I had to drive up to Austin, this past Saturday. Austin is only a couple of hundred miles away, but when I have to drive the truck it seems twice that.
There I was, mini trucking up the Interstate, when I looked in the rear view mirror and thought, “Dammit, that scooter’s right on my ass!” so I fired a couple of.22 rounds rearward (deafening Jill) to make the crazy sumbitch back off. The bike didn’t back off an inch! I moved to shoot again, then, I remembered that the motorcycle was my daughter’s Yamaha that we’d loaded into the bed only an hour before.
Okay, it wasn’t quite like that.
Daughter has moved to Austin to attend college and I promised I’d get her motorcycle to her.
I guess I thought I was going to load the bike, take it to Austin, eat lunch and drive back to Corpus town. I didn’t figure on my little woman wanting to visit with the kid and see some long-time friends we hadn’t seen in a long time. My little up-and-back errand became a weekend jaunt.
Now, I can imagine nothing more boring than a road trip in a cage except, possibly, sitting in church while listening to my brother talk about how much money he has. Yep, my eyes glazed, right away.
I was watching the scenery change and checking out the familiar features I’d see whenever I drove my folks back and forth to San Antonio. San Antonio? Our route wasn’t supposed to take us toward San Antonio!
I realized, then, that I’d missed a turn, the turn, seventy miles back.
The lucky Flour Bluff girl hadn’t said anything; after all, you can ride the Interstate through San Antonio to get to Austin, that’s just not the shortest or most pleasant route.
Just south of San Antonio is the town of Pleasanton (“Birthplace of the Cowboy”). There, we hung a “Northeast” and a short 52 miles later we were back on track_ for a while, at least.
I’d printed out maps for a route that skirted Austin and its infamous traffic and should have taken us into the city practically at Daughter’s door. “Should have”, had I not neglected to print the part the part of the map that shows a crucial junction. It just wasn’t my day for turns.
After a scenic ride in the country, we regained the Interstate and a few miles and minutes later, found our exit. Motoring the short distance to the apartment complex and into the parking lot, I looked at my instrument panel just in time to see the temperature needle peg “Hot”.
I parked.
The layout of the complex looked so familiar that, while Jill looked for Daughter’s building, I just looked around. Some residents in the swimming pool eyeballed me as if they’d never seen a truck driving man.
After we unloaded the bike, and while Missus and Daughter confabbed, I looked under the hood.
The overheating appears to have been caused by a failed radiator cap. I filled the radiator and had no further cooling system problems; I'd say that's reason for, at least, cautious optimism.
Our visit was enjoyable and the return trip uneventful. I guess that's the best I could hope for.
There I was, mini trucking up the Interstate, when I looked in the rear view mirror and thought, “Dammit, that scooter’s right on my ass!” so I fired a couple of.22 rounds rearward (deafening Jill) to make the crazy sumbitch back off. The bike didn’t back off an inch! I moved to shoot again, then, I remembered that the motorcycle was my daughter’s Yamaha that we’d loaded into the bed only an hour before.
Okay, it wasn’t quite like that.
Daughter has moved to Austin to attend college and I promised I’d get her motorcycle to her.
I guess I thought I was going to load the bike, take it to Austin, eat lunch and drive back to Corpus town. I didn’t figure on my little woman wanting to visit with the kid and see some long-time friends we hadn’t seen in a long time. My little up-and-back errand became a weekend jaunt.
Now, I can imagine nothing more boring than a road trip in a cage except, possibly, sitting in church while listening to my brother talk about how much money he has. Yep, my eyes glazed, right away.
I was watching the scenery change and checking out the familiar features I’d see whenever I drove my folks back and forth to San Antonio. San Antonio? Our route wasn’t supposed to take us toward San Antonio!
I realized, then, that I’d missed a turn, the turn, seventy miles back.
The lucky Flour Bluff girl hadn’t said anything; after all, you can ride the Interstate through San Antonio to get to Austin, that’s just not the shortest or most pleasant route.
Just south of San Antonio is the town of Pleasanton (“Birthplace of the Cowboy”). There, we hung a “Northeast” and a short 52 miles later we were back on track_ for a while, at least.
I’d printed out maps for a route that skirted Austin and its infamous traffic and should have taken us into the city practically at Daughter’s door. “Should have”, had I not neglected to print the part the part of the map that shows a crucial junction. It just wasn’t my day for turns.
After a scenic ride in the country, we regained the Interstate and a few miles and minutes later, found our exit. Motoring the short distance to the apartment complex and into the parking lot, I looked at my instrument panel just in time to see the temperature needle peg “Hot”.
I parked.
The layout of the complex looked so familiar that, while Jill looked for Daughter’s building, I just looked around. Some residents in the swimming pool eyeballed me as if they’d never seen a truck driving man.
After we unloaded the bike, and while Missus and Daughter confabbed, I looked under the hood.
The overheating appears to have been caused by a failed radiator cap. I filled the radiator and had no further cooling system problems; I'd say that's reason for, at least, cautious optimism.
Our visit was enjoyable and the return trip uneventful. I guess that's the best I could hope for.
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