Memorial Saturday Car Show

Saturday of the Memorial Day weekend was everything a such a day should be. I had made a date with our friend, Jo, to ride out and find pie so I already had the pretty girl and motorcycle angle covered.
Friday night, my compadre called and informed me there was one heck of a custom car and hotrod show going on across town and we should ride over and check it out, come morning. I'm not a car guy, in the sense of being knowledgeable, but I enjoy seeing them restored or customized. To make a short story long, the three of us rode over and had a look.

It was a beautiful morning full of great machines.




My bud was the shutterbug du jour and pressed Jo into car model duty. She put Vanna White in the shade.



There were a good number of T's, of course.


This beauty wanted me to take her home.



The show was also a walk down Memory Lane for me and my bud. A college running mate drove a truck like this one and there were many cars from the fifties and sixties that were popular in our high school days.



This Caddy was beautifully done, but it made the words, "pimp my ride" spring to mind.






The owner of this '40 Ford coupe (with a Corvette engine) is the man I buy my fiddle strings from.
I've told him in the past that he's put my money to good use.







This radical custom '53 Studebaker was very popular.



Doors by Texas Aggies.



What's a hotrod show without classic hotrods?









Jo had somewhere to be so we loaded up the scoot and scooted. Its just as well; if we'd stayed we may have been put to work raising windows and rag tops against the rain that blew in, a little later.

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Three Sisters

A long awaited meeting.

We packed our tent, gassed our scoots and pointed our wheels northwest for the Texas Hill Country. Our purpose was not only to enjoy a change of pace and scenery but also a long awaited meet with Christine, from the Land of Wisconsin.
After renting a Harley-Davidson touring bike at Dallas and riding to San Antonio, she was to meet the luckiest woman in Flour Bluff, and me, at the historic town of Bandera, "Cowboy Capital of the World".

Saturday morning, as planned, the big yella bike and the Honda Magna I like to call, Black Magic, were on the road. We knew a cold front, with accompanying heavy rain, was predicted for later in the day, and that night, but we reckoned we could probably make camp at Kerrville, TX before then.



Though we caught a few sprinkles on the way, it wasn't till we were just 160 miles into the trip, leaving the town of Devine, that we knew how far off the weather forecast was. The dark clouds seem to reach the road and rain was beginning to blind me when I finally found a place to pull over and don my Frogg Toggs. The wind was picking up, complicating things, and the rain was beginning to soak the back of my denim jacket when Jill U-turned and asked if I wanted to return to Devine.



We pulled into a Shell Mart, gassed, coffeed and sheltered from a downpour that flooded the intersection so that a pair of Corvettes couldn’t pass. One of the women driving had been partner in a motorcycle dealership and came into the wash bay to smoke and talk. Since there was no public phone at that particular store she let us use her cell to make a status report to Christine, who had already made Bandera.






When the rain let up, some, and the sky lightened, some, we were back in the wind, a pretty darned cool wind, now.

We made Bandera, quick enough, but, while our friend’s bike was at the appointed place, she was still wandering the town. Since a pay phone robbed me of my last four quarters, we wandered some, too, admiring the unusual cowboy souvenirs displayed in the shop windows.



Finally, after what seemed like a year, we met Christine of Wisconsin. We celebrated with lunch at Old Spanish Trail Restaurant and a quick ride to Kerrville-Schreiner Park, at Kerrville, TX.




The Guadalupe River flows past the park where, during the “season”, visitors swim and fish.



The sun set on weary adventurers who stayed up late enjoying a campfire.



We Meet the Sisters.

Sunday morning, we rode SH-16 from Kerrville to Medina in hopes of snagging some breakfast. This piece of road is everything the famed “Dragon”, through Deal’s Gap, is, only shorter.
The restaurant was closed, as are many privately owned businesses in this part of the world; we didn’t find non-corporate eats till we made our way to the town of Utopia and the Lost Maples Restaurant. Lost Maples’ staff cooks and serves genuine “home cookin’”. This was our jumping off point to ride the State Highways known as the Three Sisters.

One of our first stops was the Lone Star Motorcycle Museum, outside of Vanderpool.




The Texas Hill Country, like any place worth riding to, cannot be brought home in a camera.



It’s not just that parts cannot be photographed, safely, from the pillion of a motorcycle (Jill was photographing from behind the bars, this trip), the peculiar smell of burning cedar cannot be captured, neither can the sight of a hawk swooping close to the road or the roar of tires in the curves.





The ride was fantastic, the weather cool and sunny. While, over the years, Jill and I have covered most of these miles, this is the first time we’d ridden the Three Sisters in their entirety.



Along the way, another rider fell in with us, keeping his distance, but not trying to pass on the straight stretches of road. When we finished the loop we took a break at the Hog Pen, in the town of Leaky. There, the unknown rider told us that his big custom Honda cruiser had just been finished and it was his first time on the loop. He thanked me for letting him tag along and complimented us for being safety conscious and told me, yes, the ride had been everything he'd hoped. I'm glad we could be part of a good first experience on the Hill Country roads.



We had a full and rewarding day and then it was time to head for some eats and another campfire.
During our last visit to Kerrville, Jill and I ate at El Sombrero Jalisco Restaurant. We were impressed so we ate there, again. We were not disappointed.

Riding 250 miles in the beautiful Texas Hill Country on Sunday was icing on the cake of getting to meet Christine in person. I mean, the gal gave me wood, that ought to tell you something.



The ride home started cool and calm and ended warm and windy, hardly remarkable when riding in Texas.
We stopped for a great lunch of sandwiches and pintos at McBee’s BBQ, in Jourdanton, then worked on our butterfly collections between there and the ramp to I-37 and the City.
I guess we just know how to live.


The Road goes on forever

Weekend Got-Away

Summer is coming on strong, here in South Texas and the prediction for the weekend was for 97°F. (36°C.) but with plenty of 30mph spring wind still blowing.

Friday, May 8, saw the luckiest girl in Flour Bluff and I in the wind with our friend, Jaime, en route to a small rally just this side of San Antonio, Texas. We all had been confined to the city for too long.
When we rendezvoused Jaime told us his 1200cc Sportster wasn’t performing quite right. I guess the Sporty had been confined to the city for too long, as well, since a few miles on the highway seemed to work wonders. That, in turn, had a positive effect on Jaime. We were off to a good start.

We left Corpus Christi in the early afternoon and a leisurely ride at, or near, the legal miles per hour put us at the private campground with time to spare for pitching our tent and greeting friends. Jill, and I, then sallied forth in search of vittles, particularly, Mexican vittles.

The first thing we discovered is that a nearest-by community is pretty much a town in name only. If it boasts a restaurant, or any other place of business (other than the post office), it must be hidden from out-of-towners. Therefore, we re-traced our earlier route to the thriving community of Floresville.

Small town Texas, including Floresville (pop.5868) has yet to trade off its interesting county courthouse for a glass and steel monstrosity.

Even someone who is, shall we say, suspicious of government, must admit that the building exudes a certain dignity, a respectability not found it its big city counterparts.

Rounding the town square, in a manner of speaking, our search was ended when we spotted the sign for the Jalisco Taqueria Mexican Restaurant.

Now, there was nothing fancy about the dining room, but I have this theory that second-rate Mexican restaurants don’t last long in this part of the world, and our meal at Jalisco bore that out.

Usually, the waitress warns you that the plate is hot and once in a blue moon the plate is the hottest thing on t he table. Neither was true at this restaurant. The food was hot and good and it arrived in a timely manner, delivered by a competent waitress (a graceful, attractive waitress, I might add, as if that were relevant).
Would I eat there again? You bet, and I'd take my wife, my mom and my girlfriend with me.

That itch scratched, we made our way back to the campground where rally-goers danced to the music of Mean Gene Kelton and the Die Hards and sipped exotic beverages
(pudding shots).

Saturday, and "first bike out" for the poker run was 9:00 a.m. I wasn't first, in fact, I might have been last bike out, not that it mattered. The poker run was roughly 90 miles of back roads that I found hard to believe exist only a few miles past the city limits of San Antonio.

We caught up with the early risers at "Bubba's Hamburgers". I wasn't ready to eat but I was ready to stand in the shade and drink the biggest cup of lemonade I've ever run across while we let the early risers get a lead, again.

When the hot granny was somewhat cooled by an equally huge iced tea we moved out to the big yella bike and prepared to move on. That's when we spotted this beauty. I'm more of a people person than a bug guy, so all I can say is that it looks like some kind of red centipede and I have never before seen one moving across hot pavement. He was headed for the shade, I'll give him that much.

Yeah, the day heated up nicely. Perhaps you've noticed how cows bunch up under a tree on a hot, sunny day. Well, hogs do the same, as do big-ass Hondas.

Perhaps unaccustomed heat coupled with the consumption of coolant is what kept most of the riders out of the bike games after our return from the poker run.

Having drawn my accustomed poker hand I, later, gave the bike games a shot.
I gave it my best shot, in fact, but was beat out in different events by two guys (and their ladies) on Harleys. I might be tempted to slough it off had they not been skillful riders who have lots of time in the saddle and women who work well with them in the games. They were a hoot to be around, too.

Still, while riding real slow, or not falling off a 2x4 pays the same, there is a certain prestige attached to having an old lady who can bite the wienie. When one of the other ladies asked how much she bit, Jill told her:

A great day was followed by a great night. Mean Gene and his guys played, again, and his solo guitar/harmonica rendition of "Freebird" pretty much blew my hair back. We stayed up late with others who were trying to absorb as much of the perfect moonlit night as possible before returning to the mundane world.

Our ride back to Corpus town was windy and hot, but the company was great. We are renewed.

The road goes on forever.

Staying Sane on the Coastal Plains

This past weekend proved to be both full and rewarding, at least in my immediate corner of the world.

One of the rewarding aspects was that our trio, Rosewood, was invited to play at our town’s oldest festival, Buccaneer Days.


While there were many entertainers, there, I found it gratifying that we had been heard by one of the officials, who then had an assistant contact us. Most send a tape to the Buc Days Commission and play for exposure. We’ve already exposed ourselves many times so we were plied with pizza, beer and gas money, as well.


We were scheduled to begin when the carnival gates opened, Saturday and of course, we were on time and in tune long before the sound engineer finally arrived.



I took a turn around the music pavilion a snapped a couple of photos while the site was relatively empty.




Naturally, someone’s baby momentarily sidetracked me.



There was the requisite Ferris wheel and fun house.




Disco Fever wasn’t the affliction that was on a lot minds, this weekend, though. I’m told attendance was down, considerable, from previous years, probably due to concern about the possibility of exposure to Swine Flu. The school district canceled participation in the traditional lighted parade by the bands and drill teams, so there may have been an uncharacteristic lack on enthusiasm by the public, as well.

The show must go on. The Buc Days carnival is more than stomach-turning rides and cotton candy and it takes people, many who volunteer their time, to insure its success.
One such people is Sandra, who vended beer at the music tent. At first, she was reluctant to be photographed, but, after I explained that I recorded my adventures for motorcyclists, she consented and mugged and said, “Mike’s the best” for the camera (no “cheese” in my pictures).









I wandered back into the pavilion to tune my instruments and, there, met Cornerstone Band members from the town of Goliad.
Since we don’t have a drummer, they asked if they could go ahead and set up their drum kit and put their amplifiers on the rear of the stage. Since we had more bandstand than we needed, and the sound guy still hadn’t turned up, we agreed.



Darryl was joking around with their drummer, perhaps considering life as a rock musician.


Before start-time, soundman turned up and music began.
The day turned hot and so did the fiddling.

Having fulfilled our contractual obligation, Buc Days Commission did the same, finalizing our dealings

with pizza and beer in the travel trailer set aside for that purpose. Now, that’s my idea of carnival going.




Sunday, I managed a little airtime or, rather, time in the wind.
A close friend and erstwhile pillion immerged from her studies and obligations to shed a welcome, though unexpected, ray of sunshine on Rosewood’s Friday

performance.
She had been hitting the books pretty hard so, as an official Pretend Psychiatrist, I prescribed wind therapy, for Sunday.



We hit some back roads skirting the bays, en route deciding to lunch at Alice Faye’s Restaurant, on Fulton Beach.

We were dogging it, living the high life enjoying the view from the deck even though there were few boats in the marina.



Fresh seafood? You bet. This is one of the boats that help bring the good things of the sea to table.




A slow ride back to Corpus town and a stop to drink soda and admire motorcycles at the “biker bar and grill” and it was time to call this day a day.


The road goes on forever.