dank
05-16-2008, 08:12 PM
Well, I slipped out of San Antonio under the cover of darkness. I suspect the rain covered my trail as well. This was it, the big day to spy out what all the hullabaloo about riding in Texas is about. I headed west on I-10 going to Albuquerque. It was raining, dark, 61 degrees, and I was in a Work Zone. Not quite what I pictured in arranging the trip. After all, this is May, and all last winter they were telling us “poor northerners” about how warm and sunny every ride was. Sixty-one degrees in May; imagine how cold it must have actually been last January when the Texas Kawanow members were sitting in some wireless bar posting all those stories and laughing at us.
But I was moving now, not fast, 60 mph, but on my way. About 50 miles out of town it stopped raining. I passed a couple of deer. Neither of them tried to jump over my bike, but as Trip had verified, apparently they typically gives their lives in this effort. I had seen the carcasses of other jumpers along the road, so I tucked in behind a truck and tried to hide. I also noticed the temperature was dropping. I stopped at Kerrville and put on a sweatshirt under my Kilimanjaro jacket and switched to my heavy gloves. It got colder, but at least it wasn’t raining. Maybe there was a small nugget of truth in what they told us. Sometimes it doesn’t rain in Texas.
Then a coyote ran across the road in front of me and an 80 mph speed limit (daylight hours only) passed through my headlight beam, followed by the glorious aroma of sagebrush. My hopes surged. Maybe Nomad Nirvana was just ahead. It grew lighter. I assume it was the sun, but couldn’t see it through the clouds, and all around me was strikingly beautiful countryside covered with prickly pear, western juniper, sagebrush, and yucca. Surely the warmth, sunshine, and hordes of Nomads were just ahead. I was almost there. Giddily I sped up to eighty-plus.
Then it started to rain again and got still colder. I’ve ridden in a lot of rain. Over time I’ve noticed a pattern to rain and motorcycles. When it sprinkles other bikers still waive. It’s like “A little rain, no problem, I’m a cool biker.” If it gets a bit harder, about 75% drop out and the remaining bikers wave like you are their best friend; they are actually so happy to see you because your being out there with them lets them assert that they cannot necessarily be certified as the craziest person in the world. Step it up another notch and it becomes every man for himself, and basically they all become introverted and stop waving…except the Goldwing riders. They keep on waving out of smugness and to make sure you know that they are comfortable even in this weather because they have a Wing. Well, this rain made even the Goldwing riders turn on their heaters, roll up their windows and stop waving.
And it went on mile after mile. The miles were beautiful, there is no question. The road was smooth, it had enough curves to be interesting, and the speed limit was all the Texans had claimed. But somehow my mental image of Nomad Nirvana didn’t include rain. That’s kinda like getting to Heaven and finding out that for all eternity Thursday dinners are going to be SPAM. It just doesn’t square with one’s vision of utopia.
Thirty miles out of El Paso it changed back to a sprinkle. It stopped all together as I entered the city. Two miles before the New Mexico border the pavement was dry (actual truth), and two miles after that I stopped to kiss Texas goodbye! By Las Cruces I had the sweatshirt off, and it was sunny the rest of the way to Albuquerque. I arrived just after 4:00.
So next winter as the weather has the northern states pinned down, if you start dreaming of Texas, here is my take on it:
The ride from Texarkana to Dallas is nothing special. Just a ride. From Dallas to San Antonio is the pits. It is like going through Chicago on 80 for 200 miles. You do it if you have to, but don’t dream about it. BUT....San Antonio to El Paso is everything you dream about when you own a Nomad. I caught uncharacteristic weather, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat. It was great fun cruising a little above 80. (Lot’s of state troopers, so I didn’t go much above.) The pavement is great, and the countryside starts out rolling with ravines and layered sedimentary rock road cuts, and transitions to bigger hills and igneous rock flows just west of Fort Stockton. It is amazingly beautiful and the vastness of it calls to the wanderlust in your soul that led you to buy a Nomad in the first place. I hope to bring my wife down and ride it again on a warmer day when we have time to stop at the local eateries and ride some of the secondary roads.
So give the Texas group their due. I’ll be dreaming of this, minus the rain, next winter. And if you get the chance to ride western Texas, grab it.
dank
But I was moving now, not fast, 60 mph, but on my way. About 50 miles out of town it stopped raining. I passed a couple of deer. Neither of them tried to jump over my bike, but as Trip had verified, apparently they typically gives their lives in this effort. I had seen the carcasses of other jumpers along the road, so I tucked in behind a truck and tried to hide. I also noticed the temperature was dropping. I stopped at Kerrville and put on a sweatshirt under my Kilimanjaro jacket and switched to my heavy gloves. It got colder, but at least it wasn’t raining. Maybe there was a small nugget of truth in what they told us. Sometimes it doesn’t rain in Texas.
Then a coyote ran across the road in front of me and an 80 mph speed limit (daylight hours only) passed through my headlight beam, followed by the glorious aroma of sagebrush. My hopes surged. Maybe Nomad Nirvana was just ahead. It grew lighter. I assume it was the sun, but couldn’t see it through the clouds, and all around me was strikingly beautiful countryside covered with prickly pear, western juniper, sagebrush, and yucca. Surely the warmth, sunshine, and hordes of Nomads were just ahead. I was almost there. Giddily I sped up to eighty-plus.
Then it started to rain again and got still colder. I’ve ridden in a lot of rain. Over time I’ve noticed a pattern to rain and motorcycles. When it sprinkles other bikers still waive. It’s like “A little rain, no problem, I’m a cool biker.” If it gets a bit harder, about 75% drop out and the remaining bikers wave like you are their best friend; they are actually so happy to see you because your being out there with them lets them assert that they cannot necessarily be certified as the craziest person in the world. Step it up another notch and it becomes every man for himself, and basically they all become introverted and stop waving…except the Goldwing riders. They keep on waving out of smugness and to make sure you know that they are comfortable even in this weather because they have a Wing. Well, this rain made even the Goldwing riders turn on their heaters, roll up their windows and stop waving.
And it went on mile after mile. The miles were beautiful, there is no question. The road was smooth, it had enough curves to be interesting, and the speed limit was all the Texans had claimed. But somehow my mental image of Nomad Nirvana didn’t include rain. That’s kinda like getting to Heaven and finding out that for all eternity Thursday dinners are going to be SPAM. It just doesn’t square with one’s vision of utopia.
Thirty miles out of El Paso it changed back to a sprinkle. It stopped all together as I entered the city. Two miles before the New Mexico border the pavement was dry (actual truth), and two miles after that I stopped to kiss Texas goodbye! By Las Cruces I had the sweatshirt off, and it was sunny the rest of the way to Albuquerque. I arrived just after 4:00.
So next winter as the weather has the northern states pinned down, if you start dreaming of Texas, here is my take on it:
The ride from Texarkana to Dallas is nothing special. Just a ride. From Dallas to San Antonio is the pits. It is like going through Chicago on 80 for 200 miles. You do it if you have to, but don’t dream about it. BUT....San Antonio to El Paso is everything you dream about when you own a Nomad. I caught uncharacteristic weather, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat. It was great fun cruising a little above 80. (Lot’s of state troopers, so I didn’t go much above.) The pavement is great, and the countryside starts out rolling with ravines and layered sedimentary rock road cuts, and transitions to bigger hills and igneous rock flows just west of Fort Stockton. It is amazingly beautiful and the vastness of it calls to the wanderlust in your soul that led you to buy a Nomad in the first place. I hope to bring my wife down and ride it again on a warmer day when we have time to stop at the local eateries and ride some of the secondary roads.
So give the Texas group their due. I’ll be dreaming of this, minus the rain, next winter. And if you get the chance to ride western Texas, grab it.
dank