Friday, the first day of our big adventure, showed up in tune and on time and as fine a day as a Chamber of Commerce photographer could ask for. Jill had been in the war room a few nights prior and had charted us a promising route.
Our first stop is a cool little resort near Washington on the Brazos, site of the signing of our Declaration of Independence, where a small annual motorcycle event is held. By the time we arrive, the sound man has set up for the band, “The Posse”, and is deejaying some rocking Cajun and Zydeco music and getting everyone in the mood for fun. Many of us tent camp on grounds a country club greens keeper would be proud to sign his name to.
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On Saturday, there is a bike show with a good variety of motorcycles. With the exception of scooters and antiques, all the bikes in the show must be ridden in the poker run, even if that means taking them off the trailer.
The poker run was138 picturesque miles, much of it through the Sam Houston National Forest. Finer than the Natchez Trace for sheer beauty, the trees grow close to the two-lane that runs through them.
One of the stops is a diner we like.
Later, I dust off the Valkyrie Interstate for the show where she takes second to a Harley dresser with an eye-catching ostrich skin seat. In my qualified opinion, the Valkyrie was the better-looking bike, but it’s all in fun.
That eve, we swim, hot tub, eat BBQ and stargaze at a perfectly clear black sky.
Sunday morning, huge motor coaches carry last night’s bikers off as Jill and I strike camp. While we’ve seen friends and met a couple of real riders from San Antonio and Houston, there seems to be more swingers and Dallas status junkies, each year. We don’t relate.
We turn our wheels north, traveling through horse and cattle country. We see many motorcycles and antique cars on the road, some returning from the big rally at Hot Springs, Arkansas, our next destination.
Near Jefferson, the bike developed that “low front tire” feel, and sure enough, the front tire is low. I aired it back up with my handy air pump and searched for a nail to no avail. Naturally, the problem is a cracked valve stem and no amount of Ride-On, Fix-a-Flat or duct tape is going to un-crack it. We limped her in to Texarkana and holed up in Motel 6 to take stock.
Motorcycle shops don’t open on Sunday or Monday, but Monday morn Jill makes contact with Dwight, who just happened to be next to the phone in his shop, which is closed for the day. Hearing our tale he offers help so we prepare to backtrack 20 miles to New Boston, TX.
As I exited our room to uncover the bike I startled Brandie who was on her way to the office with her albino friend, Boudreaux, to show off her fancy hat. Yes, things were looking up. She told us the ferret had been rescued from crack heads who had mistreated him to the point that he was not expected to survive. She took him in and he’s not just surviving, but thriving. Brandie rides a Harley, down in Mississippi, when she’s not in the cab of the truck with her husband. Here she is in her fancy hat, with Boudreaux. Meeting interesting and unusual people, like Brandie, is a part of travel that I surely enjoy. We wished her well and headed for New Boston.
Dwight’s shop has Harley –Davidsons in it, you know, the kind of bike whose valve stems won’t fit a Honda Valkyrie.
In his personal truck, we visited three places in his town and end up with a handful of valve stems. One from a tractor works.
The man balanced the tire for me and while I test rode the bike, Jill attempted to pay him for the effort he’s made on our behalf on his day off. He refused payment, telling me to, “pass it on” and help some other person down the road.
He’s what we used to call a “good neighbor”, when that meant something.
The adventure continues:
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