From The Magnificent 7, to The Adequate 2.

[Polo]

I first felt the effects of withdrawals as the high from David C. Baker’s, (owner of BMWRT.COM), visit last September 15th, subsided and I was faced with months of normalcy ahead.

 

The forethought of preparations for Thanksgiving, with the subsequent expense given by the “First Day of Christmas Shopping” frenzy that seems to overtake my wife’s sanity every day after thanksgiving. This usually leaves me broke and depletes my reserves for gadgets into next year’s spring. Then buying and putting up a new Christmas tree, replace last year’s passé decorations, buy more lights. Even with the redeeming trip to Home Depot to get hardware to hang the lights; I still suffer from lack of riding time.

 

Then comes Christmas, going to visit relatives, hear umpteen times how hazardous are motorcycles. Eat 12 times a day, because “there’s always room for a little rum cake”, or “just one tamalito”, or “you can’t leave without tasting my whatever”.

 

Arrghh. So many wasted weekends without riding. Nooo!

 

As a zit that at first is not more than a simple epidermal imperfection that later grows and finally develops either into a downright repulsive whitehead, or a gross blackhead; so the idea begun to gather grease and puss, so to speak, until it erupted as a whitish putrid viscous projectile against the mirror of proposals as expressed by the ”Ride Together” Forum, and I expostulated in delirious agony:

 

“Let Us ride one last time before the Holidays. Let us do battle against the Hill Country curves once more!”

 

I called on my Texas Hill Country brethren and they responded, and soon the Pie-Town Crew followed. (Pie-Town is a name coined after a ride to Medina Texas, where the best Apple Pie east and west of the Pecos is baked) We had a near contingent of RT’ers responding to the call.

 

The Fort Worth Billet Aluminum was shined and apportioned, as ridden by “Rojen” (Ron Nieuwsma). Soon the Round Rock hands were a-fisted in readiness by “Limecreek” (Greg Clark), and not much later our own Hill Country Berserker, GS buddy, “swmckinley” (Steve McKinley) threw back his cloak and stepped forward representing Lakeway, yet another facet of the Austin Clan personified. “RTrider” (Michael Cortes) volunteered, but soon had to back down required to tend to his fields, then “DaleH” (Dale Hichens) was also victim to the gathering of his crops, as up North in Bedford, TX, was “sslisz” (Yeeehaa Stephen Slisz).

 

As the final date, November 9, approached, more Highlanders original members of the Pie-Town Crew stepped forward with their Pennant to represent Dallas, Bill1100 (Bill Rich), and his first-born Jason, vowed to join the struggle. So did EricR (Eric Rullan).

So, we had a total of seven riders. Yeah!, I though, The Magnificent 7! We were going to ride from Austin, TX to Del Rio, TX, and camp at the Seminole Canyon State Park, and those who preferred not to rough it, would stay at Comstock, TX, about 9 miles east. Some questions arose about who would actually be roughing it when we learned that the current owner of the only motel in Comstock didn’t rightly know how old it was, but it seemed the most sensible option none the less.

 

While I prepared the provisions and foodstuff for the overnight stay over yonder, and loaded the vehicle, I was relishing the prospect of the cool crisp sunny weather forecasted for the weekend. Just 6 days prior, Steve McKinley, Greg Clark and I engaged in a day of wet riding where we tested the capabilities of our ABS’ and experimented the smooth performance of our respective mounts in cool 50-degree rain. The R’s seemed to be in their element, purring along effortlessly and conquering curve after curve sure footed and confidence inspiring.

 

It was about 8:00 p.m. when I put the last of the camping gear, ice chest, chairs and grill onto the SUV. Sitting with my wife to share a glass of wine. I forbade myself from enjoying a cigar, saving the pleasure for after the ride the following day, after we had shared the fajitas I had marinating in the refrigerator. I had at least 10 hours before I would push that beckoning green button by the right handlebar awakening the source of so much delight that would take me along so marvelous a route. What to do? Sleep? Could I?

 

I felt Poncho’s (our Lahsa-Apso) paws scratch my forearm. As always 30 seconds before the alarm clock went off. I got up, and let him out, while I fixed some coffee and retraced the route for the 347th time, wondering if there was a more curvy way to get to Del Rio, TX. Finally Poncho scratched the door and after I let him in, I went upstairs to get in the shower.

 

It’s 6:45; I’m girdled for battle. My wife is arguing for a few more minutes. I think “that’s OK, she’ll go down I-35 to San Antonio to pick up my children, and then west on 90”; they are going the direct route, only about 4 hours, while I’m taking the fun route, hopefully about 6. YESS!

 

I kiss Karla goodbye, avoiding any morning breath goodbyes. She’s beautiful, and usually radiant and fragrant, but Mother Nature works in predictable ways.

 

Finally I rouse them 90 ponies with the snap of the starter. I hear the engine quiet down to a deep growl as the oil is pumped to satisfy the vacuum and coat the precious innards of my RT. As I see the garage door touch bottom, I caressingly work 1st gear in and release the clutch. It’s 7:01 and I’m off.

 

The night before I checked tire pressures, oil level, cleaned, shined, hooked intercom, mounted tank bag, insurance card, earplugs, yada-yada-yada. However I always like to fill up right at the start of the ride. So I stop at the gas station about half a mile south and fill-up. I stash my wallet back into the tank bag (or did I) and take off to meet Greg in Dripping Springs. Ron would meet us at the park with his family, and ride back with us. Steve had to back off due to parenting duties. One down.

 

If I had influence in high places I could not have asked for better weather. The morning was in the high 50’s, and there was a little moisture in the air already in process of burning out. 7:33 I arrive to see Greg waiting and ready. He did not respond to my intercom call, so we check our gear. I pull mine out of my tank bag and verify channels. We’re both on channel 5, as we all had agreed, but he does not come thru. He hears me fine though.

 

It’s time to go to Johnson City to meet Bill1100, his son Jason and Eric, so we take off. Once at the Hill Country Cupboard, we fiddle with our intercoms some more, when I get a call on my cell phone from Bill; they’re in Dripping Springs. How did they get there without our seeing them?

 

We agree now to meet at Blanco. Greg and I saddle up, and leave, 6 minutes later we’re there, and a few minutes later the rest of the group arrive. It’s breakfast time; we go inside, and ask for coffee. I remember that I need my wallet and cell phone to make sure Karla is up back in Austin, and my daughter Michelle and son Fernando are getting ready in San Antonio. (Actually after nobody said they were buying, I gave up pretending).

 

This is when things started turning bleak. No wallet in the tank bag! I grab the cell phone and go back in. I tell them about my predicament; discuss the route with them and leave to backtrack my steps to see if I had dropped it at one of the three stops I made.

 

Back in Austin, I call my credit cards in as lost, take a spare I didn’t use, a copy of my medical insurance and get ready to leave when Greg calls to check on me. They’re south of Kerrville by now. No way I will catch up with them, unless I ask them to sit and wait. I asked Karla if she was ready to leave, she said she’d be in five minutes. I decide to chuck it, and lead my wife down the slab instead. I’ll meet them at the park and have dinner on its way by the time they get there.

 

Somebody once sent me one of those e-mails with the definition of women’s vocabulary. In it there were definitions of words such as “Fine”, “go ahead”, etc. There also was the definition of “5 minutes”, which is a direct equivalence to the time remaining before the football game is over when she wants to go somewhere. Well, when I asked my wife if she was ready, I should have remembered this.

 

So, about forty-five minutes later, we were on our way. It’s 11:20 by now! Where’s my day?!.

 

Michelle and Fernando are ready when we arrive at their home in San Antonio. Good, something goes right! Wrong, they haven’t eaten breakfast yet.

 

We’re off; it’s 1:17, I’ve ridden 208 miles since 7:01 and I’m only 68 miles from home.

 

About 2 hours later and after what seemed like 568 stops, we arrive at the Border Patrol checkpoint, about 20 miles east of Del Rio. Hooray! Wait!, I don’t have any ID!, It didn't downed on my that we were going to be a stone throw away from th eborder with Mexico. No matter, I’m not going to be deterred from my appointed route, not even the U.S. government will keep me from this. I stop, raise my shield and tell the officer: “I have earplugs, Sir, I can’t hear you. I am a U.S. citizen, do you need me to remove my helmet to listen to you?” He waves me pass. Yess!

 

As we arrive, Ron and his small tribe are already settled. No sign of the other folks yet. In between welcomes and greetings I proceed to unload the Tahoe, stopping every three minutes to remind my son to take his hands out of his pockets and carry something else. Ah, to be 15 again.

 

The Weather was a sunny mid-70's, fall wildflowers were in bloom and the fall leaves added to it all too. I try to check my phone messages to see if Greg is close, but I have no service. Wow, we’re really roughing it! Just then Greg shows up, alone. What’s up?, I wonder.

 

In his blunt business-like demure, Greg tells Ron and I that Jason had a low side on the switchbacks on 337. A set of treacherous and challenging curves ranked at 10 miles, which in many cases aren’t conservative estimates, but rather accurate ones.

 

Jason was OK. His gear did what it was meant to do, and his R did not suffer too extensive damage, but he had been taken to Uvalde for evaluation, and of course Bill and Eric stayed with him.

 

As Greg assured us that he was coherent and with apparent minor abrasions we agreed to make the day count and salvage what was left of it. Tally 4.

 

After setting up camp and freshening up, we fired up the grill, and prepared for the evening. The Sunset was splendorous. The Park is 50 miles from anywhere except Comstock, which was about two city blocks in length. The low-rise mountains offered a fitting foreground to the clear sky and the different shades of burnt oranges and deep yellows caused by the dimming Sunlight. We could feel the temperature drop almost simultaneously with the darkness taking possession of the surroundings.

 

We lit three fires, two for cooking and one to chat around. It was a short evening, flanked by good food, libations, cigars and pleasant camaraderie and conversation, yet a bit somber, as with every good laugh, we missed the volume the other three voices would have added, and anticipated the sorrow and preoccupation we assumed prevailed in Bill.

 

The first to turn it was Greg. He reminded us that he was leaving early and making a beeline back home because there were work complications he had to iron out. He had just taken a break in order to get his riding fix before going off on a weeklong business trip. The count I sup to 5 now.

 

We used every bit of the warmth the 40 degree sleeping bags were capable of providing that night. Morning came with a brisk chill and the dew seemed more like rain. The tents were soaked and the smell of moist dirt permeated the air. The Sun was bright, shining on a cloudless sky. After just one brief night I felt clean. I thought of how did the Native Americans who used to occupy this land, live, and managed to tear livelihood from this hard, yet so beautiful landscape. Nature provides. There is a lot of life in this land.

 

Eating some finger breakfast food, we rotate the tents to expose them to the raising and warming sunrays in order to dry them off. Meanwhile we start folding the chairs, picking up after ourselves, and gathering everything that we can and re-organizing the cargo area of the SUV. While Karla takes a shower, and my children visit with Ron’s, I towel dry my RT, which is thoroughly soaked from the morning dew. Actually, this is great, the bugs and tar were soaked and are now easily removed, bringing my graphite colored steed to it’s shining splendor. Finally the tents dry enough to be folded. My son and I engage that chore, having a brief, but meaningful one-on-one chat, folding, wiping and loading the last of the gear. I take the trash and go change into my riding clothes.

 

As I walk past Ron’s campsite, he’s still loading his pick-up. Packing for five kids, takes longer than for two teenagers. They’ve had a hearty breakfast, so our timing may yet work as I need to guide Karla to Del Rio, in order to send her on her way east on 90, after fueling up, and some breakfast. Yes, Karla is not the most oriented person in the world, if she didn’t wear a watch, she’d had a hard time telling left from right. East, West, North and South are just abstract concepts to her. But, hey, if I wanted a National Geographic explorer, I should’ve married Indiana Jones, right?

 

After explaining ad nauseam why the Tahoe could not keep up with me on the twisties, and scaring her with the many road changes I had planned, Karla finally points the SUV East with a pout and teary eyes. I start on my way East on 377/277. But, where am I meeting Ron?

 

At the Border Patrol checkpoint, I repeat my earplug routine, and after being waved pass, I ask the officer if another RT, a silver one has passed by in the last few minutes. He says that only another “Beemer” had passed thru that morning, a red one. Great, that must’ve been Greg. I ask if I can pull over and wait. He invites me to come in for coffee or water. I had never experienced this kind of official hospitality, but they were very accommodating and courteous. These hard working Border Patrol people, were certainly a credit to their uniforms.

 

I had barely finished my cup of water, when Ron approaches leading his family being driven by Jenny. He had a smile from earphone to earphone. As he pulled next to my bike, he said “Man! I didn’t think we were going to hook up again, I was dreading leading my wife all the way back to Fort Worth at 70-75 MPH. Yeah!”

 

Soon, we checked intercoms and off we went. The ride up 377 was great. We passed probably 4 cars along the 59 miles to Rocksprings, enjoying the easy curves along the nicely paved and wide road. At Rocksprings, Ron pulls over to insert earplugs, as he hadn’t done so earlier anticipating much slower speeds. We proceeded south on 55, a two-lane road leading to Camp Wood, which at a point, opens up into 4 lanes for climbing and passing. This happens at a very curvy section of the road, so the curves are perfectly traced, and the road is paved with a finely coarse carpet of asphalt. I will not disclose our speeds, but let it suffice to say that we enjoyed ourselves letting the RT’s stretch out their wheels at their jugs content. I kept my 1100 in third and fourth gear, and well within the optimum RPM power band for maximum torque. Whatever that means.

 

At Camp Wood we turned onto 337, another of the famous Hill Country “3’s”. As we rode past the spot we surmised Jason had had his low side, I felt a bit of remorse at not having been there to advise caution. I know I can’t think that way, but even so.

 

Once at Leakey, we turned north onto 336, a new experience for me. Another blast of fun, nice pavement, tight hairpins and long sweepers. At a couple of spots we had to remain vigilant of loose cattle, but nothing critical. Besides, with the crowd we hang, you’ve got to be accustomed to bull. We intersected 41 and headed east to 83, where we turned south to enter 39 east. 39 is a very beautiful and scenic road, with more elevation changes that curves, as we approached Hunt and Ingram, the traffic became a bit heavier along the banks of the Guadalupe River. We stopped at Kerrville for fuel and there we said our anticipated good byes, as we would be parting ways at Fredericksburg. I was happy from such a wonderful ride and excellent weather, and Ron seemed just as content.

 

At Fredericksburg we wished each other a safe trip over the intercoms. I continued on 290 but decided to squeeze a bit more out of this and turned south onto 1376 to Luckenback, then east on 1888 and later 1623 to Blanco, then 165 to Henley, 290 to Dripping Springs, 12 to intersect 150 towards Driftwood, then, 1826 towards Oak Hill, then 967 towards Buda, then 2304 to Manchaca, and finally on home. I know this may seem like a long about way, but that’s exactly what it is. I pulled into my garage at 5:03 p.m., with 862 miles on the clock. Karla had been there close to an hour, she was mad because I hadn’t called, and Poncho was jumping in joy, bringing his Barney to play fetch. It’s good to be home.

 

First thing Monday, I called Bill Rich to inquire about Jason. He had checked in with the BMWRT.COM Discussion Board, and reported on the status of Jason, but expressed concern about his own well being, in jeopardy at the hands of his wife. Fortunately, Bill was alive and well, and so was Jason. No major injuries, and hopefully the smarter for it.

 

Bill told me of a friend of Eric’s, whom he called back in Dallas, a super guy named Don whom Bill had met and ridden together only a few times. Don and his SO, Cathy, got in their truck and drove all the way to Uvalde from Dallas that night, about 430 miles, arriving after midnight. The following morning they all drove/rode back to Leaky to get Jason's bike (Jason rode in the truck with Don and Cathy). They loaded his Roadster in the back of Don's truck and took off for Dallas. Another 430 miles and they were unloading Jason's bike at Bill’s house before dinner in Dallas. What kind of a guy drives 430 miles (860 miles roundtrip in 24 hours) to help someone he barely knows? Bill was just awestruck that someone would do something like that - what a guy!

 

We all love our BMW bikes, but they come with a fixture I doubt many other marques can boast of: The people who ride them!

 

Well. That in a nutshell sums up the “Pie-Town Crew’s Last Ride Before the Holidays”. Uneventful? well, no, but who wants to grow old talking about one’s prowess on the riding lawnmower?.

 

[David]

Thanks for the write-up, Polo. That first sentence got my heart racing again after having so much fun on these same roads, meeting several people for the first time (including you, Steve McK, GJ, etc.), eating that great meal, and then saying goodbye as I pulled off west to Phoenix and you folks headed back east.

 

That Texas Hill country is AMAZING riding, maybe more so because it's surrounded by riding that sucks, just to be frank!

 

Thanks for bringing back those memories. I wouldn't have understood "the last ride before winter" as well if I hadn't been on those roads with you folks. Can't wait to get back.

[Kathy R]

Wow, what a great story. Thanks!

 

It is really wonderful to think that Eric's friends think so much of him that any friend of his is one of theirs as well. That is a real friendship.

 

We'll see you in Eureka Springs. There is a tested (Jake and TRoe) pie joint nearby. I still think we should have a pie throwing contest. Far less calories! Way more sport!

[EricR]

In reply to:

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It is really wonderful to think that Eric's friends think so much of him that any friend of his is one of theirs as well.

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Thanks Kathy. I consider myself pretty fortunate. Of course, those rather incriminating photos in my possession might have helped to motivate them.

 

EricR

Dallas, TX