Still in Texas - The Coast 3.8 - 3.12

Route: Hwy 100W from South Padre to 510 to Buena Vista blvd to Hwy 510 to Cnty 106 (horrible road with competing potholes, dirt and gravel). 106W to 77N to 70E to 286N to 357E to Spur 22 to Mustang Island. From Mustang Island: Hwy 361N to Port Aransas and the Aransas Ferry over the channel to 35N. 35N to 185E to 238N to 316W back to 35N to 521E (just north of Palacios). 521E/N to 36E to 288N to Angleton (5K service on bike). 288N from Angleton to 610W/N around Houston to 45N to 75N to Dallas area.

“It is in the nature of man to roam and explore. Had our ancestors be not compelled to go somewhere, we would have most assuredly not ended up anywhere.”

The road to nowhere apparently did lead to somewhere, although continued on to nothing but flattened; sand encrusted Portuguese Man of War, some of which were not quick enough to get out of the tire tracks of oncoming beach cruisers. My companion the sun threatens to call it a day and leave my side in search of better things on the other side of the world, and the initial thoughts that the chicken-pock scarred and bug festering road to Boca Chica State Park was a road to nowhere, was indeed just that. Scouring the deserted, dead end road fully elated, but fully exhausted, the time now is to find a dwelling for the night and while Boca Chica offers camping, it is merely beach camping and as most know, Betty doesn’t like the sand between her toes and the beach won’t give her a leg to stand on. South Padre is about an hour away, with darkness settling in 5 minutes, I grit my teeth (mouth closed to avoid a flying dinner) and make for the island that has lured thirsty, horny college students for years, with its hypnotizing anthems of repetitive bass lines and ritualistic dance-floor mating “oot oot” calls. It’s a good thing that I’m too early for spring break, up on the dive bars and down on the dumbasses will make for a nice little celebration in my successful completion of the Mexican border. The bridge to the island is black as pitch and I keep my low beam on out of courtesy for the on-coming traffic, limiting visibility. A conservative 55mph allows me to look around at the nothingness that exists for 360 degrees as I err on the side of caution and play it safe on an unfamiliar road. I am alone and apprehensive until I am overtaken by a band of crotch-rockets scorching through at an easy 80. Reality sets in and as the bridge crests and starts to descend, a marquee at the bottom glows a most unholy message.

“Welcome Spring Breakers 2010”

Sh!tballs. I’m not going to find a hotel room. These fake-n-baked, debaucherous heathens have arrived early and have no idea or concern that I just spent over 600 miles and 13 hours on a nad-numbing ride abutting our great Nation’s border and all that is wanted is a bed, a shower and some food. Rolling down the strip offers hotels that would bankrupt a small desert town, so the decision is made to knock on the ever-friendly doors of the HoJo. I mean, they have taken care of me every St. Patty’s day with a delicious, pre-debacle meal, so why would they disallow me the pleasures of a fluffy mattress and hot, flowing water. Not to be denied, the HoJo offers me not only a room on the first floor, non-smoking, with two beds and a patio, but Dan, the desk clerk allows me to park the Harley underneath the window of the desk. Exhaustion be damned, this little burst of good fortune provided a greater burst of energy. After some bike-talk with Dan, he assures me that this is the preliminary funneling of spring-breakers and the real tornado of fist-pumping, bass-thumping, wet t-shirt wearing, vomitous nimrods will not be arriving until next week. Yes, I was one of those nimrods and it was fun.

After a shower, shave and some fresh clothes, the door out the back of the HoJo points directly to the Palm Street Pier, it’s a nice beach shack with wooden slat walls and a tin roof, spooning the Gulf of Mexico. As I walk in with thoughts of people, conversation, beer and food, the night’s entertainment, just wrapping up, walks out, as well as the few remaining customers. Perfect, I have the place to myself! Not exactly what I was hoping for, but it is nimrod free and the bartender, after a few awkward stumbles, makes for good conversation. Beer and peel-n-eat shrimp. If a stomach could smile, mine would look like the Cheshire cat, I’m sure that my face closely resembles. An empty bottle and a pound of shrimp shells is apparently the signal to close doors and the barkeep wishes me well and encourages me to stop by the next night. Walking back to the hotel with a half-buzz, grinning from ear to ear, pride stops by for a visit, an unexpected friend that brings a realization of my current accomplishment. Sleep evades me as the game footage is played over and over in my head, knowing that I could have made some different calls to run out the clock, but still happy with the final score.

Sleeping in comes easy, as does taking my sweet-ass time getting ready and out the door to start the day’s whatevers. The Grapevine Café offers up an omelet, fresh coffee and a biscuit with jam and a side order of moral fortitude. A good meal can lift one’s spirits almost as much as good sex and due to the facts that the way to start the day for the past few weeks has been instant oatmeal and lately showers are more scarce than Hawaiian Tropic girls on Hoth, the hearty meal puts a polish on my ever-increasing glow and my suffering libido is buried in the recesses of priority. The meal is complimented by a side dish of entertainment from some red-eyed spring breakers, which upon realizing the plastic condiment cups would work equally as well as shot glasses, promptly buy 2 sleeves from the proprietor. The rest of my day is filled with trifles that I will not bore you with, but evening brings the hot tub and 4 air force buddies reliving last night’s accomplishments.

Their stories are not worth repeating in this venue, but the absurdity and hilarity of their interactions make me miss my cohorts of debauchery from back home and I long for our upcoming reunion in Miami. After being fully entertained by the hot tub bandits, my way is made back to the Palm Street Pier for a fried oyster po’ boy that had danced on my eyeballs the night before and some frothy suds. Early enough for the live music and all ordered, the place is a bit livelier tonight and I’m serenaded by the musical stylings of Johnny Mac. Johnny sings my soundtrack, belting out Free Fallin, At the Crossroads and Don’t Stop Believin. It is a meshing of fates and twisting of karmic fortune. Two tables of spring break co-eds sit down for their pre-imbibing supper and I sit back in the chair, sip my beer and am glad to be back among the living. The joint is an open beach shack, with wooden slat windows and a hot tin roof, my kind of place. Weather threatening, the clear, plastic wind shades are pulled, eliminating the true openness of the bar, but at the same time, sparing all patrons from the gusts of wind that would surely claim their food and beverages in the name of King Triton.

The server, Ben, has the face of an innocent and seems oddly out of place in a land and time of lust and debauchery. The music ended, I introduce myself to the table next to me and find that Johnny Mac’s conversation is as entertaining as his music. A life on the road behind him, his stories run longer than any miles he has put on the road throughout his career. He is a story in his own right and an individual who is most certainly individual. We wrap up our tales of travel and worlds past and I ask of him something that I abhor. A picture. It’s ok for some people, but for me, the asking of someone to take my picture or to have a picture taken of said individual is one of the most intrusive acts that makes me feel as uncomfortable as watching the phone call scene in Swingers. He indulges my intrusion, complete with the Palm St. Pier life ring to adorn the set of a traveler hanging up his spurs and the other just starting to jingle and jangle, an unrehearsed and obscure symbol, representing the circle of the traveler’s life. This moment is the part of the movie that’s edited perfectly with a fade-out, fitting for the commercial break when it airs on T.V. Once again, I thank Johnny for his time and excuse myself before a valtrex ad comes on.

The long awaited and much discussed Mustang Island lies in the direct path of my future today. Recommended by an old college buddy, the prospect and thrill of camping on the beach, next to the Gulf of Mexico is absolutely titillating. In Texas, county roads and farm roads can lead and link you to main thoroughfares wrought with congestion and lack of attention. If not, as I chose to stay off of these super slabs, these secondary roads can provide beautiful scenery as well as the feeling of owning your road. This is not so much of a surprise. What is the surprise is that, and maybe I’m riding solo on this perception, county roads are the worse of the two, the latter farm roads being the better maintained. Information like this would have been helpful today, not in 2 days when I’m discussing this curious fact with a fellow biker at a gas station. The county roads that take me through Laguna Wildlife refuge alternate, for no apparent reason, every quarter mile between fresh asphalt and dirt and gravel, who also has a large family of inbreeding potholes. Slowing down the pace considerable to about 10mph, I constantly and consistently apologize with the utmost sincerity to Betty for this misstep. She understands me perfectly, but this offense is in the greatest similarity to telling your wife or girlfriend that she’s acting like her mother and forgiveness will not be coming quickly today, no matter how many flowers I bring her in apologetic approach.

Aside from Betty, tent and laptop, there are few things that hold importance on this trip. One of those revered items that falls just short of true royalty is the camera, which is why, of course, I am about to treat it so disgracefully. Getting very excited at the prospect of swimming in the Gulf, board shorts are donned and the walk is made to the crashing surf, once arriving at Mustang and getting camp set. There is still plenty of time for frolicking in the surf and the intention is to do just that. BUT FIRST A PICTURE! Yes, one of the few self portraits allowed on this trip will be of me, in the Gulf for the first time. Very diligently, the beach is scoured for tidal lines, the surf is meticulously calculated for breadth of reach and wind speed and humidity are judged for any variables in the constants. Setting a flip-flop on the sand as a makeshift tri-pod, set the timer and run into the sea to pose like a mythical god of mer. More like realistic dumbass of der. No sooner does the clock start ticking down as the one rogue wave (of which my mathematical calculations did not account for – an anomaly, of course), comes up to claim the Elph for Davy Jones, hopefully an apt sacrifice to end the days of wet and sop. Able to save the SD card, the last picture shows my face twisted in moronic panic, mere nanoseconds before I break out in a futile sprint. Lesson learned. An expensive lesson, may the gods be appeased.

The insinuated thrills of Mustang Island will not manifest themselves in actuality this trip. Morning comes and with it a dense, dark, wet fog that embraces all around it like the uncomfortable boob hug from a summertime fragranced aunt that squeezes just a little too long. The air around me a blue-gray, and I wonder if it is reflecting the hair of those that I have come to call my own, the silver surfers, RVs their boards, waiting to catch the next asphalt wave, omnipresent and always up for a discussion. My soul gains premature years when talking with these ‘lifers,’ since the conversation comes a little too comfortably. The only speed bumps occur when the discussion turns to politics and reminiscence of the Harding era finds its way to the dead-end street of my capability. Determined to ride the fog out and declare a victory, I also know when it is time to admit defeat. Two days of fog, wet gear, cold and clammy conditions and the mistreatment of the Harley is enough for me to pack up and move on. Even though fully covered, she still shows signs of the abrasive, corrosive sea air as her disks begin to rust overnight. Betty needs a bath. The ecstasy that comes from being in shorts and a t-shirt again, combined with the perpetual breeze and crashing of the surf is no match for the mocking bird that provides daily 5am wake-up calls. This little bird has one big voice and must have grown up on an army base or next to a ham radio operator. Uncannily, it mocks the static crackles and snaps of an untuned radio, followed by the feedback sound that rides the radio waves into a clear transmission. Once this obnoxious tweet has found its station, it proceeds to belt out a series of dashes and dots. Forgive me, my Morse-code is rusty and am unable to translate for you, but I can only speculate that the English equivalent would be “get out of my house. Stop. I want you to leave. Stop. I’m going to annoy you out of my camp. Stop. The message must land in the realm of great importance because this repetition goes on for hours and there is no ignoring it. Or perhaps it’s a message of the rebellion from the Princess to Obi Wan.

Departing Mustang is bitter sweet, as I know that sunshine and clear weather lay just on the other side of the bay, but that this island has much more to offer me under better conditions. Carefully trotting down the highway, Betty and I ease ourselves on the two lanes, in the dense fog just before sunrise and in the mist, an apparition appears on the side of the road. In the middle of nowhere, I recant the tale of the teenage boy driving his car, picking up a young, beautiful girl on the side of the road and giving her a ride home. She shivers. He gives her his coat and drops her off at her house. Absolutely smitten, he had forgotten the jacket and was delighted upon remembering the next day, as an excuse to retrieve it and see his love again. Driving back to the house, an older woman answers the door and after a brief discussion and explanation, the old woman responds by saying that sounds like her daughter, but her daughter had been dead for a number of years now, killed while walking on the side of the road. As the young man turns around to go back to his car, he sees his jacket hanging from a nearby tree. Retrieving it, it smells like the fragrant flowers of a funeral parlor. Yes, all this went through my mind as I narrowed the 300 yards to the specter in shadow. This adventure would not yield such an exciting story as the young man just mentioned. No, no it won’t. I roll up on a dumbass kid that ran out of gas on his motorcycle, and when filling up with my spare tank, has a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. Darwin spared him this day, I’m not sure why.

Travels through Port Aransas and across the ferry to Rockport, the Muscle rumbles down the brick-lines streets and gently rouses the sleepy town. Rockport has the feel of an artists’ colony and that feel turns to life as I turn a corner and see a multitude of artists unpacking SUVs with the mediums of their profession, turning out works on the street, either for self-fulfillment, the occasional passerby that turns purchaser, or both. The brick road quickly turns to highway asphalt and the quaint shops transform into trees, shrubs, violently brilliant wildflowers and farmers’ fields. In one of these fields stands one of the largest bulls ever seen, almost too large to fit in the screen of my eyeballs. A hulking, roiding, massive slab of walking grill fodder, it is cream colored, with muscles bulging, immediately I come to the conclusion that this must be an Austrian cow, obviously related to Arnold Schwarzenegger and I wonder what a moo would sound like with his accent.

Today’s dreary adventure abounds with photographic opportunity, but the backdrop of gloom and the air of an asylum does not provide the opportunities that I would like to capture for eternity and the ride to Angleton, TX, in search of a Harley Davidson dealership is uninterrupted. Arriving at GOE HD in Angleton, salutations and southern hospitality flourishes in a young man appropriately named Dallas. Why wouldn’t he be? Dallas hooks me up with my 5K service and treats me as one of his own, offering riding tips for the area, given that pigs are the number one cause of motorcycle crashes around town. Small, black and nimble, they come out at dusk and blend into the asphalt highways, concealing their appearance, bacon shrouded ninjas, they only reveal themselves in the form of a body tossing speed bump. Dallas then takes it upon himself to drive me 15 minutes to a real, Texas style BBQ joint called the Lonestar. An authentic BBQ joint, the menu is a whiteboard, plates are paper, utensils are plastic and the tables are picnic. The meats are served with the sauce on top, on the side or optional, not smothered and swimming in taste-bud numbing rivers of spice and juice, allowing the real flavors of the smoky goodness to tickle all fancies. Above and beyond the call of duty, I offer to buy him lunch and he refuses. This is just the way it’s done. A smile and a thank you is all Dallas requires for payment and he’ll pick me up when the bike is ready. Glowing reviews for GOE Harley Davidson and the service clerk Dallas – may you be prosperous in all you do.

Appreciations and currency exchanged, I roll out of GOE HD and up to Dallas, but the weather has other plans. An iron curtain to rival any NFL team’s defensive line, the clouds, rain and lightening form an impassible wall of fury of which there is no skirting. A long day already under my wheels and the threats of gale-force winds and bike-hating storms, the decision is made to hunker down in Willis, TX at a Best Western and it is done. Tomorrow I will tackle the road once more, in search of familiar faces.

"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."