03 May 2005

Mental Health

One of the Detroit Weasels posted on the Iron Liver guestbook a while back, "There's nothin better after a hard ride than a beer and blow job."

While I wholeheartedly agree, I'd have to add dry clothes and a hot shower following a Sunday's return to Oklahoma. I am the world's biggest pussy when it comes to being cold. Throw wet in on top of that and I become the short, bearded version of Al Franken: a whining, bitching, intolerable malcontent desperately in need of an ass-kicking.

All that kept me from assuming this nightmare alter-ego during the wind-swept and rain-soaked chilly ride home was the mental health weekend I'd just been fortunate to pull off.

A couple days in the Hill Country with Goons will cure what ails ya'. Or just kill ya'.

Kinda cool leather weather on the way down gave way to severe clear and soul-cleansing sunshine in Fredericksburg, TX. Cold beer and the arrival of the Midland contingent only served to further lower my blood pressure and raise my life expectancy.

The folks in Texas' Hill Country remind me somewhat of the folks in Florida's Keys. No excitement, very laid back, no hurry, a settled contentment that allows them to look at fast paced lifestyles and those who live them with an almost sympathetic eye. While we weren't able to ocean gaze over the seven mile bridges or hit the Southernmost Point I think a trip to Luckenbach [insert lame-ass Willie and Waylon joke here] satisfied our requisite cliche tourist stop. Oh yeah, I got a picture on the porch ... why wouldn't I? I was, by definition, a damned tourist.

Luckenbach is one of those tourist destinations that really isn't. Until now. There's really not much to attract anyone uninterested in music and cold beer. Since being purchased by a corporation the cold beer is $3 but the music, at least in the old store, remains free. Just purchase one of those $3 beers for the pickers.

Live oaks and the famous front porch where Hondo cut witticisms made up for the admission price to the weekend's event. Live bands. Cold beer. A plethora of people who didn't seem to suck. Hell, our resident Pole Cat even lent a had to a law-dog and his flat-tired softail. I'm sure that get-out-of-jail-free card will arrive in the mail any day now ... Because the law is all about returning favors like that.

Hung a shitload of RatRun flyers throughout South Texas, and even handed some out to people who seemed worthy. If you're reading this now because you followed the links after a short obnoxious drunk guy gave you a flyer - it must mean we thought you weren't a jackass. The rest of you ... well, you know who you are. In fact, you're probably the same kids who noticed Louie's shirt and were offended. Because the truth hurts. Trailer trash.

Which reminds me. Trailers are an ever-present menace in this thing they call 'motorsickle enthusiasm' nowadays. We bitch about it, call them cowards, and use the presence of a trailer as a means to separate the riders from the posers. But sometimes an incident is so glaringly stupid it bears a rant. Frederiscksburg is 71 miles from Austin. 71 really nice smooth miles. And there were people who had trailered. From Austin. 71 miles. What the fuck is the fucking point in even owning a fucking motorcycle if you can't ride the son-of-a-bitch 71 miles? What the fuck are you going to do with the motherfucker when you get to your destination? I'll tell you what they did; they polished it. Twice. Then rode it, very little. 71 miles. Trailered. Jesus ...

The thing these assbags don't realize is; there's nothing like a road trip, incident free, to replenish the soul and cure all the hate and discontent. Event the ride home failed to suck, until the Oklahoma line. Not just because the roads turned to shit, but the weather followed. What I thought might have been a bad omen, the exploding truck tire and it's flying debris, turned out to be just a wake up call. Not that we had any problem staying awake at 11:00 pm in the rain and cold ...

Cold and wet on the way home is much better than cold and wet on the way there. Knowing a hot shower and cold shoulder await you at the end of the ride provides nice motivation. Visions of draining the hot water tank and sleeping in your own bed can carry a person through. The possibility of a some carnal treats, as our Weasel friend mentioned, is icing on the cake. I had uniced cake. But it was still cake.

Roadtrips with people who know how to ride are the treats that make all this other bullshit tolerable. It is impossible to express how comforting it is to know the cats riding with you know not to get in your blind spot, cage you in a bad spot, crowd you off the road, or drag-ass and screw up the pace. Traffic, interstates, cities, and 6-lanes are so much easier when your riding compadres are not beatoffs and knobs. Change lanes, anticipate your friend's actions, get around the cars, get down the road. Yeah ... I dig the shit out of motorsickles.

This weekend; a road trip with The MonkeyMan . Bedlam baseball and, of course, spreading of the flyers. I am the flyer whore. So on our way to witness another vicious beating of the hated land thieves at the hands of the heroic Cowboys we will spread the good word of poker runs that do not suck.

If the weather holds my 6 year old passenger may head home with his mother as I make my way to May Daze and check out the local talent. Hit that gig last year and thought I may give it another chance.

Next weekend is Pawhuska, my favorite of local runs, so there'll be no rest and relaxation for the wicked.

Yeah ... I dig the shit out of motorsickles.

1 Comments:

Blogger James Allgood said...

I know what you mean about people who don't know how to ride. One minute you are on their ass because they don't know how to take a turn on a motorcycle and the next they are ditching you doing 100 down a country road straightaway. Sometimes people don't know what they don't know. Pace, rythym, and anticipation are hard to come by when riding in a group.

12:41 PM  

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