I made a beeline for Del Rio. The 372-year-old city, founded by (who else?) Spanish missionaries, was called San Felipe del Rio (Saint Philip of the River). The town's name was later shortened, as Anglo settlers tended to do with everything. I stayed a night, hung out at some bar that was once somebody's house, met some locals and left early the next morning, about noon. The countryside continued to turn more verdant as I skirted the Mexican border, making miles and getting hungry for a hot meal as the weather cooled. There aren't many kitchens between towns-mailbox drops, really. In fact there was nothing between towns.
Some 30 miles west of Del Rio, I rolled over the Pecos River. There was something very familiar about the Pecos-something old, something in black and white. Judge Roy Bean, the "Law West of the Pecos," lived in nearby Langtry. Saw the movie; now I was visiting the old Hanging Judge's courthouse. Turns out there never was any record of Judge Bean actually sentencing anyone to hang, though. This was, well, disappointing.
This good justice of the peace was a frontier demigod; his word was final. But he also had a cuddly, cultured side and a schoolboy crush that lasted decades. Judge Bean was smitten with the famed English actress, Lillie Langtry, for whom he named the town. Sadly, he never met the object of his obsession. Langtry did finally visit in 1904, but the judge had died just months before. Today the town of Langtry is a living effigy to those woolly days.
I pointed the bike on up 90 toward Alpine. The sky blackened, the wind howled, and lightning seared the horizon. The Devil was on my tail; time to see how fast the Vampire could fly. At last I descended on Alpine cold, wet and thirsty. Temperatures had dropped some 50 degrees. Rain, snow and, amazingly, hail fell on my head in big, hard buckets. I holed up for two nights, drank rotgut whiskey and watched more Weather Channel than any man should be able to. The psycho clouds finally exhausted their fury, the sun broke through, and I was rested, ready and pretty sober.
It didn't warm up much, so I reckoned it was time for a little trip to the thrift store. The Goodwill shop has a hold on me; I can't resist that sweet smell of used crap. Besides, I needed more layers, not just for that bum-chic style I like, but for survival. Big Bend was still some 70 chilly miles to the south. This national park is the destination when you climb on your scoot and old-school it to no particular place, just riding until you find something that'll blow your eyes out. It's miles from nowhere and worth every bug in the puss.
Big Bend offers mountain, desert and river environments to explore. The park contains some 800,000 acres to hike, jeep and bike. From time to time you will see some sissies in cars, but they are dispensed with harshly by the biker-friendly constabulary. But be warned: The park's temperatures can swing 30 degrees from the lowlands near the Rio Grande to the higher passes of the Chisos Mountains.
"But the Texans I met were...
"But the Texans I met were friendly, helpful and gracious. Except when you try to navigate your motorcycle in busy traffic; then they'll politely switch on their blinker and bury you into a guardrail."
The park is named after the big bend the Rio Grande takes as it makes a hard turn from southeast to northeast. In Mexico the river is called Rio Bravo del Norte-which strikes me as a bit odd because I thought "Rio Grande" was already Spanish. Whatever you call this muddy bit of parasite-infested water, I couldn't get visions of John Wayne and Henry Fonda out of my freakin' head as I surveyed the view. Even worse, I kept using terms like "pardner," "Whiskey, barkeep!" and "How much, Miss Kitty?"
There are remnants here of long-gone days of life along the border. Old stone walls and worn wagon trails remain, as do artifacts dating back 9000 years left by unknown peoples, most probably ancient rock-wheel biker tribes. The park's variable elevation (1800 feet along the Rio Bravo/Grande to 7800 feet in the Chisos) creates separate climate zones for the various flora and fauna that like it. Including, at about 6300 feet, what I am pretty sure-fairly certain, really-was the rare Great Brown Bigfoot. Seldom seen or smelled this far south, the hairy critter was a darn fearful sight that would make Grandma jump right out of her burlap britches. Or it might have been a cow.
Either way, it was time for the Vampire and me to begin the final leg home. The weather warmed and the wind returned to batter us for the next 200 miles. It felt like some ungodly force was attempting to keep us in Texas. I didn't mind that, really. Texas was more diverse and scenic than I had imagined, but there was another attraction, a stronger one. Bikers know stereotypes are deceptive. Texans are macho y macho guys with big hats and hubcaps for belt buckles, puffing their chests out, smoking unfiltered Marlboros, spitting tobacco, driving pickups rattling with beer cans and generally strutting around itching to refight the Alamo. They're tough, their dogs are tough, and their women can make them both cry mercy. But the Texans I met were friendly, helpful and gracious. Except when you try to navigate your motorcycle in busy traffic; then they'll politely switch on their blinker and bury you into a guardrail.
Those angry crosswinds continued to rudely blow me around I-10, playing with me like a crazed kid racing in a Hot Wheels derby. The road sign ahead, "Dust Storms Next 50 Miles," read like my epitaph. I entered an endless dry sea of flattened earth and thickened air swirling with sand and dirt. No wonder the dinosaurs went extinct; they couldn't stand the weather. I finally limped into Las Cruces, New Mexico, exhausted and a little surprised to be alive. I was ready to find a fine cave to homestead, grow a beard and get weird. The next morning finally broke with rational skies and medicated winds. I saw my chance and rode that break all the way back to my red-rock sanctuary of Sedona.
Before You Tour TexasRolling through Texas can be a varied and splendid experience, as long as you avoid the interstates. Out of San Antonio, I swung down U.S. 90 to Del Rio before Highway 118 to Big Bend, back up 118 to 90, continued on 90 to the dreaded I-10, and detoured to I-20 some 40 miles out of El Paso due to winds and kamikaze truckers.
Dallas, Houston, Austin and San Antonio are easily accessible via air and road. By bike, I-10 is the major east-west artery through the bulk of Texas; I-40 crosses north Texas.
Contacts:
Texas Tourism
800.888.8839
traveltex.com
Big Bend National Park
432.477.2251
Weather hotline 432.477.1183
nps.gov/bibe
Big Bend is open all year. The Panther Junction Visitor Center is open 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. except on Christmas. Visitation peaks in March and April, although rangers say the park doesn't really get crowded except during spring break and the week between Christmas and New Year. It's mostly empty in August and September. A seven-day pass for a motorcycle runs $10.