There’s a lot of talk about it this time of year: The message boards are full of it. As usual science has been slow to recognize it as a legitimate ailment, but all of us who ride know beyond a doubt of its insidious existence. Parked Motorcycle Syndrome (PMS) strikes hard, and for some painfully long. Down where I live, in the land of swaying palms and dangling chads, we get, perhaps, the mildest doses of it, but it still ain’t easy even for us.

Whenever I feel a case of it comin’ on, I immediately drop to my knees and grovel shamelessly before my 115-lb. bully, La Suprema Roja. Mercifully my dearly beloved redhead will usually give in and grant me a parole; with certain conditions attached, of course. Heck, I’d agree to just about anything at that point, so now you know why my community property holdings include so many frilly things, antiques, and assorted other stuff not normally associated with manly stud muffins like yours truly.

My most recent bout with PMS, not counting the one sneaking up on me as we speak, came a few days before Thanksgiving. "No way, no how," she flatly stated through pursed lips, "you know we have to go see the kids that day!" Yeah, I knew that, but you can’t blame a guy for trying. Best deal I could cut was for me to leave the following Sunday, so that became the count down target, as I went through the motions of being a dutiful father and grandfather while secretly ticking off the hours.

"Where ya goin’ this time," folks kept asking me? Hmm, actually I hadn’t gotten that far in my plannin’, but I didn’t wanna give that away. "Texas," I responded, ad-libbing, "I haven’t been down that way lately, and it’s too cold to go most anywhere else." I’d never been to Brownsville before either, so that seemed a likely destination to claim, not that I really needed one. Not a bad plan actually, and I could always stay in Louisiana and putter around if the weather looked too nasty down towards the Rio Grande.

My usual style nowadays is to just ride in a general direction and see what sort of adventure overtakes me. Now that I’m retired, time isn’t the stern master it once was, and agendas are pretty much a thing of the past. I have enjoyed my solitude immensely these last couple of years, but I’ve also started to enjoy meeting Valkers and various other characters, many of whom could give an Ernest Hemmingway some serious inspiration.

I had ridden with several of the Texas VSG folks in late ’99, but for a couple of reasons I’d had to miss all their gatherings during this past year. I decided to announce my ride out there on their message board to see if anything might be coming up that I could drop in on. Nothing was scheduled, but several of the guys around the state (not Dubya, however) gave me phone numbers to call when I was in their part of the ‘Republic’, and they all seemed very sincere.

Sunday finally came, but with it buckets of rain. Shoot, no point in running that gauntlet if it wasn’t necessary, so one more day around the house had to be consumed. I’d previously corresponded with a guy in Dallas, and we’d agreed to meet at Stroker’s, a biker bar, Wednesday evening. So, the ride now was starting to take on some structure not seen since the days when I used to plan too much trip for too little time. It also meant I’d be riding the Interstates most of the way out there.

I did the super slab thing all the way through the tunnel under Mobile Bay the first day. Then I took a respite from the controlled access path, as I rode through Hattisburg to Jackson, Mississippi. From there it was I-20 West until I could see the rain up ahead just beyond Monroe, LA, which helped me decide to find a motel earlier than I’d planned. No sweat, though, I could always go to the lounge and watch the wild life for a while, especially since it would be an easy day tomorrow over to Dallas.

Everybody seemed happy to be there except the bartender. She reminded me of Sargent Joe Friday in a way: no smile, no conversation, just the drinks, sir, just the drinks. All around me, though, were folks wanting to chat. One guy owned a Shadow, so we discussed the virtues of touring and the pitfalls of killing bugs with our body parts. We also agreed on how much better it was actively absorbing the countryside from the saddle of a bike rather than passively observing it from within the confines of a cage.

Of course, whenever folks found out where I lived, the conversation would switch to the ongoing drama of our election follies. "What’s wrong with you people down there, can’t y’all count?" "Are ballots really that hard for y’all to read?" You know all the questions, and insults, hurled our way. Didn’t bother me none, though. Nosiree, ’cause I lived in one of the 60 plus counties where nobody cared if all the votes were counted…

I got up early the following morning, but it was still raining. Nothing else to do but drink coffee, eat some breakfast, and call Tigger. I’d never met him before, but he seemed friendly enough on the net and now on the phone. Heck, he even suggested meeting in a biker bar, so he had to be OK, right?

After sitting among mostly Harley riders for an hour or so remembering the great ride over and even the fall color I’d unexpectedly seen, I decided I must’ve forgotten some part of the conversation with Tigger. I phoned him again, and he said he’d been waiting for my call, and he’d be right over. He and Mary showed up and we began the ‘get acquainted dance’ followed by a brief flurry of yarn swapping. None of us had eaten yet, so off to one of their favorite places we went for some great steaks. Since it was late by the time the check arrived, I accepted the generous invitation to stay at their house.

The next two days involved assorted chores, considerable errand running, stimulating conversations, meals with new and old friends, and lots of riding around the city of Dallas. Ordinarily I don’t cotton much to cities; in fact, I usually go out of my way to avoid ’em. Nothing I could do this time but grin and bear it, though. That is, until we pulled up to one of the thousand or so stop lights that caught us. Tigger grinned from ear to ear and joyously proclaimed, "I am an urban man!" I could see that, too.

He was in his natural element all right, weaving in and out through the maze of vehicles, stopping at toll booths, lights, snarled traffic, pile ups, whatever, all completely unperturbed. An urban man for sure, and the funny thing was, I now didn’t seem to be minding all of this like I probably would have otherwise. Hmmm, are conditions good or bad? Yes, they most certainly are… Is it true, then, that for the most part attitudes shape our perceptions of circumstances? He chose to enjoy the city, and so he did. I decided it wasn’t nearly as bad as I had been making it out to be, and guess what… I started to enjoy the riding, too.

Saturday morning came mighty early: 5 AM, in fact. We had to meet others at six and still more at seven for the ride to Graham for their toy run. Some coffee to warm us for what turned out to be the coldest day’s ride on my trip, and we were off. Brrrrr, the highest temperature I saw all day was 37! But the ride was great. I met more good people, ate some worthwhile grub, saw some more of Texas, and got to ride a few hundred miles with some wonderful folks by the time we split up. Yep, another great day!

By late Saturday afternoon, though, I’d had it. I was cold and the sky had been gray and threatening all day. I didn’t know how far the next motel might be, so I decided to stop at the Holiday Inn in Stephenville and reassess my options. After settling in, I wandered on down to the lounge to see what might be happening. Not much at all, but I did over hear the two part time bartenders and full time college students discussing the need for another tattoo. One even went so far as to recommend several artists she knew, including a guy in Dallas named Tigger -- my host for the past few days! Small world, huh.

The weather was still uncooperative early Sunday morning when I did a last minute check before departure. Heck, the entire state south of me was colored green on The Weather Channel map, and it was forecasted to be that way all day. Riding in cold rain ain’t an item on my top ten list, so I opted to stay over another day. Hey, I could always check in on the latest election happenings back home.

I used to have to ride through whatever weather I found no matter what. Yeah, vacation times were always limited, but I always tried to cram in as much adventure as I could. Nowadays however, I have the luxury of laying over if it suits me, and I gotta tell ya, that ain’t bad! It can be boring, though. I watched all of the election foolishness I could stomach, then turned to my book for entertainment. Yes, an indispensable item on all trips these days is an interesting book for just such occasions.

I haven’t met him yet, but there’s a Valk rider in Texas who’s been awarded the handle ‘Onstar’. I’m told he earned this distinction because his track record for getting lost is somewhat of a legend in those parts. Being navigationally challenged myself, I immediately identified with this guy, and I thought of him after I left Stephenville Monday morning. Yep, I somehow managed to zig when I should’ve zagged, and I ended up going about 70 miles out of the way.

Women for some unknown reason think guys have it made, but they really just don’t understand us at all. It can be awfully tuff sometimes not being able to ask for directions or consult maps; being burdened with an intuitive, sure knowledge of where strange roads will ultimately come out, and other vestiges of masculine confidence. It was cold when I left the motel, but by the time I passed it again, the temperature was warming up nicely.

This was the day I passed fairly near the geographic center of Texas; although I saw no markers indicating so. The sky never did lighten up that day, even though a couple of times I thought it might. Didn’t rain either, however, so I ain’t complainin’ none! I arrived at the turn off for Austin around mid afternoon. I had vacillated about whether or not to stop here, but Mulligan had given me several phone numbers, and he had seemed serious in his posts about my stopping by. I called for him as soon as I got to the outskirts of Austin, but his secretary had never heard of anybody named Mulligan. Hmmm, I knew his handle but not his name. In desperation I asked if she recognized the pager number I’d also been given, which she did -- now we’re cookin’. He was still out of town, but through her we made arrangements to meet at the Waterloo Brewery and Pub that evening.

Mulligan is an interesting guy, as were all of the Texans I met. For example, Mulligan is a construction guy by education and experience, but he now blows up buildings among other things to earn his way in life. Tigger is a guy with three college degrees, who now does tattooing and body piercing for a living. Others I met were welders, accountants, truckers, computer geeks, and lawyers, to name but a few. No real occupational thread I could see among those riders, but they all did have some things in common.

The riding so far had been as varied as the characters I’d been meeting: a lot of Interstates, some major secondary highways, city streets, and for the last two days, rural, two-lane roads. I’d been close to rain a couple of times, but I hadn’t actually ridden in any. It had been cold, though, and there seemed to be no let up in that for the near term. No problemo, however, as I had brought my cold weather riding suit along. I usually don’t want to bother with it, because it’s bulky and a general pain to carry along. On the other hand, my forever-best friend usually insists, so you can guess where all that leads. Anyway, my cold weather suit felt mighty good these last couple of days… as it always does.

I had seen virtually no wild life so far, at least not on the hoof. The usual road kill, though: deer, armadillos, skunks, and even a coyote. And, there were the usual BBQ places along with Mexican, Tex-Mex (there is a difference I’m told), and assorted other types of eateries. Seeing an occasional sign for chili, I reflected not so fondly on the time during my misspent youth when I had been humbled by a foul substance known locally as ‘Thunder Chili’. It seems that each of life’s experiences prepares us for another to follow, and so it was on another fateful day that I was able to unhesitatingly ride right on past the foreboding sign, ‘Performance Chili’. Dooo whaaaaat? None of that for this boy; no sir, that stuff would’ve left skid marks in my drawers for sure!

Although I’d ridden through the fringe of the famed ‘Texas Hill Country’, I really had missed the good roads entirely. I’d ridden them on previous visits, though, and besides, this was a different kind of trip from my usual fare. This one was to be people oriented rather than ride centered. I’d ridden down through Johnson City right past the signs that lead to LBJ’s ranch and continued south, then east over to Austin where I’d met Mulligan. Even though there were no challenging twisties along my route to date, it was still scenic and a very pleasant ride. Most folks waved, especially those in pick-ups; and, unlike those in the more congested urban areas, these people used all of their fingers.

I was now on my own again. Mulligan and I had agreed I’d arrive back in Austin Friday evening, so I could then ride to Houston with him and some others early Saturday morning. That gave me four days to sightsee and explore places I’d not seen before. I rode across the bay and through Corpus Christi, then over to Kingsville. I selected a motel there based upon the word ‘Lounge’ proudly and prominently displayed on their sign along the highway someplace before the edge of town. After checking in, I inquired of the clerk the time the lounge would be open. "We don’t have one," she stated matter of factly, "this is a dry county." Do what? Am I missing something here? Well, yes, at a minimum you could say I’m missing a beer…

Ah, the next morning was the day the clouds were supposed to part, and I’d really looked forward to seeing the big red eye again. What’d it been now, a week? Not quite, but a lot longer than I like. Down to South Padre Island, over through Brownsville, then more fond thoughts of Onstar. I kept a close look out for my road but somehow managed to miss it anyway. I was quite certain it was in the USA, however, so when I got to the international border crossing, I did a rather elegant U-turn and took my search elsewhere. I never did find the road I was looking for, at least not until I got to McAllen, but all’s well that ends well, right…

I spotted a motel sign in Harlingen boasting a lounge. Should I fall for it again? Hmmm, maybe I’ll ask first. Yep, and it was already open. I also had a Mexican restaurant recommended to me that turned out to be excellent. Yeah, now we’re talkin’. I got to the lounge after dining, but absolutely nothing was going on. My patience was rewarded, though, as a couple of interesting folks drifted in. Then some more characters stopped by, and the next thing you knew, we had a party goin’ on. I had a great time listening to these locals talk about the history of the area, the court system, politics generally, and I even got some advice on what we should do to help out elections back home.

A full breakfast buffet came with the room, so I grazed at the grease bar before departing. With a full tummy and a contented look on my face, I returned to the asphalt ribbon that would take me to Alice for my next evening. More lonesome roads with long stretches of scrub interspersed occasionally with road kill. I also noticed some ruins of old gas stations, skeletons of former houses, stores, and the like. Whenever I see these, I can’t help wondering what might have caused the dreams that inspired their construction to have collapsed. Hard times maybe, bad planning, corruption, or who knows, it could’ve been performance chili. We’ll never know, but the narrative of American history is filled with as many tales of failure as it is of success. Indeed, the stories of all our individual lives would be so divided between the two extremes.

What a glorious day! The temperature was in the 60’s, the sun, finally, was bright and behind me, the air was fresh, and the Border Patrol allowed me to pass the check points without incident. "Life is good; it’s great to be alive and here," I yelled out loud, and I began to sing. Another of the many good things about solo bike riding is that I can sing without annoying anybody. Heck, I can barely hear myself, so even that’s an advantage. No lounge and no restaurant at the motel in Alice; so, delivery pizza and two cans of Coke for dinner, then early to bed.

Friday required only an easy day’s ride back to Austin, so I took my time and drank in the scenery. The sun was still working its magic on me as it traversed the cloudless sky. Man, my spirits were soaring, and even better things awaited me in the morning, when I’d be meeting up with those guys for the Houston run. Traffic was heavy as I entered Austin, so I kept reminding myself of the lesson learned in Dallas. It really did help some, but I doubt any amount of positive thinking can actually make crawling along in stop and go traffic pleasant… I eventually made it, confirmed arrangements with Mulligan, and settled in for an update on the election. Lot’s of drama here, but nothing seemed to be changing much from day to day.

"Paybacks are hell," the saying goes, and the undeniable truth of it hit home once again that night. A nearby room at the motel was being used for a party, and the young attendees came and went well into the wee hours of the morning. As I tossed and turned, I remembered how some friends and I had done the same thing on several occasions in the late 60’s, and I conceded to myself that we probably had been just as annoying to others then as this current wave of clever youth were being now. Little consolation, though, and I only managed scant sleep.

The alarm clock showed no mercy whatsoever when it sadistically chortled its unpleasant message. My eyelids felt like sandpaper as I blinked and struggled to regain my senses, and the whole notion of riding with a bunch of strangers that day became strangely questionable. It would be a cinch to fabricate a believable excuse for not showing up, and Heaven knows I could use the extra sleep. Yes, life’s experience had prepared me for this too, as I smiled at the thought of the uncountable times over the years I’d rationalized similar things to myself before dawn’s early light.

I pulled around to the motel office a little before six to check out, as the first of my ride escort was rounding the far corner. Within twenty minutes all of us were present, and none of us had any remaining doubts this was going to be a COLD ride! The stops were more frequent that morning than they might normally have been, but no one complained amidst the foot stamping and curious dance movements at each break in the ride. The sun was indeed a welcome sight, even if it was in our eyes for a while.

We stopped in Columbus to meet Bob from San Antonio who would join us. While standing on the sidewalk getting acquainted, a stranger walked up to us and introduced himself. Turned out he owns a Valk and just wanted to say hi. He also casually mentioned that he owns a BBQ place there, too, and you should have seen the way my companions’ eyes lit up! My guess is a ride to Columbus for some Q will definitely occur in the very near future.

At another of our stops, Mulligan smiled at me and then asked, "I guess you don’t know what’s going on, do you?" Huh? "After you left Austin," Mulligan went on, "I did a post about our meeting Monday and the plans for today. One thing led to another, and we’re now going to have a party tonight." Hot damn! Don’t ya just love those Texans? Originally we were to go to HotGlue & FlamingoBabe’s place so he could work on the exhausts of my companions’ bikes. I’d figured on standing around watching ‘piggy cuttings’ and muffler change outs, while visiting with our hosts. But now…

Texans are a special bunch, and I like ’em a lot. HotGlue explained to me that his dad had taught him early in life never to ask anybody where they’re from. "If they are Texans, you’ll know soon enough. If they aren’t, there’s no need to rub it in." And, they love to party. They seem to have a zest for life coupled with a laid back view of the world that brings out laughter and conversational ease, no matter who the person in front of them might be. I suppose what I’ve heard before about Texas is true: It’s more than just topography and geography, it’s a state of mind.

About forty or so folks – locals from around Houston as well as some from Dallas, San Antonio, and Austin -- showed up for this little shindig, and it was something special. Put together on short notice, as the whole thing had been conceived, incubated, and hatched within the last few days. And, great food, as Roz had made some seriously good gumbo to go with the red beans and rice provided by our hosts. Interesting characters, fascinating conversations, liberal quantities of libation, and heat provided by HotGlue through several clever devises combined to take the unseasonable chill from the immediate area. A warm environment in every way, and I offered a silent prayer of thanks for my good fortune.

When the celebration of life finally ended, I slept in the guest bedroom with three other guys, but I didn’t mind a bit. Sleep was a most welcome experience by this time, and I just hope the noise from my eyelids slamming shut didn’t disturb anyone…

I did make an impression on my roommates in another way, though. According to them, I produced a sound through adenoidial resonance the likes of which are rarely heard that far from the Houston Space Center. I wouldn’t know about that; although, I’m sure that I did sleep soundly and deeply, and that I needed it very much.

Those who had also stayed over drifted out at various times the next morning, but I delayed my departure until all the others had gone. I’d first met our hosts in Montrose at the first VOA Ride-In, and I’d seen them at another event in Panama City Beach. They’re really nice people, what my Uncle Ralph would’ve called ‘walkin’ around folks’: Comfortable with who they are, generous, warm, and friendly; plus, they paid me the huge compliment of calling me friend.

HotGlue rode with me over to Beaumont that afternoon, as I made the symbolic turn for home. We ate at the Waffle House, where we engaged in more yarn swapping and laughter and some good-natured sharing of feelings, too. Friendship is a curious thing, which seems to have no connection with time, distance, or circumstance. It can’t be forced or taken, nor can it be described easily. It is a special thing, though, and cherished deeply when recognized. I felt this now with Mark, and I had felt it often throughout the previous two weeks.

I’ve traveled all around North America, and I’ve known these feelings many times before. The friends I’ve made this way in several states are too many to try and mention here, but they are real and a very important part of my life now. I’m the luckiest person I know. Sure, there are probably people more fortunate than I am, but I’ve never met any. If friendships are the best measure of wealth, then I am one rich dude!

I thought a lot about my trip, as I rode homeward the next two days. I’d spent two weeks in Texas, met dozens of people, seen hundreds of miles worth of scenery, and thought some things through that might not have even occurred to me had I not been there. I’d spent time with old friends and made some new ones; endured cold temperatures and dodged rain. I’d traveled back roads and city streets; I’d skirted the ‘Hill Country’ and been near the center of the state. Much more than these things, though, I’d also been shown unqualified acceptance and genuine friendship: Yep, I’d definitely been deep in the ‘heart’ of Texas.