Dawdle Across Texas with Me – Episode 2

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The Promenade in Fredericksburg.

When we visited last, I was in Valley Mills, Texas. I did not stop for one of those aromatic Mexican or Barbeque lunches. It had nothing to do with moral (or any other kind of) fiber. I had a limited amount of time, so I pressed on. I headed for Clifton along Highway 6. I think George W. Bush’s place is around here somewhere.

An old barn

Clifton showed up in twenty minutes and I reconnected with 219, headed for the sleepy village of Cranfill’s Gap. After the trip was over, I discovered my aunt Evelyn lives there, still. She is my late father’s eldest sister and a very sweet person. I shall make a note to try to find her on my next pass.

 St. Olaf's Kirk!

I detoured to revisit St. Olaf’s Kirk. You might recall I snapped a picture of the 1880s vintage church during deer season. (See “The Hunt.”) Then, cold air and overcast skies prevailed. This time, warm air and sunny skies were the order of the day. I wanted to get a better picture under brighter conditions.

Cottage in The Gap

Imagine my surprise when I arrived to find the church surrounded by workers, cranes and scaffolding. The white stucco façade was gone and the original-looking limestone exterior gleamed in the sun. I did not get the photo I wanted, but I am happy to have the old church returned to its historic appearance. In the fullness of time, I shall catch it gleaming in the sun, without the construction crews. It will be beautiful!

Scene in The Gap

Next, I cruised through “The Gap” toward Fairy, Texas. Even tinier, Fairy is the gateway to Hico, home of my stepmother, Marguerite. She has been ill and I have not seen her in awhile. Following the rural roads, I made my way to her door. She answered the bell and we had a long conversation. Now in her 90’s, she admits she has lost a step or two, but her wit is sharp and her disposition is sunny, particularly considering her recent health issues. I learned she went to the hospital with pneumonia and heart trouble. I was happy she recovered. I think she was, too. She has not met the youngest grandson. (My Bad) I pledged to bring Joshua for a short visit in the very near future.

When our conversation ended, I headed back the way I came, savoring the bright sun and mild temperature. I wanted to be off the highway before dark. I am not sure why. It may be I am getting old. Nah.

Highway, Trees and Bluebonnets

The winds picked up as I rode north. At one point, a gust pushed my ride hard toward the unpaved shoulder. I leaned into the wind and wondered if I could turn hard enough to keep off the loose gravel on the shoulder. I did not relish the idea of hitting gravel at speed in a hard turn. Nothing good would come of it. The gust died as suddenly as it began and the motorcycle headed sharply left, toward oncoming traffic. I hauled the bike upright and scampered back to the proper lane, missing the oncoming truck by two hundred yards. I think I saw the truck driver laughing as he sped by. No matter. I would laugh, too, after I got home.

Welcoming Evening Sky

The rest of the trip was tranquil. I arrived home before sunset, exhausted and exhilarated. I think I shall approach my next outing a little different. Next time, I plan to give in to more temptations to stop and see the sights; talk to more people. After all, there is more to touring than scenery and speed. We shall see.

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Motorcycle ‘Hoods III

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Jim, Terry and I shucked out of our helmets and gloves and entered the Wagon Wheel Café. I would like to say we entered quietly and slipped into our chairs unnoticed. I would like to say that, but I cannot. Men from Mars would have drawn fewer stares. What was so strange about seeing three old men dressed in motorcycle touring/racing garb? Apparently, there was quite a bit about us they considered strange.

As we strode toward a table in the back, I began estimating the crowd’s reaction. I saw three possibilities. One possibility was they might start shooting. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I reminded myself. “Clearly, these civilized folk left their shotguns and rifles outside in their pickup trucks.” An elderly man in a cowboy hat held his fork in mid flight from the plate to his mouth, his head rotating to follow our progress through the café. “They might all get up and run out.” I mused. “Nah. Not unless they go outside to get their shotguns.” The third and most terrible possibility was they were old bikers from back in the day. If so, they would soon be regaling us with adventures and misadventures on their Harley, Indian, or God knows what. I shuddered at the thought.

Eventually, we made it to a table and stacked our gear on the floor. It felt great to sit on something that was not moving. The waitress brought water and took our orders. I did not look at the menu. “I will have the lunch special,” I recited. In this part of the country, the chicken fried steak is always the special. For those in disadvantaged parts of the world, a chicken fried steak is a piece of tenderized meat, probably from a mammal, deep-fried in a coating of seasoned flour and egg. Thick cream gravy, which contains no actual cream, covers the patty. Tradition dictates a lump of mashed potatoes, optionally covered in gravy, alongside the steak. A side of any sort of vegetable matter meets the standards of etiquette for this meal. I got corn on the cob. My colleagues were more concerned with their arteries. They ordered hamburger steaks.

Soon, our lunches arrived hot and fragrant. Ravenous, I dug in.

Truckers have a slang term for roadside eateries serving such unpretentious fare. They call them “Choke and Pukes.”

I struggled not to. My companions chewed tentatively on their hamburger steaks, their eyes darting furtively from side to side. No, there was not a potted plant nearby. We were all stuck. Across the room, another gent smiled toothlessly at me, waving a fork-load of food. “Mm, Mm. Bon Appetite,” he seemed to say. Jim and Terry fixed their gaze on their plates, pushing the food around like children sentenced to eat canned spinach. I ate my lunch. I thought sure I would clip a large tree soon and be spared the aftermath of the burnt lard patty. Over my lifetime, I have eaten hundreds if not thousands of Chicken Fried Steaks. This is the first one I met that was plain bad.  Then, the inevitable happened.

“Them are quick lookin’ bikes you got out there.”

The voice came from a middle-aged man at a nearby table. He was thin and sinewy. His face showed the marks from more than a few troubles. I cringed.

“I had a Harley once. Rode it smack into a tree. When I came to, the doctor said I had broke every bone in my body…”

Jim acknowledged the man and traded a few pleasantries with him. In the next breath, we learned a bus or something had also hit him.

“Okay, pardner, take care of yourself,” said Jim as we fled through the front door. We were hurriedly “suiting-up” when a dozen young women crossed the street and walked directly past us. Sashayed, I think. They were from the local high school and and said they were participating in a fire drill. We looked around, but could not see a school. The girls laughed and continued on their way.

“Can’t be too careful when it comes to a fire drill,” I thought.

We left town by a different road, headed toward Gatesville, a little north and west of Waco. Naturally, Jim found roads that were all curves to take us there. I was beginning to tire. My “Will to Live” meter was on the last quarter tank when we arrived in Gatesville. Then I noticed my fuel gauge was also in distress. Always thoughtful, and equally low on fuel, Jim guided the gang to a station where we filled our tanks and stretched our legs. I was still pumping gas when a car pulled up to the pump next to me. I looked up and saw a young woman driving the car. She seemed to be looking my way and I smiled reflexively. To my surprise, she returned my smile.

“That’s different,” I thought. “They usually call the police.”

I finished squirting gas and closed the fill cap. I walked over to Jim, who was standing on the other side of the pump.

The derelict school stood alone beneath gloomy skies.

“Psst. Jim. That cute young woman in the car smiled at me,” I boasted in a stage whisper.

Jim glanced at the woman filling her tank and back to me.

“Quick, put your helmet back on before she gets a good look,” he offered supportively.

“Thanks. I’ll do that,” I said, grateful.

In a few minutes, we were back on the road. It began to rain. Did I mention I hate rain when I am riding a motorcycle? No? Well, I do. Visions of zipping off the slick pavement to an awkward landing in the weeds tormented me. I felt tense and old. I slowed down. The gang disappeared around a curve ahead of me. They were out of sight. All I could do was plod along until the rain ceased. Then I caught up.

We eventually connected with Texas 22 and rode on to Hillsboro. There, as the sun sank low in the west, U.S. 77 welcomed us back. In half an hour, we were in Waxahachie. I stopped at Jim’s place long enough to get some parts for my spiffy new m/c trunk installed then headed home.

It seemed as if I arrived home an instant after leaving Jim’s house. It was night. “Hm. I must have been conscious, right?” No matter. I was home and utterly spent.

Sure, I would pay for it tomorrow. It was still the best ride in the ‘hood I ever had.

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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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Hill Country Epilogue

It was Friday morning, September 25. I was happily tapping away at my keyboard. I forget what was so important, but I was engrossed in the effort. As the morning wore on, I became increasingly agitated. Something was just not right. I ran through my checklist of potential problems and found nothing amiss. I tried my best to continue, but it became more difficult as time passed.


I looked at the clock.  It showed straight up noon. As I stared, I could not help seeing out the window a few feet away. “Odd,” I thought, “I don’t see any rain…” My thought process automatically raced to “why isn’t it raining?” I got out of my chair and peered through the glass. Hmm.

The sky was clear blue. The lawn was deep green and dry. I rushed to the front door and stepped out. 75-degree temperatures and the mildest of breezes greeted me. Sunshine, long a scarce commodity in my neighborhood, warmed my neck and face. I realized I had been wasting my life and a beautiful day indoors when I should have been out in the sunshine and fresh air. Work? “I don’t need no steenking work,” I thought. I ran to my closet and grabbed the basics. Helmet? Check. Armored Jacket? Got it. Gloves? Boots? Yes, yes, yes.

In ten minutes, my motorcycle sat poised in the driveway, idling quietly. In fifteen, I was enjoying the fresh air and sunshine the way God intended, from the saddle of my bike. “Today,” I thought to myself, “I shall redeem that rain dance I enjoyed over the Labor Day Weekend!” I took the sharp-turning back road south toward Hillsboro. From Hillsboro, S.H. 22 retraced my path to the west. In bright daylight, this was an entirely new adventure. Traffic was light as I turned onto the small highway. I opened the throttle a bit, producing a satisfying growl from the V-4 engine and a delightful breeze on my face. Wow. I swooped and banked along the highway. Green pastures, picturesque structures and fat livestock streamed by. The fragrance was more like spring than autumn. I soaked it in through every pore.

Eventually, I reached Meridian, Texas and turned onto Highway 144 toward Walnut Springs. “The Springs” is a sleepy little village. Industry is limited to a couple of beer stations and some antique shops. I have seen it in worse condition. Just beyond the town, I reached Farm Road 203. I save this little shortcut for times I need to get away from it all and do something stimulating at the same time. It is a narrow road with many low hills and enough curves to satisfy any motorcyclist craving excitement.

I plunged ahead, relishing the scenery and the road. There was no traffic. Since the little road is at most ten miles long, I wanted to go slow to enjoy it as long as I could. My evil side wanted me to speed up to enjoy the road as much as I could. As in life, Evil often makes the more compelling argument. I sped onward, leaning the bike steeply into switchback turns and enjoying weightlessness at the peak of small hills. It was wonderful.

Then, I turned hard into a blind curve. Committed to a line through the curve, I was surprised to see a large pickup truck approaching me from the other direction. He was in my lane, cutting the corner. I could do little. Judging by the size of the truck driver’s eyes, he felt similar anxiety. I shut the throttle and began braking, gently. (You try braking gently when your blood is diluted with adrenalin.) I saw the driver pull hard over on his steering wheel and I tightened my line through the curve as much as I dared. In a heartbeat, we brushed past each other, a foot of empty air separating us. I was alive! No, really, I survived and I was alive. The survival part was a surprise. Feeling my heart pound with gratitude reminded me I might have something left to do in this life after all. After that, the remainder of the ride was completely boring. I am good with that.

I shall keep a sharp lookout for my life's greater purpose in future. I might also be more circumspect when I feel the urge to frolic on a twisty back road.

Until next time!

Riding the Texas Hill Country Part Two

When we last met, I had over-eaten at the bar-b-que stand in Llano, Texas. My sarcastic motorcycle groaned excessively as I threw my leg over the seat and fired it up. At least I think it was the motorcycle. As I turned onto the main highway, I noticed the local icehouse. Apparently, Blue Duck owns and operates the icehouse. If you are a fan of the Lonesome Dove stories, I am sure you will be happy to know Blue Duck finally went straight. I mean law-abiding. Funny how the meaning of words change over time.

The trip from Llano to Fredericksburg is pleasant enough. Oh sure, I took a soaking in another blinding storm, but it lasted only five miles or so. In the grand scope of things, it is hardly worth mention. Besides, I was fortunate to be wearing rainproof clothing purpose built for this sort of contingency. High tech, it funnels the icy rain down the back of your neck, keeping the wearer constantly refreshed.  After 40 miles, I arrived in Fredericksburg. I roamed the streets for a while, allowing an opportunity for the line of storms to pass beyond my exact route.

Fredericksburg is home to beds and breakfast, teahouses, galleries and many other attractions of a civilized nature. It is impossible not to get into the spirit of the town when confronting so many quaint shops and so much meticulously preserved architecture. I felt positively cultured. On my way out of town, I spied Lady Bird Johnson Park. The reunion with my former classmate and the group would take place there later that evening. I cruised in. The Ranger provided directions to the historic house where the festivities and the reunion would take place. I checked it out and hit the highway once more. It was not actually raining, so I relaxed and enjoyed the scenery during the 20-mile jaunt to Kerrville, my headquarters for the next day.
Kerrville bills itself as "The Heart of the Hill Country." They might be right. Almost any road out of town, particularly those leading west and south, take you directly into seriously beautiful scenery.

My next stop was the YO Resort Hotel. I tossed my gear into the room. The same family owns and operates the hotel and the historic 40,000 acre YO Ranch, west of Kerrville. Guests can stay at the ranch, too. I hear they have exotic animals and spa-like amenities for their guests. Sounds interesting and a tad pricey.  The hotel is fine by me.

My stay at the YO Hotel was comfortable and reasonably priced. There is a well-stocked bar and the restaurant enjoys a good reputation among the locals. I did not eat there this trip, but it was due to my schedule, not the establishment. I will check it out for you on my next visit in October, I hope. The hotel is one of several worthy establishments in Kerrville. I make many sacrifices for my readers.  I even visited the replica of Stonehenge on the outskirts of town.  Far out, eh?


I grabbed a quick power nap and organized my gear before heading out to the reunion. I admit to being a little nervous. I learned only at the last minute that I would not know anyone there except my high school sweetie.

Eventually, I saddled up and returned North along my original track to the Lady Bird Park in Fredericksburg. I found a parking place next to the ancient house and dismounted. I walked slowly, wondering what awaited me inside. Swallowing hard, I opened the door and stepped in. “Do you know me?” I asked the woman inside. I smiled disarmingly. Then, she began to cry.

“Awww, man,” I thought, “I guess this means she finally got that eye operation she needed.”



That is all for today.  Next time, I'll tie up the loose ends.  Stay tuned.

Riding Texas' Hill Country, Part One

I am probably the last motorcycle-touring enthusiast in North America to discover the heart of the Texas Hill Country. This is even more shameful when you count I was born, raised and educated in the Lone Star State. I did my best to correct the deficiency over the recent Labor Day weekend.

If you are familiar with Texas weather, you will understand my lack of surprise that enormous thunderstorms followed me for the entire three-day jaunt. Drought? What drought? Rain adds an entirely new dimension to the excitement of travelling by motorcycle. The blinding torrents of water I encountered the moment I hit the road practically rewrote the entire adventure. Sheets of lightning crawling across the heavy overcast relieved the predawn darkness almost continuously. Lucky for me, I was able to use the brilliant flashes to estimate the location of the center stripe. The storm lasted just about two hours. Then, I got a temporary reprieve and made up for lost time.

When I first thought of writing this article, I organized my thoughts and experiences along a specific time line. I planned to quote highway, farm to market road and ranch road numbers. That was so readers who wished to follow a similar path could make their own route. Lucky for you, I decided that was too boring. If you want directions, send an email. I can send you a Garmin GPS route or just some notes on which highways and by-ways I found interesting. The spine of the Hill Country is Texas Highway 16. Pick it up as far north as you can and ride it all the way to Bandera, Texas and points south. There are dozens of possible side trips along the way. I travelled on 218 out of Hamilton, TX and discovered isolated and beautiful places like Star and Bend, Texas on various farm and ranch roads.

State highway 16 is a wide two-lane road. It is in good condition, lightly travelled and free of excessive law enforcement. I explored TX-16 from Priddy, TX south to Bandera. At Priddy, the terrain is rolling plains of breath-taking expanse. Golden hayfields cover the landscape making a patchwork with green pastures and dark forests. Against this backdrop, the roadway swoops around long curves and climbs hills only to plunge into a narrow pass or wide valley on the other side. Then, it begins again. Climb, dive into a curve and recover in time to race to the foot of the next 500-foot hill. This kind of ride leaves you proud you ride a bike and feeling privileged to be alive. The air brought exotic fragrances of crops in the field, desert sand and wild flowers. It was wonderful and it lasted more than four hours.

As I travelled farther south, the hills and curves became more pronounced and closer together. Large deer began to appear on the roadside. Many waited for me to pass before crossing. Thank goodness. When I arrived in Llano, I felt completely relaxed. My good friend and all around motorcycle Guru, Jim Kauffman, helped me plan this trip. He included a lunch break at Cooper’s Bar-B-Que in Llano on my itinerary. I felt obliged to try it. I was not disappointed. The cheerful crew recommended a chopped beef sandwich, beans, Cole slaw and potato salad for a hungry traveler. I got the works and devoured it with a large glass of iced tea. I got change back from the ten I handed them in payment and I felt sure I would not need to eat again for a day or two!

Thus ends our first installment. Next time, I will tell you about the real Hill Country roads south and west of Kerrville. There are many roads and trails to ride, good places to eat and comfortable places to sleep. If you are in the mood to party, I know the perfect town. Just thinking about it makes me want to go back – and soon.

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