Blowing Smoke

"...I've been a Santa Claus to ev'ry sonofabitch in town..." (Kit Gutherz)

So, I was wandering around on the Net, last week, looking for some way to be amused on the weekend, and came across a couple of local benefit runs. One was in town and the other, near the lake, just shy of 66 miles from my doorstep.

My best compadre, who has to be in that area, pretty regularly, indicated that there had been some benefits going on out there to help out some folks who’d had a run of bad luck.

Saturday morning traffic was light and my ride to the event site was uneventful except for the minute between my engine dieing and the realization that I’d, somehow, hit the kill switch.

Ground zero was a restaurant and bar where I’d played music long ago, when it was the only building on that particular Farm To Market road. Even before the building came into view I could see a large barbecue pit on a trailer, the one my bud said had been parked on the corner for many weeks.
Behind the building, there was a large pavilion tent to seat fans of the night’s headliner band, a dunking booth and a couple of empty vendor booths.

After I parked beneath a mesquite, but before I entered the bar, I read the event flyer. They had a poker run going on, but no afternoon entertainment of any kind, odd in an area where you can't throw a rock in any direction without hitting musical talent.
Musicians and DJs will jump at the chance to be part of a charitable community event.

Just inside the front door ladies sold barbecue sandwiches. Others were folding and stacking event T-shirts or manning (womaning?) the poker run sign-up table.

Not a one shouted, “Hey, come on in, sign up for the poker run and have a cold one!”

I began to consider that, perhaps, the best part of this adventure would be the ride back to town, when who should walk by but “Harleychik”, who I’d met on a lunch ride, some months ago. She introduced me to two fellow Bluff rats I’d never met (though we recognize each other’s motorcycles) and I moseyed over to where they were sitting and got acquainted with a couple of officers of the Latin Ladies MC.

Since I’d blown by the taco stand, on the way out, I decided to try the barbecue. The ladies warned me, but I wouldn’t listen. In fact, someone gave me wristband so I wouldn’t have to pay to eat (I still kicked in the price of the sandwich, for ‘the cause’).

Let me tell you, I wouldn’t let the neighbor’s dog gnaw on meat that gristly.

The goobers who had the pit parked out front advertised Texas barbecue. There ought to be some kind of law preventing that kind of misrepresentation.

Thing is, they operate as a place of business out on that road and if they served those scraps every day they would soon be defunct. Someone suggested that it was, after all, donated meat and you couldn’t expect too much. My response to that:

1. Bullshit. I’ve attended any number of fundraisers and the worst food I’ve been served, on a scale of “sucks-to-doesn't-suck”, didn’t suck. Smaller clubs will serve good chicken or sausage rather than insult their rally goers with third-rate brisket.
2. When you want to help someone, you don’t skimp. That’s not true charity and it won’t work off any karma. Believers are admonished to ‘run hot, or run cold because the half-assed gets spit out’.

It looked to me that still another bunch of the uninitiated tried to use “bikers” as a piggy bank. I doubt they would support our legislative efforts in Austin even if they were aware of them and the volunteers didn’t seem to have any affinity for us as a group.

So, as you might guess, that price of the sandwich and a cheap Made in Honduras T-shirt was all they got out of this old boy. I blew off the poker run and there was no way I was going to spend the day sitting on hard plastic chairs listening to cookie cutter cowboy music on the jukebox while waiting for some other “hat” band to play the same stuff later on.
Instead, I took the long way home along with the other Bluff guy and the Latin Ladies and their friends. That was, for sure, the best part of the adventure.

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.