Saturday June 13, 2009 – River and ROT Ride

[snoof]

Pumped about the ROT Rally and wanting to ride among my compadres on two wheels I arose at 6:00 and plotted a ride. Could I be becoming, ye gads, social? No. But today I wanted to hear the rumble of bikes along with that of my beloved RK. I had two goals today: to loosely explore a route I saw in the ROT guide and to get back north of town to join some pals to ride together. We would end the ride at the rally grounds.

So I left from:

Home to San Marcos to the back way to New Braunfels to River Road to Sattler to Canyon City to Blanco to Wimberley to Dripping Springs to Hamilton Pool Road to Mansfield Dam to Cedar Park to Marble Falls to Johnson City to Blanco to 32 to San Marcos to 21 to 183 to Austin. 352 miles.

The morning was overcast and muggy. I had decided to take the fast route to San Marcos since I needed to get back to meet the other guys by noon. I also wanted to go fast which Interstate 35 would allow. The sweat-inducing humidity, present at even this early hour, actually served to chill me at 80 mph. It was nice and I cherished it as long as I could knowing that too soon it would give way to the stifling heat. But I don’t complain about the 85 degree heat.

Riding through downtown San Marcos I recognized the spot that housed the movie theatre back in 1972 where I saw A Clockwork Orange. That was a good demented movie. I wondered how it would hold up now and put it on my movies-to-rent list. I continued on Hopkins as it changed from a name to the numbers 2439 and 1102. I was sure I’d driven them before but didn’t know when. They carried RK and I all the way into New Braunfels without having to get on IH 35 again and while the trip to New Braunfels was slower I enjoyed some of the sights.

94 degrees Fahrenheit.

In New Braunfels, 1102 turned to Common Street. I meandered near water parks and tube rentals until I came to the downtown area. It was still early so I parked the bike and heedlessly jaywalked across the street to the Doeppenschmidt Funeral Home. I just wanted to quiz them on a few post-life concerns I’d been having but nobody answered the door so I crossed the street again and sat in front of the courthouse eating peanuts and drinking a Diet Coke.

From there I rode to Landa Park, a beautiful place with a pool fed by the springs of the Comal River. Nice clear water and a restroom that had to have been cleaned within minutes of my use of it. My helmet off to this fine facility.

Because I am a dumbass when it comes to directions I took a long, convoluted route to get to River Road. Once I did, I crossed the Guadalupe River four times on the thirteen miles of road which led to Sattler, It was a pleasing ride with plenty of trees, a speed limit not in excess of 30 mph, and many naked tubers crossing the road and floating in the river. A slow and easy route. The water level, due to the drought was low but tubers with scarred, angry red asses from scraping the rocky bottom were undeterred and packed the campgrounds and tube rental stores. I’ve got to return here after we get some substantial rain and join the naked in the clear, cool waters.

In Sattler I headed to the north to FM 306 and Canyon City. I followed the road which skirts Canyon Lake. Trusting the little time estimator in my head I computed enough minutes to check out a park on the lake I hadn’t visited before. On the way to the park I saw a sign announcing Fort Sam Houston Recreation Area, obviously a place for our men and women from the San Antonio Army base to frolic. Army babes in bikinis appealed to me so I turned onto the road to find them.

106 degrees Fahrenheit.

When I got to the closed gate I was approached by Sergeant Hilmar Yum who told me to leave since I was obviously not military personnel. To his credit he didn’t buy that I was under a top secret undercover assignment there to inspect his women He called his superior to see if he was required to shoot me. He was not. Feeling confident that our military recreational facilities were adequately secured I bid Sgt. Yum farewell and made my way to FM 32 which fed me onto highway 281 and into Blanco.

I decided to follow 165 to 2325 to Wimberley where I whizzed again and called one of the out of town riding buds to let him know that I’d meet them in Cedar Park by noon. As I continued on RR 12 I wondered if I’d be able to keep my word on the timetable. Uncertain of this, I road faster and passed cars and trucks. Somewhere after speeding through Dripping Springs on my way to Hamilton Pool Road it dawned on me that I had become obsessed with the time.

I wasn’t enjoying the ride and even worse my usual safety mode had been relegated to some dark place in the back of my mind. A vision appeared of me pulling out to pass one of the sluggish drivers on Hamilton Pool Road as they turned left into me. I saw my brutal, agonizing death with splayed limbs and internal organs mingling with the foul roadkill that had died only hours before me. A great way to fuck up a great day.

So I slowed down, reinitiated the safety part of my brain and resigned myself to having to call my friends and tell them to head out without me if I didn’t make it in time. If they were let down then I would pay penance by removing my trachea with my Gerber. I would die alone cupping my hands to catch my blood as it freely flowed from the gaping hole in my neck. It would feel warm in my hands. I decided I would die with my eyes open. The death would be a small but necessary price to redeem myself for reneging on the noon commitment.

But as it turned out, the gods smiled upon me and I was delivered to my destination by the Angel Road King with minutes to spare.

And what a deliverance it was. It was great to see the folks over at Dan and Beth’s home – now comfortably air conditioned.

There was of course Dan and Beth. There was George and Kellie. Mike and Sheree whom I’d left the secret message for yesterday. And a guy I’d not met before named Sod. For their protection “Dan”, “Beth”, “George”, “Kellie”, “Mike”, “Sheree”, and “Sod” are not their real names. And if I’ve misspelled your fictitious name, “Sheree” I apologize.

Within minutes we were mounting our bikes for a pleasant journey through the hills. As we left we knew that we’d travel the fine biking road 1431 to Marble Falls. From there we’d make the short journey to Johnson City to stop for drinks and grub. After that we’d eventually make it to the ROT Rally; most likely via the Twilight Zone.

In the 118 degree heat we slathered ourselves with various SPF’s of sunblock. Dan, as if to laugh in the face of the blinding heat covered himself with Crisco. Not the oil, but the old fashioned white lard. He either had the secret to beat the heat, had skin of steel, or planned on frying himself up to serve to the hordes at the rally later. Dan didn’t seem like the martyr type so I assumed it was one of the first two.

Regardless, I stuck with the expensive stuff made from the tears of virgins. It’s always worked before keeping me from burning, blistering and sloughing off skin.

As we left the city on FM 1431 Mike threw his head back like a howling coyote and belted out, a cappella, a beautiful self composed opera in a baritone that would have sent Domenico Viglione-Borghesi packing like a little castrated eunuch. I don’t even like that shit, but to hear it live coming from the diaphragm of a riding buddy brought tears to my eyes. If I hadn’t had both hands in use on RK I would have clapped and demanded an encore. As it was I didn’t have to because smooth as silk Mike shifted into a perfect Ronnie Van Zant rendition of Gimmie Three Steps. Perfect pitch even as he continued to up the volume. By the time he was half way through Billy Gibbons’ La Grange, I couldn’t hear the bikes over his voice.

It sounded great to me, but apparently it was a little too much for Sheree who was of course riding with Mike. She popped him hard on both ears with open palms from behind, a perfectly executed Three Stooges Moe on Curly move and Mike’s song turned to a painful yelp. Even a half helmet would have given Mike a little protection from the vicious chops from his wife. Not much but a little. Maybe we’d get Mike to sing later.

I was glad to have Sheree with us in the event we ran into some ill-willed enemies on this trek. She could handle herself. Don’t let her beauty and usual calm deceive you, if necessary he could spread some major hurt. I made a mental note not to sing to her.

124 degrees Fahrenheit.

The ride on 1431 was enjoyable and we passed another group of bikers enjoying the day as well. The last member of the group we passed rode a bike so close to the ground the rider could have scraped his knuckles on the ground. His rear tire was a good three feet wide and annoyed that we were passing him, he gunned the bike and almost ran himself into the side ditch.

The beauty of a bike must be in the eye of the beholder because I don’t personally get it with some of the chopped bikes with the huge fat tyres. Especially the expensive jobs that are brought out only for rallies. The beauty of the Snoof RK is that we ride a lot. We don’t spend a lot of time looking at ourselves in mirrors because we’re not that good to look at. But we ride a lot and that’s why we have each other.

As we stopped at the light in Lago Vista, we waved to the group next to us and took off ahead of them. The road narrowed to two lanes. Leaving the light, Sod popped a wheelie. I’d not seen that up and close before. He wasn’t showy about it and I got the impression that he just enjoyed riding on one wheel. And ride on one wheel he did. All of the 30 miles to Marble Falls. I’ve never seen such control and he even reached into his saddle bag, pulled out a bowling pin, softball and large knife and began juggling them.

The way to Marble Falls was a good one especially with Mike and Sod entertaining us. The only glitch was a moron with another group of bikers who, while the others pulled over to let an SUV pass, didn’t. He, or it might have been a she, nearly brought the SUV to a complete stop. I’m not sure what was happening; when I see brake lights ahead I slow and just stop if I have to, but Mike fired a few rounds over the heads of the offensive rider. Still, the dunderhead didn’t behave any better. Dan mooned the group as we passed them in Marble Falls. I don’t know how these guys juggle and moon while they ride; for me keeping the bike up without the assistance of training wheels is about all I can handle.

136 degrees Fahrenheit.

We continue south on 281 to Johnson City where we pulled into a café for a late lunch. They had a little problem accommodating the eight of us, even more when they learned we had another biker on the way. They had to do some weird magic with little colored wooden flowers and until the flowers all turned blue we could not be seated. It made no sense to me and I hid in the restroom until the process was complete.

The waitress took our drink orders of water, tea – unsweetened because we had our own sweetener, George – and for me a Diet Coke. Beth asked that the waitress make sure her water glass was clean. When the waitress came back she started distributing the water asking who ordered the clean glass. Beth was wise to have made her request. The glass into which I was to pour my Diet Coke had strange lipstick marks on it as if a wild hog had gone heavy on the red lipstick and Frenched the glass. Still, the cold drink was good.

Dave rode in from Dallas and joined us. I was good to see him as I hadn’t since I met him at last October’s Hill Country Ride. He’d just come off a work shift before making the long ride but showed no signs of being tired. He was red from heat however.

A community of End Times fanatics had claimed a section of 281 just south of Evant as their own and attempted to shut it down. These post- apocalyptic, flamethrower wielding Mad Max wanna-be’s formed a gauntlet through which Dave, hell-bent on ROTing sped. The flames, deadly to most mortals, merely caused Dave to suffer a sunburn-like condition. I could just imagine him laughing and flipping the bird to the mutants as he roared through their road block with its licking and singeing flames. Fortunately there was no damage to Dave’s fine motorcycle.

After sitting with our drinks for a half an hour we learned that this was a cook your own food place. We had to go into the kitchen where they had several huge vats of boiling grease (probably the same Crisco that coated the exposed arms and face of Dan), egg batter, meats, flour, cornmeal, vegetables, and some slimy, bloody, indistinguishable stuff that throbbed, as though it contained a beating heart.

I learned that these riding pals of mine were not only great in the saddle but accomplished cooks. Looking at the completed meals that they carried back to the tables you would have thought they were those iron chef guys. The only problem was that Sheree got a little rambunctious in frying up the chicken for her nachos and spattered Dave with a cup or two of the near flashpoint temperature grease. Unlike the minimal effects of the flamethrowers, the oil brought up nasty, painful blisters on both of Dave’s arms.

Sheree felt horrible about it but Dave told her not to worry. He pulled his knife and scraped the blisters right off his skin without even a grimace or any indication of the pain he had to be feeling. Beth who is an amazing healer chanted some voodoo sounding words and then made me lick Dave’s arms. You do shit like that for a biking brother. Beth continued her chanting which kind of spooked the other diners, but we didn’t care. Beth pronounced Dave healed and I guess he was. But then again he had never complained in the first place. He was just a little red, but not in a bad way. Sheree insisted that Dave share some of her delicious nachos and he did.

George declared during the meal that he was sweet; a sweet man and he proved it by plunging his right middle finger into everyone’s unsweetened tea. It was humorous to observe, as though he were adamantly telling the glasses of amber fluid “Fuck You.” The folks said that they’d never tasted tea that wonderful, that if more akin to the nectar that the Greek gods imbibed. It made me wish I’d ordered tea instead of Diet Coke.

I wondered, but did not ask nor want to see what member George might use to impart a saltiness to the chicken-fried steaks, nachos, grilled cheese sandwiches, fries, and goat brains that adorned our table. Maybe he is limited to sweetness. I believed it would be better that way.

We had burned a lot of daylight in the diner and walked out into the 143 degree Fahrenheit afternoon ready to roll. But first we got gas. The hot day was not one on which to run out of petrol. We saw too many dead bikers, their bikes stranded on the highways and byways while they perished hoofing it search of high octane. A few died trying to suck the juice of cacti in an attempt to live long enough to make it to a station so they could feed their V-Twin steeds, RIP poor bastards.

On we continued through Blanco and east on FM 32. I realized later that I had been so into the here and now of my time with these wonderful people that I had taken not a single picture since I met up with them. Damn. Maybe it was just as well because my photos would have looked like a three year-old kid’s crayon scribbling in relation to Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel magnificence compared to Kellie’s photography.

With Kellie it’s not the gear, although she’s got good stuff, including a new lens that is nearly four feet long and weighs two thirds of Kellie’s body weight, but her eye and her artistic skills. I don’t know how long it has taken her to hone them, but they are pretty amazing, especially considering that she takes her great shots on the back of George’s moving bike. Sometimes she stands and balances herself on his shoulders, click, click clicking while dodging overhanging tree limbs.

We cruised the Devil’s Backbone where I heard gunshots from behind me coming from George who was firing a lever action rifle. I guess he had on his cruise control because he was shooting with his right hand. The shots were zinging over Dan’s head and Dan replied with the eruption of long flames of fire from his pipes. What a fucking pyrotechnic display. I only wished it had been dark so we could have gotten the full effect.

I learned when we stopped in San Marcos that George had fired the shots to get Dan to pull over at a scenic overlook. Dan thought they were just playing. Oh well, maybe next time we’ll get the photos.

Everybody was sweltering in the 167 degree heat. Most of us were red and sweating profusely. Water was poured on heads and wet bandannas were tied around necks. But George was cool as a cucumber. He wore a white, starched, long sleeved shirt of his own design which keep his body temperature twenty-five degrees cooler than the rest of us. There is a lot to learn from this man.

After much huddling and Mike’s (who has driven every road in Texas at least twice) counsel, we agreed on our route through San Marcos and onward to the rally grounds. We made another stop for hydration and to secure refreshments for the ROT which charges exorbitant prices (as evidenced by yesterday’s $3.50 Diet Coke). While at the convenience store we thwarted an armed robbery, extinguished a grass fire started by an unsupervised little delinquent and collected enough funds to buy a new wheelchair for the legless, grateful cashier.

After getting separated in the unrelenting Austin traffic we all rolled into the ROT Rally grounds together probably about 7:00 p.m. We maneuvered our way through the crowds to TexasFatBoy and Trish’s exhibit.

About this time the temperature peaked at 184 degrees and began to mercifully cool. It was not a record for June 13, but close.

After walking up to the main arena for some wardrobe changes and cool air we were denied entry because the extreme fighters were pummeling one another and an additional ticket was required to watch. The bouncer that handled the door was a cross-dresser, transsexual or perhaps just a gay man wearing a Disneyland-like outfit.

The daemons were thick as syrup, dry-humping unsuspecting men and women, spilling people’s drinks, whispering shit into biker’s ears trying to start fights, and drawing fake mustaches, goatees, and sideburns on passed out revelers. It was certain to become an interesting night especially with Hank Williams Jr. in the mix.

But Snoof was done. As much as I hated to leave these people whose company I’d so much enjoyed, I couldn’t bear to watch the havoc the daemons were starting. I left that battle to the more than capable Christian Bikers and my compadres “Dan”, “Beth”, “George”, “Kellie”, “Mike”, “Sheree”, “Sod”, and “Dave” - not their real names.

[snoof]

more pix, but i'm afraid none of rot or our ride. please don't decrapitate me

[FATboy05]

Yup, that's just about how I remember it Howard :grin: and yes Sherrie hits me about the head constantly, and Kelli's pics are the best ever. She's magic with that camera, one might say daemonic :wink:

[GzrGldGeo]

Great writeup Snoof. Reading how cool that shirt made me caused my nipples to get hard again.

[MsBettyRides]

Great account of our journey Snoof! You are the best. Was great seein ya again and let's not wait so long in between! :grin:

[mrpiff]

Another great ride report Howard, once again leaving those of us unable to attend this majestic event feeling as if we were there.

Thanks Bud!

[spark26]

hi dis 4 u....