Motorcycle ‘Hoods, II

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Back in the day, U.S. Highway 77 was the main artery linking Dallas, Austin, San Antonio and possibly Corpus Christi, Texas. Then, Interstate 35 opened next door, literally. For years, I-35 was the coolest and fastest way to navigate Texas, north and south. Narrow old “77” was all but forgotten. Then NAFTA hit. Now, the once glamorous I-35 is the highway from Hell. It is jammed with Mexican trucks and busses north and southbound 24/7. Sure a few automobiles still squeeze onto the road, but I am certain they regret it. I have not travelled any distance on that super highway in years. It always seemed the truck behind me wanted to drive 85 and the bus in front of me preferred to go 45. Riding in the middle was stressful, so I found other routes.

U.S. 77 is a two-lane highway passing through several bucolic villages that line the road between Dallas and Hillsboro 50 miles to the south. Traffic is light. The road surface is good and the scenery is varied and attractive. For any destination south or west of Dallas, it is a smart choice for a cyclist. It only made sense that our little group left Waxahachie via “77” to Hillsboro.

In Hillsboro, we picked up Texas Highway 22 and headed east across the Lake Whitney dam and on toward Hamilton. Jim set a brisk pace, averaging a little over the legal speed limit, but not so fast as to leave the rest of us hopelessly behind or to draw the attention of the law enforcement community. I think we were running about 75 mph, most of the time. Highway 22 has curves, but is mostly straight. Jim enjoys a more spirited ride, so after a dozen miles, he signaled a left turn onto a tiny state highway. I think it was 219, 217, or 215. This goat track of a road was paved well enough, but it was amazingly twisty. I moved my bike close behind Jim, hoping to get a tutorial in proper handling on curves. The tutorial was not long in coming.

Jim denies it, but I am certain he lit the afterburners on his bike as he leaned into the first curve. In a second, he vanished around the turn. I twisted the throttle slightly and followed the curve. I got through it, eventually, and straightened with the road. Jim was a tiny speck, well ahead of me. Stunned, I opened the throttle a bit more, regaining my position fifty yards behind the leader. I arrived in position a few seconds before the next hairpin curve and the disappearance of the lead bike, once more. Since I raced to catch up, I was going too fast to negotiate the curve, so I got off the throttle and onto the brakes. The bike returned to double-digit speeds just in time to round another sharp bend. Jim and his bike were long gone when I completed the turn.

This scene repeated itself on a continuous basis for the next two hours. Jim has been through this part of the country many times. He has a catalog of challenging roads. I am sure we covered all of them. My odometer said I was 180 miles from home when we arrived in Lometa, less than three hours later. It was an exhilarating ride. I was thrilled and exhausted at the same time.

I was feeling a little shaky when we parked near the Wagon Wheel Café in Lometa. No, I do not think it was from hunger. Still, it felt good to stand up and stand still. In a few minutes, the cramps in my arms, the result of heavy clutch and brake action, relaxed. We went inside and sat down. (Me? Well, it was more of a collapse than a sit-down.) A Texas-style lunch was on the way.

To be continued.

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