McQueen never looked cooler.  (Pictured L to R: Terry, Hank's Bike, Jim)

My trusty bike fired up instantly and I was away to Waxahachie! After twenty minutes on the interstate, I arrived at Jim and Becky’s place. When Terry showed up, the three of us straddled our bikes, ready for a spirited ride and a hearty lunch. Jim took the lead, rolling into the street and disappearing toward the highway. Terry followed a hundred feet behind. I fumbled with my helmet strap, so I was an additional thirty seconds behind. Finally, I turned the key and hit the start button. Nada. The battery was dead. Again. I was helpless to save myself, so I sat, brooding, for fifteen minutes or so. Eventually, the “gang” realized they were short one rider and returned to the house. Luckily, Jim had a spare. We swapped batteries and launched again, only half an hour behind schedule. Stupid battery.

So began our adventure, a quest for a delicious lunch in a distant land. We turned south on US 77 under threatening skies. Our motorcycles sped toward whatever Mother Nature had in store for us. I could smell adventure on the air. Oh. Wait. Someone hit a skunk. Never mind.

To be continued.

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