I hadn’t ridden a motorcycle in about twenty years but after selling my Corvette I decided some sort of replacement toy was in order. I told my buddy Al of my plans to buy a bike and he questioned who I would ride with. I told him I’d just cruise the Texas back roads alone. Al had quite a history with motorcycles, spending years racing bikes in his youth. He had divested himself of his last bike some years prior when all the fellows he rode with sold their bikes. My first stop after picking up the new bike was to show it to Al. Three hours later he called me to say he had bought another motorcycle for himself. We now both had someone to ride with again.
For a year or so we were content to ride within a couple hundred miles of home. Sometimes our wives would ride along but mostly we rode solo. We played golf in the senior scramble at the club on Thursdays and our wives played on Friday. Al and I got into a routine of riding most every Friday. From time to time some other guys would join us. Bill, Marc, Toliver, and Garland rode along on occasion but mostly it was just Al and I. In February of 2012 we began to plan a more lengthy, multi-day camping trip. We first considered going to Big Bend but then figured it too grueling a ride in four days (our self-imposed time limit away from our “normal life”). We settled on a ride to eastern Arkansas, about two-thirds the mileage. Our target date was late March, mostly for temperature-related reasons.
As the designated trip planner I put together some details and tried to nail down just who would go along. Garland was out of town, Marc was busy at work, and Toliver was MIA, so it was just Al, Bill and I. Bill had never camped before in his life so Al and I coached him on what he would need (tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, etc.). Bill called me from the parking lot of Academy Sporting Goods to inquire if he had bought the right pad. I told him it would work but at $90 it was a little overpriced. This was a clue as to what sort of “camper” Bill would be. Bill had two significant concerns that were key to his ability to go along. First, how would he be able to obtain cold beer once we made camp in the evening. Second was the availability of coffee at the campground first thing in the morning. It seems coffee was a necessity for Bill to take a crap before heading out in the AM. Al assured Bill that he had experience in the beer department. As to coffee, it would have to come at breakfast (which, hopefully would come with restroom availability). Bill guessed he could chance it.
As the date approached the Arkansas weather forecast called for better than a 50/50 chance of rain. So we made a last minute destination switch to Big Bend where the chance of rain in the desert was less than 30%. Our four-day trip would consist of fairly long, hot, straight, boring days on each end with the best roads and scenery in the middle. It was the price to be paid for such a ride to the Mexican border and back. We decided to stop every 50 to 60 miles for a rest with every other stop including refueling. The following is a day-by-day diary of the trip.
Day 1 – Joshua to Fort Stockton (400 miles)
We met at Al’s house at 8 AM on a Wednesday and Bill said his wife had asked (tongue in cheek) if we could sign papers taking temporary custody of him for the next four days. We were soon to find out just what she meant.
Bill has had prostate cancer so after a few cups of coffee he needs to stop often to pee. He went before we left Al’s house ( in the yard behind the fence) but we hadn’t gone thirty-five miles before he pulled into a Burger King for more relief. His next stop was in Stephenville just thirty miles further down the road. Al and I were wondering if we would make it to our planned overnight stop in Fort Stockton by sundown. Fortunately, Bill was good from Stephenville until our first gas stop in Comanche, and then at lunch in Santa Anna. Lunch was sort of a bust. Most of the time we prefer small mom and pop restaurants over the big chains. This time we probably should have gone to McDonalds.
The weather was too warm for leathers but a light jacket felt good. Bill started out in a long-sleeved shirt but at the first stop he put on a loosely-fitting cotton jacket. At the next stop he complained that he felt like “the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man”, as the wind inflated his jacket. I had shed my tight fitting jacket in favor of a vest so I loaned it to Bill (AKA the Marshmallow man) for the remainder of the morning.
Al and I utilized regular motorcycle luggage in addition to saddle bags for our gear but Bill had a duffle bag strapped on over his saddle bags. Each time we were ready to start out Bill would call a halt for something he had forgotten (gloves, sunglasses, etc.) in his saddle bags. That meant he had to go through the involved procedure of un-strapping the duffle bag in order to open the saddle bag, then reverse the process before we could get underway. This wouldn’t have been a problem once or twice but it seemed to happen at every stop.
The weather was pleasant for riding with temperatures in the 70s and partial cloudiness. However, the closer we got to Fort Stockton the more ominous the sky looked ahead. We could see rain on the horizon and I hoped that we could make it before the rain hit. We couldn’t. About 25 miles from the Fort Stockton RV Park and just shy of Interstate 10 it began to rain. We stopped for consensus as to whether to don rain gear. We decided to go ahead and prepare for the worst. As Al pulled on his rain pants he also pulled the heel off his right boot. Now the speed limit on I10 in west Texas is 80 mph. Cars and big trucks have no problem maintaining that speed or more in the rain; however, we did well to do 70. We received quite a wet slipstream as the traffic blew by us hugging the far right lane. As luck would have it the rain stopped just as we were pulling into the campground. We parked the bikes and entered the office, glad to have reached our destination safe and sound. The first thing we inquired about was the weather forecast. To our dismay, the nice lady behind the counter informed us that severe thunderstorms and hail were predicted. Her exact words were, “I don’t think I would want to spend the night in a tent if I were you.” They had no other accommodations there so we asked where we could find a hotel for the night. She directed us to some that were reasonably prices but of questionable repute as well as others that were known for better service.
Al and I are not real picky about our bikes but Bill rides an 80th anniversary edition Moto Guzzi California EV (Bill didn’t know what the “EV” meant but I opined that it might stand for “Expensive Version”). He has nicknamed her “Mona” and Mona doesn’t like to be hailed on. That meant we would search for a motel that offered some sort of shelter for the bikes (or at least for Mona). As we cruised through Fort Stockton we sized up each hotel/motel for a portico or overhang near the rooms that might offer protection. We settled on the Texan Inn.
We asked the nice Hindu (or Muslim, I wasn’t sure) lady at check-in if we could park the bikes under the porch outside our room and if the three of us could share a double room with an added roll-away bed. She said, “No problem with the bikes but we don’t have roll-aways. If you were planning to camp, you must have sleeping bags. One of you can sleep on the floor.” We agreed and paid the lady $30 each for the room (more than it was worth but Mona would be under cover). After situating the bikes outside the room and unloading our stuff Al headed across the road to the Walmart in search on a new pair of boots. Finding none to his liking he returned with a bottle of Gorilla Glue and began working on a repair of the heel he peeled off his old boot. Bill evidently didn’t trust Al’s (Bill referred to him as “Uncle Al the kiddy’s pal”) promise that we could obtain beer locally because he had brought several cans in a cooler inside his saddle bags. His cheap Barbie lunchbox cooler didn’t work very well as his leather saddle bag was all wet. We inserted our key into the theft-proof ice machine outside the office and, voila, Bill had cold beer. Al had gotten beer at the Walmart while shopping for boots and glue.
We began to discuss supper plans. There was a steakhouse within walking distance that Al and I thought was interesting. Bill told us to go ahead and eat. It seems that Bill has a routine whereby he needs to drink beer and smoke a cigar before supper. He doesn’t like to do either after he eats. He said that later on he would go to the nearby Subway and bring a sandwich back to the room. Accommodating buddies that we are, Al and I said that we would wait for Bill and all eat subs. Bill told us to write down what we wanted and he would go get the sandwiches. Upon his return, Al and I dove into ours while Bill drank and smoked. Later on when Bill opened his sub he said, “T (his nickname for me), you ate my sandwich.” I informed him as politely as one biker does to another, “Hell no I didn’t eat your sandwich, you asshole. The one I ate had exactly what I ordered.” Bill’s retort was that this one had meatballs on it. “But nobody ordered meatballs,” I responded. Bill ate the errant sub and allowed that an Italian BMT with meatballs was really pretty good regardless of how it sounded.
I’m not a big beer drinker. I might have one when I’m really hot and thirsty but I’m not a “recreational” drinker like Al and Bill. As they sat on the portico (that we shared with our bikes) drinking beer and smoking cigars, I busied myself cleaning the day’s bugs and road grime off the bikes. Bill appreciated my efforts on Mona but Al told me not to bother with his un-named bike. He figured it would just get dirty again tomorrow. It would. It was comical to listen to my two compadres as their conversations deteriorated with each beer downed. Eventually their stories lapsed into “can you top this” types, with each trying to out-brag the other.
After subs, beer and cigars it was time to get some sleep. I volunteered to take the floor. My theory was that I was planning on sleeping on the ground anyway and a carpeted floor would be a step up. As the trip planner I felt an obligation to let my two friends have the beds. Bill would hear nothing of it. He insisted that we each flip a coin and the odd man would sleep on the floor. I reiterated that I’d be glad to be the one but Bill said, “No way, flip the coin.” We flipped, Bill lost, and his comment was, “You bastards!” I helped Bill unpack his $90 pad and showed him how to use it. The instructions clearly stated that one should unroll it in advance of usage which, of course, he hadn’t done. Al and I settled into our comfortable beds and Bill “settled” into the floor. We could hardly control our laughter as Bill went through his diatribe – “Oh, this is so hard. This is just wrong. Al, take your mattress off and I’ll sleep on the box springs. This is so too hard. I’ll never get any sleep.” To which we replied that (pun intended) he had made his own bed and now had to lie in it. We did concede to take the heavy bed spreads off both our beds and allow him to use them for his nest. Al and I drifted off to sleep to the sounds of Bill’s groans. In the morning while Bill was in the bathroom, Al and I made a pact to complain about a backache from sleeping on beds too soft. As soon as Bill came out we began our complains, his response was, “You sons of bitches, you could have had the floor, it was plenty hard. And besides that, I had to smell that damned Gorilla Glue on Al’s boot all night as well.” The trip was off to a great start.
Day 2 – Fort Stockton to Presidio (235 miles)
The weather on Wednesday was sunny and cool. Oh, and it never did rain or hail the previous night. The Texan Inn had a free “breakfast” (if you could call it that) in the lobby the next morning. Al and I were all ready so we told Bill we’d meet him there. We ate our fill and returned to the room to find Bill still putzing around getting ready. To speed the process, I volunteered to take Bill’s Barbie cooler and left over beer to the ice machine. I double bagged the ice in an attempt to keep it from leaking as it had done the day previous. We found out later that day my efforts had failed resulting in wet saddle bags again.
When Bill had finally accomplished all the things he needed to accomplish in his morning routine, he ate breakfast, putzed some more and we were finally off. The size of the packs on our bikes made mounting and dismounting somewhat awkward. You couldn’t just throw your leg up over the seat but you had to lift your leg high into the air (envision a male dog taking a pee), take a hop, and hope that you landed somewhere in the middle with a leg on each side (and testicles in tact). It helped a great deal if you could park close enough to a curb for some extra elevation but when that was not available the three of us would practice what became known as “synchronized bike mounting.” Al would count to three and we would try to take that hop in unison. God help us if anyone was watching.
We made it onto the bikes and gassed up before we hit the interstate. Although we normally try to avoid the interstate highways we would have to take I10 west for about 50 miles. It was much easier to keep up with traffic on dry roads. We just had to brace ourselves when an 18 wheeler passed us going 85 to 90 mph. We saw a Mustang pulled off by the State Police on the other side of the road and wondered how fast he must have been going to get a ticket in an 80 mph zone. Our first stop was to be at Balmorhea Springs State Park. Shortly after we exited the interstate onto SR 17 toward the village of Balmorhea we encountered something we had not seen in several hundred miles – a curve in the road. Just a taste of what was to come later in the morning.
We pulled into the State Park, dismounted (not gracefully) and stepped inside the office. The state employee behind the counter informed us matter of factly that the charge to enter was $7 per bike and oh, by the way, the springs were closed (due to a leach infestation). We asked the pointed question, “Why would we pay $7 each to enter if the main attraction was closed.” She shrugged and told us the overlook was open. We decided to pass. The first of our sightseeing destinations was a bust. We were not discouraged; however, we had a beautiful, cloudless day and some twisty roads ahead of us. It was on to our next stop, the Mount Davis Observatory.
We continued south on SR 17 toward Fort Davis. There we gassed up as we weren’t sure if we could make it to the observatory and back on existing fuel. We headed northwest on SR 118 toward the observatory. The roads were fantastic. At each stop we had to pinch ourselves to see if we were dreaming. Al and I had both been to this part of Texas in the past but Bill had not. He was especially in awe of the scenery, especially when we spied the observatory domes atop the mountain in the distance. The switchbacks on the way up the mountain were exhilarating at speed but a little boring at a slower pace. A slower pace was what Bill preferred so Al and I had to pull over to let him catch up on occasion. We passed some wild hogs at the top of the hill (the animals not the movie characters) and Al thought about shooting one for supper (Al and Bill are both armed at all times). I figured that a BBQ joint might be a lot less trouble and Al re-holstered his weapon. Later an observatory staff member encouraged us to shoot as many hogs as we liked. The observatory was neat to see but there wasn’t much to do there. We looked around the place and from the highest state highway in Texas we could look down on the twists and turns we had taken on the way up.
Knowing what was in store for us going back down to Fort Davis made us anxious to get back on our bikes. We enjoyed the ride back down just as much as the ride up. We stopped to take a break and take a few more pictures along the way. Bill was meticulous when he took a photo. He always counted, “One, two, three,” before clicking the shutter. He talked about how he couldn’t wait to get back home and share his pictures with his wife. On the way through Fort Davis we had noticed a place called the Frontier Burger. I rarely pass up a chance for a good burger and the cars and trucks parked around this place made me think it must be good. That’s where we stopped for lunch and, as I suspected, it was great. We were stuffed when we left and, as it turned out, that was a good thing. We’d need those calories for what the remainder of what the day held.
From Fort Davis we stayed on SR 118 to Alpine. There’s nothing real exciting in Alpine, unless you’re a Sul Ross State University alum, but it’s surrounded by some pretty mountain scenery that looks more like the Colorado foothills than Texas. In Alpine we picked up US 67 and US 90 as they ran together toward Marfa. Marfa, of course, is famous for the Marfa Lights – thought by many to be UFOs, although nobody really knows exactly what causes the phenomenon. We had to stop at the light viewing area sponsored by the local chamber of commerce. By the time we reached the town of Marfa it was time for fuel again. Bill (and Mona) prefer Shell premium gas whenever available. Unfortunately Shell had yet to come to Marfa so Mona had to settle for an off-brand. Bill was non-plussed (and I assume Mona was as well). Each gas stop included the tedious process of bug removal from our windshields. The insects were especially bad in the desert this time of year and there were times they even impeded one’s vision.
After fueling we headed south on US 67. It was amazing to us that the road we picked up just seven miles from home in Cleburne would take us to the Mexican border. We began the long hot, relatively straight haul to Presidio, 60 miles away through the Chihuahuan desert. To this point our ride had been in comfortable temperatures, mostly requiring some sort of jacket or vest. By the time we reached Presidio the temperature had reached 100 and we were stripped down to T-shirts (and jeans of course). Although we carried water with us we were all parched and sunburned by the time we got to the border town. Our goal was the only campground available, the Loma Paloma RV Park. It was supposed to be just east of town but as we got into uncivilized territory we began to get nervous. We stopped at the Fort Leaton Historic Site to inquire where the campground might be. We were glad to get off the bikes and the AC in the museum felt great. We also got a chance to refill our water bottles. The ranger there told us we hadn’t missed the campground and that it was just down the road. We started our bikes and Mona began a stumbling idle. Bill got worried. Al and I got worried! Where in the world would we find someone to work on an Italian bike in this God-forsaken land. Bill chalked it up to less than quality gas in Marfa. I thought maybe it was the heat. We kept our fingers crossed that Mona could make it to our destination and perhaps some cooler weather in the morning might help.
There was good news and bad news just around the next bend. The good news was that we sighted the Loma Paloma RV Park. The bad news was that we were to camp there that night. I don’t know enough Spanish to know what Loma Paloma means but my guess was, “treeless spot in the desert.” We pulled up to the only building on the site but found it uninhabited. There was a construction trailer nearby and we asked the men there where there was someone we might pay for a campsite. They directed us to site #10. There the campground host collected $10 from us and told us to set up our tents anywhere near the bathroom (the uninhabited building where we first stopped).
We looked for some shade but the only trees were about ten feet tall and provided little. We looked for something soft on which to pitch a tent and found a little sand near the small trees. As we went about setting up camp one of the men from the construction trailer stopped by. His name was Champ Clark and we were to find that he was a very nice fellow. He asked if we planned to spend the night (pretty obvious since we were pitching tents). He then warned us that he and his men had killed a number of rattlesnakes in the campground over the last several months. He said, “I don’t want to frighten you but I felt if only common courtesy to warn you.” Bill’s eyes got as big as saucers. Champ went on the say that the local clinic could treat one for a diamondback bite but if we were bitten by a sonoran (sidewinder) rattlesnake the nearest treatment was in El Paso. Champ opined that you would never make it in time so you might just make peace with God and figure today was your last. Bill’s eyes widened further. Champ's advice to avoid snakebite was to watch where you were going. If out after dark, make sure you had a flashlight with you. With such comforting news on our minds we saddled up and headed into town for gas and beer. Knowing Bill’s preferred evening schedule we knew better than to recommend eating supper as well.
When we returned to Loma Paloma I found my tent covered with ants. Evidently the only sand around was also preferred by the insects. I went about moving my tent to the hard packed gravel between the other two while Al and Bill got the beer icing down on the picnic table outside the bathroom building. Fortunately this was on the east side and provided the only shade in the entire campground. Al and Bill began drinking and Bill lit his cigar. He had a fancy jet lighter that he used but I thought it strange that he always kept it in its original box. I suppose I should have been surprised he hadn’t named the lighter. (Al recommended the name "Lisa the lighter" to go with Mona the motorcycle.) The more beer the guys consumed the less interested they became in food. I could see that if I was to have supper I would have to find the single restaurant in Presidio that Champ recommended. The later it got the more I figured the burger and fries I had in Fort Davis would have to do me until the next morning.
The three of us and Champ huddled in the shade of the bathroom on the picnic table and once again listened to Bill and Al reminisce. Al is quite a western history buff and is especially knowledgeable about American Indian tribes. He wondered out loud early in the evening why the cavalry would have ever fought the Comanches over such a barren wilderness. The more Al drank the more often he would state, “And we fought those Indians over this goddamn place.”
We were hot and dusty and looking forward to a shower. Bill was first and upon exiting the bathroom he informed us that there was no hot water. This didn’t bother me as a cold shower sounded pretty good at that point. I got in the shower and was surprised to find plenty of hot water. I figured this was just one more example of Bill not knowing what he was talking about. In order to conserve any hot water that there was I decided to get wet, turn off the water, and soap myself up. When I turned the water back on there was no cold water, just a dribble of scalding hot water. You can imagine my misery in trying to rinse myself off under such circumstances. (I seriously considered crossing the road and jumping into the Rio Grand.) I did the best I could, dried off and exited the building to describe the scenario to Al. His response was, "I didn’t want to take a shower anyway.”
Presidio is near the far western edge of the central time zone so even in late March it doesn’t get dark until almost 9:00. I had mixed feelings about turning in early but my only choices were to sweat in my tent or sweat listening to Al and Bill. I decided on the tent. I was still awake (thanks to the party the Mexican campers were having nearby) when I heard Bill heading for his tent in a panic. He had forgotten to take his flashlight with him and darkness had fallen (upon both him and the rattlesnakes). He retrieved his light and went back to help Al to his tent and then retire to his own. I lay there trying to get some sleep on the hard ground, in my hot tent, listening to Spanish speaking voices and Mexican music in the background. When the party broke up the only sounds I could here were the zippers on Al and Bill’s tents. It seems when you consume large quantities of beer before bed you can look forward to getting up several times in the night to pee. I would hear Bill’s zipper (zzzziiiiiiiiip), see him turn on his light to alert the snakes, relieve himself, then zip the tent back up. Then it was Al’s turn on the other side. Same routine(zzzziiiiiiiiip). Then an hour or so later, Bill again. Then Al. Eventually it began to cool down and a stiff breeze kicked up. The cool air blowing through my tent felt wonderful – until I discovered that it was also covering me with sand. Reluctantly I zipped the cover over my window. Bill claimed he didn’t sleep at all and I doubt I got a lot of sleep but based on Al’s snoring, I figure he did the best of us all.
Day 3 – Presidio to Del Rio, via Big Bend (335 miles)
I awoke to the sounds of rustling tents being struck. It was still dark but I figured it must be time to break camp. Even though my tent was twice the size of the others it was no picnic getting dressed inside it. I exited the tent to see two pretty sorry looking pals stowing their gear. Everything was sandy and the only place we had for temporary storage while we worked was our bikes. Bill questioned Al about how to get the sand out of his tent. Al told him when he got back home to turn it inside out and hang it up on the clothesline. Bill’s response was that after he got home that tent would never be used again.
The night before, Champ had welcomed us to stop by their trailer for coffee in the morning. Of course Bill made a beeline there as soon as he saw signs of life. Once again Al and I were sitting on our bikes ready to ride and Bill was standing around talking with Champ and sipping coffee. I finally went over and advised Bill that we had a long day ahead and needed to hit the road. It was a cool morning with clear skies and a light jacket was in order.
The road that lay ahead of us was the primary reason for our trip. Farm to Market route 170, referred to as, “The River Road”, in most motorcycle books and magazines is thought to be among the top ten bike rides in the country. Its combination of beautiful scenery, challenging, twisty curves, and elevation changes made for an exhilarating ride. The road follows the Rio Grand as it cuts its way through desert canyons. I soon forgot the miserable night at Loma Paloma as we began to cruise the border between the US and Mexico. Our biggest problem was that we were drawn to stop at each pull-out or overlook. It was hard to really enjoy the road at speed when we were constantly stopping and starting. Bill wanted to record every aspect of the trip on his camera. Around every curve another beautiful scene opened to view. Fifty miles down the road we came to the first signs of civilization – Lajitas, Texas. There, we looked with awe on a beautiful, obviously expensive golf resort in the middle of nowhere. The adjacent airstrip for private jets provided the answer as to how the wealthy patrons got there. Across the road was a gorgeous campground and RV park. “Why hadn’t we pressed on the extra distance and stayed here last night?”, was the question on all of our minds.
We were all hungry for breakfast but nothing was open yet in the sleepy town adjacent to the wealthy playground. We took awhile to stretch our legs and talk to the ever-present border patrol agents. Then we were on our way toward Terlinqua, (just 13 miles away), the best of the river ride now behind us. Terlinqua (known for their big chili cook-off and little else) is the gateway to Big Bend National Park. Champ had told us that both food and gas would be available there and we were desperately in need of both. We waited in line at the two gas pumps available at the Study Butte Store at the crossroads of town. When our tanks were finally full it was time to do the same for our stomachs. To our glee there was a breakfast buffet laid out inside the store with biscuits, gravy, sausage, bacon, eggs, etc. “My stomach thought my throat was cut,” I said as I sat down to a plate of my first food in almost 24 hours. We all felt much more human after food, coffee, water, and restroom breaks. I dumped out the smelly water from Loma Paloma and filled my water bottle at the soda dispenser. We all felt ready for the next leg of the trip.
As we headed out of the small village toward Big Bend National Park the desert landscape began to change once again as we could see mountains rising in the distance. We had really wanted to ride the river road on this trip but we had also longed to see a part of Texas that many Texans can’t imagine exits in the state. At the National Park Service entrance gate Bill and I paid the entry fee and Al flashed his Golden Access Passport and got in free. The park speed limit was 45 mph and I kept pretty close to that as I lead the group down the road. At the first stop Al complained that he couldn’t get his bike out of fourth gear at that speed. My retort was that I had been arrested for speeding once in a national park and didn’t want a repeat performance. Al became content in fourth and I pushed the speedometer to at least 50. As with the river road we stopped at many of the overlooks and spent some time in the visitor center. There were a lot of twisty roads and switchbacks but they were marked with 15 to 20 mph speed limits so there wasn’t much foot peg dragging going on. It would have been great to spend more time in the park but we had to get to Del Rio by nightfall and this group didn’t make great time.
We took US 385 north out of the park and picked up US 90 as well as fuel at the crossroads called Marathon, Texas. To Bill’s glee we gassed at a Shell station. He was patting Mona’s gas tank as he filled it and I thought I heard him murmur, “Now doesn’t that Shell premium feel better baby?” One thing we noticed immediately as we headed east on US 90 was that there was absolutely nothing to stop the brutal south wind on the straight, flat highway. We had another 175 miles to go to Del Rio but we weren’t concerned about finding another gas station along the way. After all this was a major east/west US highway across southern Texas. There had to be a gas station every 20 to 30 miles, right? Wrong! Al’s bike runs out of gas first, then mine, then Bill’s, so we normally stopped for gas every 100 miles or so before Al hit reserve. None of the bikes got great mileage at the speeds we were running and with the wind that buffeted us. We got to Langtry (of Judge Roy Beam fame) and Al was already into reserve. Finding no stations on US 90 Al made a right turn to go down into town. Not a single station there but Al noticed a sign that said gas with an arrow to the right (back toward 90). When we got to the intersection we noticed a small bar that we had passed before (we had made a circle). In front of the bar was a single gas pump straight out of the fifties. A couple locals were hanging around outside and we asked if the pump was just a decoration or did it actually dispense fuel? They nodded that it worked. All the pump had was a gallon indicator – no dollars and cents. It sported a sign that read, “$4.50 per gallon, tell the clerk how many gallons you got.” Al was relieved to be actually putting gas of any description into his unnamed motorcycle when Bill asked, “Don’t they have premium?” Al and I both almost fell off our unnamed bikes with laughter. “No, “ Al responded, “we’re lucky to get any gas in this desert. “Mona doesn’t like regular,” Bill said. To which Al’s blunt retort was, “Well you can feed Mona some regular or push her to Del Rio, your choice.” I could see Bill calculating just how little fuel he might need to make it to the next Shell station. Then he pulled up to the antique pump and put in about 1.5 gallons.
The wind seemed to increase exponentially the further we went. At times the gusts seemed as high as 50 or 60 mph. It was becoming difficult to keep the bikes on the road and stops for a little rest became more frequent. We had gone about half way in this struggle when I saw a sign that indicted we were approaching the Pecos High Bridge. I didn’t know it then but I know now that this bridge is 275 feet high and more than a half mile long. As it loomed ahead I could only imagine what the wind would be like atop such a structure. My imagination didn’t do it justice. As we entered the bridge I prayed, “Dear Jesus, please get me to the other side in one piece.” It would not be my last prayer of the day. I would have loved to see the view from the bridge or the river below, but my stare was on the road in front of me and the oncoming trucks whose draft wanted to push me over the railing. At our next rest stop we all commented that at least some part of our lives had passed before us on the bridge. We pressed on longing to get off the bikes and pitch our tents but also wondering if our tents could withstand these seemingly hurricane force winds. My next prayer came as we began to cross Lake Amistad. This is a huge lake that spans the US-Mexican border and it has one HUGE bridge on US 90 across it. Certainly not as high as the Pecos bridge but seemingly five times as long. Not only was the bridge long and the traffic lanes narrow but the pavement was rutted. These were the sort of concrete imperfections that tend to grab your bike’s front wheel and take it in whatever direction the rut runs (sometimes right toward the opposing 18 wheelers). Speaking of which there was a steady stream coming the opposite direction. My prayer this time was, “Oh God you parted the Red Sea for the children of Israel, please part these trucks for me.” Not far on the other side we came to a name brand gas station and I pulled over so Bill could provide Mona with a drink of “real” petrol. As Bill was filling up Al and I had a little confab about the evening’s accommodations. We agreed that a tent might not withstand these winds and that perhaps one more time we might have to make a concession to a motel.
Bill was wholeheartedly in favor of this idea and said he could see a small off-brand motel (of the Texan Inn ilk) just up ahead. We pulled in and asked if they had a room for the night. The lady said, Sorry, we’re full up with bass fishermen for the weekend tournament. We asked her if she could recommend another place and she called another motel up the road. Same story. We were getting a little nervous. She thought maybe some of the name-brand chains in town might have rooms. We mounted up once more and headed for Del Rio a few miles down the road. We pulled in where we found several hotels in a single complex and stopped at the first one, a Hampton Inn. We sort of sheepishly approached the desk figuring on another rejection but the clerk said, “Sure we’ve got a room for you men. I’ll give you a handicapped room that will better accommodate a roll-away bed.” The price would be about what we paid at the Texan Inn. I almost jumped over the counter and kissed her. I was so, tired, so sore, so dirty, that I couldn’t wait to get into a real quality hotel room with real running water. I know the other guys felt the same way. Plus we were in some semblance of civilization. There were gas stations, restaurants, and retail stores within walking distance. Looking back I guess I was more than ready to head home the next day.
Man a shower never felt so good. After we got cleaned up we headed across the parking lot to Rudy’s BBQ. We hadn’t stopped for lunch after our late breakfast so evidently Bill was hungry enough to put his beer/cigar routine on hold until after supper (as long as beer came with supper). After supper it was over to the Walmart for a supply of beer for the evening and a new pair of boots for Al (the Gorilla Glue repair didn’t last). Al picked out a pair and as soon as he got out the door he put them on and threw the old pair in the trash can. The Hampton night manager had said we could utilize a corner of the pool deck for beer and cigars so that’s where we spent the next couple hours.
We called our wives that night to tell them where we were and they all told us that the weather forecast was for severe storms beginning the following evening and lasting through Sunday. We would need to get home by late afternoon the next day.
When we returned to the room Bill said it was time to flip for the roll-away bed. I almost piped up that the flip should be between Al and I as Bill had drawn the short straw for the floor at the Texan Inn. However, I figured if Bill was game to be included in the flip, that was fine with me. Bill said, “Get out your quarters,” to which I replied that I didn’t have any change. Bill lent me one of his quarters and we flipped. Bill lost again. “Fuck you guys,” was his response. T, you even beat me with my own quarter! I'm throwing all these coins away when I get home. They're all unlucky." Bill gained a new nickname - "the born loser." As Bill settled into the roll-away he stated that it was better than the floor but not by much. It was pretty narrow and Bill looked a little like a mummy laying in it.
As I drifted off to sleep in my soft queen-sized bed to the sounds of Bill’s complaints and Al’s snoring I thought to myself how fortunate I was to have survived the day. Tomorrow would be an easy ride in pleasant weather, straight up US 377 to home. Boy, was I dreaming!
Day 4 – Del Rio to Joshua (365 miles)
We awoke around 6:30 or so on Saturday and began to busy ourselves getting ready (at least Al and I did). We had showered the night before so the routine was, wash your face, comb your hair, brush your teeth, jump into your clothes and head downstairs for breakfast (at least for Al and I). By 7:00 Al and I told Bill we’d meet him around the breakfast buffet. Once again we ate and were back to the room before Bill had his clothes on. We loaded our gear onto a cart and told Bill he had better get something to eat soon as it was raining lightly outside. “Rain?, Bill shouted, “I can’t ride in the rain.” My response was that he would today unless he wanted to spend the weekend in Del Rio. Now one would have thought this might have speeded Bill’s preparations but it seemed he had only one speed and it wasn't fast.
We stopped at the hotel desk and asked the clerk to check the weather radar. He said there was no rain even showing up on the screen and none in the forecast. We hoped the rain wouldn’t last long. Al and I donned our rain gear, pulled our bikes under the hotel’s portico, loaded our packs and waited for Bill. As the rain intensified we grew more and more impatient. Finally he appeared with is duffle bag. He needed to get into his saddle bags but he had locked them the night before and he couldn’t see the numbers on the combination locks to get them open. He asked if I had a light (his was in the bags) and I grabbed one quickly and shined it on the locks for him. He said, "T, can you see the numbers on the locks?" I responded that I wasn't going to retrieve my reading glasses as well and that he better turn the combination pretty quickly. As he continued to slowly pack up, Al and I said we would meet him at the gas station next door. (We needed gas but Bill had filled Mona on the other side of town the day before.) We stayed in the shelter of the gasoline islands for another ten minutes until we heard Mona fire up and Bill appeared. “I don’t know about this guys, I don’t think I can ride in this rain,” he said. “Your choice,” I responded, “we’re heading north,” and I pulled out of the station.
The rain wasn’t hard but it was bothersome. You never felt that you could even do the speed limit. The great news was that the early Saturday traffic was very light. The further we got out of town, the fewer cars we saw. Another good thing was that the Texas Department of Transportation has become enamored with the tar and chip road treatment. Miserable on dry roads but on wet ones it allows the water to sink down around the aggregate and the surface remains a little dryer. The further north we went on US 377, the lighter the rain got but I still didn’t want to push the 70 mph speed limit. At one point I saw a curve warning sign with a 65 on it. I thought maybe I needed to speed up to take the curve. I waited until it had almost stopped before I pulled over at a picnic area for our first break. After shedding his helmet, Bill exclaimed that, “I have never ridden so white knuckled in my life.” (He didn’t realize what was in store later that day.)
Our next stop was Rocksprings for gas. We had only gone about 75 miles but after the Langtry experience we didn’t want to pass a gas station. By that time the rain had become intermittent. We wondered if we could take off our rain clothes but decided the skies ahead didn’t look clear enough to do so. We had passed some beautiful fields of wildflowers and some pretty challenging roads in the rain but really couldn’t appreciate them with our eyes glued to the road ahead. As we headed toward Junction (the next town of any size), we kept checking the horizon for signs of clearing. We just knew the sun had to come out and match the forecast at some point.
Soon the rain did subside and we pulled over at a picnic area to stow the rain gear (I cautioned Al not to pull a heel off his new boots). We began to see some encouraging peeks of sunshine but with them the wind began to pick up. It seemed we couldn't win. The closer we got to the Llano valley the curvier the roads became. I was actually beginning to enjoy riding again (as opposed to a means of transportation to get home). The South Llano State Park looked neat and we would have loved to pull over for a visit; however, our wives' voices echoed in our ears that heavy weather was due back home this evening. We had to make the best time we could. Our target was to be home by 5:00 but at the rate we were going I wasn’t sure we could do it. The early rain and building winds made us tired and stops more frequent.
We targeted the town of Mason for our next fuel stop, passing the many stations in junction. Then we found that to get to Mason would require some backtracking from 377. We hoped that the next town of Brady would have fuel. It was amazing how nervous we were as we pressed toward the town, hoping it was big enough to have gas stations. We were pleasantly surprised to find Brady a town of significant size that even supported a Shell station for Mona. By the time we filled up, got a drink, debugged the windshields, and pulled back onto the road, it seemed as though the wind had built to about the proportions of the previous day. At least this was not the desert and there were some occasional trees and buildings to block it a little. We headed toward Brownwood with the plan that it might be a good place for lunch.
The further north we went the higher the wind gusts were. Now the wind was worse than the day before with no change in sight. We figured the wind to be a harbinger of the storm predicted for the evening. We just hoped the weatherman wasn’t wrong and that it would, indeed, hold off until after we got home. It felt good to get off the bikes at the Brownwood Watta Burger. After eating Al and I waited for Bill in the parking lot (when hadn’t we been waiting for Bill?). As we waited we talked to a fellow who had come down from the Weatherford area and told us the wind was far worse to the north and east. As much as we were looking forward to getting home, the next 125 miles would be no picnic.
We planned Stephenville as our last fuel stop and the ride there was tedious to say the least. It seemed you had to keep a death grip on the handlebars so the wind wouldn’t push the bike out of control. As the wind was out of the south (from our right) we rode the far right hand side of our lane and hoped that we could keep from veering into oncoming traffic. Al had the lead now as he was familiar with the route. (His vision isn’t the greatest and he has trouble picking up route signs for upcoming turns.) Al likes to go the speed limit plus and I could see Bill was struggling to keep up (Bill always brought up the rear for obvious reasons). I took the lead at the next rest stop and kept my speed under 65 (for which Bill said he would be eternally grateful).
As planned we got fuel in Stephenville. We were anxious to get back on the road and beat whatever storm was in the offing. To our amazement, Bill not only cleaned Mona’s windshield, but also her front forks, front fender, and fairing lowers. Al said, “Can’t you do that when you get home? C’mon, let’s get going.” It seemed the wind gusts got stronger and stronger as we proceeded. (We learned the next day that a car had been blown from one lane into the other and killed an oncoming biker in the area.) I was praying again every time we passed an open field, which was often. Any trees of size that lined the south side of the roadway were welcomed as some semblance of wind blockage. I’ve ridden in high winds before but this was the worst I ever experienced.
When we pulled into Al’s driveway, where we started out four days and almost 1,400 miles prior, I pulled my stiff arms and hands from the handlebars, dismounted and kissed the ground. Joshua never looked so good. Bill was in a hurry to get home as he only had two hours to get ready for Saturday mass. We understood. We figured he had lots of sins to confess as well. His final comment was, “I’m glad I made the trip but I would never do it again.” Al and I looked at each other as if to say, “Not with us you wouldn’t.”
A couple weeks later we saw Bill at the country club and told him of our plans to try the Arkansas trip again in May. His comment was, “I’ve got doctors appointments all month.” Our reply – “That’s fine, Bill. We’ll try to get along without you”
(It should be noted that when Bill got home and anxiously showed his wife the pictures on his camera, it was blank. Do you suppose an alien space ship over Marfa could have sucked the photos out of the camera? I can just imagine them sitting around a planet somewhere in another solar system viewing Bill’s pictures and saying, “What a strange group of humans, now we know what that Wild Hogs movie was really about.)
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