Dick’s Classic Garage – San Marcos, TX

I gave Dick’s short shrift in my last post and I mean to make up for it here. Here are some pictures from the amazing collection:  

Indian Motorcycle

Duesenberg Model SJ (?)

Duesenberg Touring Car

Duesenberg Speedster

Boat Tail Speedster

Speedster Engine Bay

Auburn Speedster

Ford Convertible

Revolutionary Tucker

The Usual Suspects

Woody Wagon w/ Chris Craft in Tow

And finally, my personal favorite: 

Model A Ford

If you are interested, you can find more information on Dick’s at http://dicksclassicgarage.org .  I highly recommend an extended visit.

  

Riding the Twisted Sisters – Two

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You may be relieved to learn this will be the last motorcycle riding post for a while. These forays are a labor of love, but my bike and I are in need of a refit before we sally forth again. A thorough washing, oil change and new rubber fore and aft are high on the list. The bike probably needs something, too. So, if you enjoy these interludes, savor this one. If not, you can return the Dramamine to the medicine closet – after today. Everybody wins.

Second, the sound track on the video is not my first choice. It's not second or even third. Originally, I selected ABBA (Take a Chance on Me.) and The Grateful Dead (Truckin). The trouble began when I uploaded the video to YouTube. There, I ran afoul of the Global-Anal-Music Biz. They balk at folks sharing their music in public. Eventually, I selected something nondescript from the “Approved Music” list. [sigh]  I think it might be the soundtrack from a skin flick. Seems to work, tho.

The tour of the Twisted Sisters was five hours of what you see on the video. At the end of the ride, I was exhausted in the most wonderful way. (Still am.) I also had more than an hour of video from the trip. Funny, it took all weekend to find the ten minutes that seemed to capture the flavor of the country and the ride. It was good that I reviewed the video. Otherwise, I might never have seen the grandeur on the roadsides. On those twisty roads, a glance left or right at the wrong moment could result in my becoming part of the scenery. In some respects, you and I are seeing the country the same way.

After licking the apple strudel from my fingers in Medina, I found Ranch Road 337 and headed west.  The twisty roads showed up almost immediately.  Signs reading "Sharp Curves and Steep Grades Next 5 Miles" were stacked a hundred yards apart.  I recognised this as overkill, along with the sign that read "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here...".  The Texas Department of Transportation is well-known for its aversion to adventure on its highways.

Traffic was light to non-existent.  Many of the four-wheel vehicles are operated by locals accustomed to motorcycle traffic along these byways.  Accordingly, they drive on the shoulder to save the effort of moving over every two minutes to let the two-wheelers pass.  I consider their courtesy a good example for drivers everywhere.  There were more two-wheelers than cars and trucks on the road during my ride.  Harley-Davidsons, mostly, ridden by round-bellied, gray or balding men out to take the air.  Most of them were stopped or semi-stopped when I met or overtook them.  Still, it was comforting to be among "my own kind."  If you look close, you may see a bike or two in the video. Look quick.

Vanderpool was the first village I encountered west of Medina. I think I was in a state of shock when I arrived and may have failed to get even a snapshot of the place. No matter.  I'll get one next time.  Salivating heavily, I continued along 337 to Leaky, a village of 400 (mebbe) in Frio Canyon.  It is small, but pleasant and equipped with facilities for recreation, refreshment and shopping.  The "Hog Pen" appeared promising.

After taking a few quick breaths, I continued toward Campwood.  That's where I discovered an oasis called "The Motorcycle Stop."  They sell everything the cyclist might need.  Beer, grub and any article of clothing you could possibly need, especially if you need it in black.  It's is part of the Harley thing.  Me?  I love black, but I attend few formal occasions these days.

  

The breezeway at The Stop provides a pleasant refuge from the road, even if you only stay long enough for a glass of tea.  As long as I was there, I purchased a couple of T-shirts testifying to my riding prowess.  I felt I earned a touch of badness.

Check out the view from the open air lounge.  I can imagine a very pleasant time, sipping a cold beer at the end of the day and watching the sun set behind the hills.  It was very civilized.  At left, two patrons wave friendly greeting.

The parking lot held a few bikes, taking refuge from the bright sun beneath a stand of oaks.  A couple mature looking bikers fussed about with them before strolling into the building.  Someone showed up in their Ferrari. Cool, eh?  I didn't hang around to find out who it was. Could it be Michael Schuhmacher?  Mebbe.

Finally, A picture of one of the tastefully decorated T-shirts I purchased to commemorate the occasion.  I hope you will scroll down to the Twisted Sister video, just beneath this post.  It is a little bit exciting, I think.  :)

Dawdle Across Texas with Me… Episode 1

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Oh, I forgot to mention this until now.  Click on the pictures to see larger, more detailed versions. Two clicks gets the largest picture.  Enjoy!

It is springtime in Texas and life is good.  Redbud trees are in bloom. Wisteria vines  show signs of life and the beloved bluebonnet, Texas' state flower is growing wild in the countryside [top].

Yesterday, I had all the domestic tranquility I could stand. I needed air, and lots of it. Lucky for me, it was a sunny, mild day. Speaking of air, it was windy, too, but I will say more about that later. I fussed about, ate breakfast and lit the fuse on my trusty cycle. For those unfamiliar with motorcycles, mine is a Honda and boasts tongue-swallowing acceleration. It is just the thing for those moments when civilization encroaches on one’s sanity.

I shot south through Waxahachie and caromed into Milford, Texas on one breath. Milford is 25 miles south and 80 years behind my home base. I believe the town is slowly disappearing because Big “D” sucks the life out of it. I stopped in front of the Milford police station and drew my camera. The “downtown” of Milford is across the street from the cop house. It is in decay and something prompted me to snap a photo or two while it is still there.

After Milford, US highway 77 winds smoothly to Hillsboro. That is where I catch 22 westbound. I cannot recall ever having seen Texas greener. Emerald green grasses carpeted wide pastures along the way. Cattle and goats grazed here and there, oblivious to my passage. The air is sweet with every kind of plant fragrance and I greedily sucked it in. At times, I found myself gawking at the compelling beauty at the expense of watching where I was going. Luckily, my reverie ended before I actually plowed up the roadside wildflowers.

Highway 22 is well travelled. It will take you as far as Hamilton, Texas. It might go even farther. I do not know because there are so many smaller, twisty roads to explore before Hamilton. Farm Road 219 is one of them. Traffic along this narrow, winding road is local and sparse. The countryside is made of rolling hills and wide valleys. After the rains, which began last September, everything that can turn green has done so. This includes rocks, fence posts and pickup trucks. From the hilltops, a traveler can appreciate the immense size of the country. Green trees and grass mixed with bright wildflowers stretch to the horizon. I felt tiny staring out at creation, but happy too. I was relieved I did not bear responsibility for the immensity or beauty before me. All I had to do was to see and appreciate it. Sweet.

Eventually, I neared the town of Clifton (Pop. 3500-ish). I travelled this route before, on my way to lunch in Lometa. This time, I decided to explore another route and avoid the possibility of poisoning far from home. Farm Road 708 showed up just in time. Even narrower and less travelled than 219, it lead me around sweeping turns and between tall hills toward Valley Mills (Pop. 1100 +/-).

It was lunchtime when I arrived. I have not visited Valley Mills since my undergraduate days in Austin and I was pleased to find the little town in good condition and bustling with activity. Most of the activity seemed to be at the many barbeque and Mexican restaurants I passed on my way through town. The aroma of country cooking filled the air. After only a few blocks, I was slobbering like a hound dog, but I kept going. I had farther to go before I could rest.

I will tell you more about it next time.

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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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The Hunt

I would like to say at the outset, I do not suffer from blood lust, particularly when it comes to deer. In my youth, I hunted like the character Will Muny in the movie Unforgiven. I shot nearly everything that walked, crawled or flew. Now, I am all murdered out. The thought of killing a deer, or any game for that matter, immediately brings to mind the unmaking of the beast. Then, my conscience reminds me of the delicious and inexpensive meats available at my local Costco. Such thoughts can sap anyone’s enthusiasm for harvesting fresh meat.

We arose early Sunday morning. I cooked a hot breakfast to sustain us through the day. Had I known what was in store, I might have dipped into something a bit stronger, say crack cocaine. We made the drive to the ranch (In these parts, they say “Rainch.”), arriving an hour before dawn. (I took a photo of the Somervell County Courthouse at about 0530!) We silently donned rifles, binoculars, skinning knives, pistols, hats, grenades, MP3 players and other paraphernalia necessary for our primitive adventure. Then, dressed as Redneck insurgents, we trudged through the darkness toward our hunting stands. After six weeks of rain, the earth squished as we walked.

Climbing into a ten-foot tall, wobbly and leaning deer stand in the pitch darkness is no mean feat. If I fell, I would land in the center of a collection of sharp, explosive gear and on top of a cactus. No good could come of that. We reached our perches without incident and began the long wait for Bambi’s father.

As I waited, I discovered my stand was next to the tree home to fifty thousand starving mosquitoes. Batting at them took my mind off the fact that one leg of my stand was sinking into the earth a little faster than the other two. If the list increased, I would eventually topple onto that earth.

No deer were available for shooting. We decided to visit a few local sites, including an old (1886) Norwegian church, St. Olaf’s Kirk. We stretched our legs and I took a few photos. Once refreshed, we returned to the hunt. Still, there were no deer. Part of me was disappointed, maybe insulted, the deer did not show. The rest of me was glad I would not be field dressing a carcass in the mud. I could live with that.

When we had enough empty silence, we walked back to the truck. Deer hunting without deer is very boring and even a little stressful. I found myself thinking “C’mon, you. Show up!” At the truck, we disarmed, disrobed and disinfected ourselves back to civilian configuration. Now, all we needed to do was drive home to hot showers, warm meals and early-to-bed. It was going to be a perfect day, after all.

When we arrived, I parked the truck at the end of a 200-foot road in the pasture. We kept close to the county road and away from the remote pastures for fear of sinking in the muddy earth.

It turned out we were a tad short on fear. I nudged the Toyota toward the gate and the hard surface road just beyond. After a hundred feet, I felt a sinking sensation and the truck seemed to get closer to the earth. Much closer. We were stuck. We were within sight of safety and solid earth less than 100 feet away. Reflexively, I gunned the engine. No progress. I slammed the transmission into reverse and revved the engine. The truck moved inches. Then I slammed the shifter into second gear and crushed the accelerator to the floor. We gained inches. A nearby debris pile provided wood, which we stuffed under the tires.

Did I mention black, gooey mud covered me from head to foot? Did I mention grass and twigs covered the mud? No? I was quite a sight. The truck fared no better and I wondered how the car wash people would react to a truck apparently made of mud, twigs and grass.

After a long struggle, the truck managed to wallow out of the mud and onto the county road. We drove home in silence, too exhausted to either laugh or cry. Still, I reckon it was a successful trip because I did not have to field dress a carcass and THEN be stuck in the mud.

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.

cmreader99@gmail.com