East Texas

East Texas
And left my self-respect, on down the road I guess. And they won't catch me. I planned my getaway. And things are lookin' great 'cause it's a one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight..."Longneck"by The Von Ehrics*

The raucous vocals and jackhammer drum lines of Texas punk / country combo band The Von Ehrics seems magically conjured by the surrounding mosh pit of metal, concrete, and humanity. The driving chops pulse through my head with an intensity that nearly matches the staccato cadence of the Victory Cross Roads' 106-cubic inch V-twin. Under a Texas-sized mid-morning sun, piston strokes, ringing guitar riffs, and a heavy wrist push me further along the incessant stream of traffic on Interstate 35, taking me away from San Antonio's oppressive suburban sprawl.

All that s**t I disrespect is getting old too...

And the grip around my neck, keeps me loaded...

Breaking Free

The previous night's stay in the old-west tinged oasis of Gruene, TX was superb. Despite being located just off the rat-racy corridor linking the Alamo City and state capital Austin, the folks here have been "gently resisting change since 1872." My porch and rocker room at the Gruene Mansion Inn overlooked the hypnotic, hazy-emerald ripples of the Guadalupe River and was the perfect place to plan my getaway.

Eastward journeys in these parts eventually end at the Gulf of Mexico.

Soon, the maelstrom of the Interstate intersection is little more than fading flashes in the rear view mirror as the vast, empty east Texas canvas unfurls ahead. Endless lines of barbed wire outline the road's right-of-way, stitching together intermittent clumps of mesquite. Distant groups of cattle made tiny by the sheer scope of the land, lugubriously munch at the low greenish-brown ground cover. Occasional "nodding donkey" oil pumpjacks can also be seen grazing on patches of petroleum deep beneath the earth's surface.

Motorcycle & Gear

2010 Victory Cross Roads

Helmet: HJC IS Max
Jacket: Tour Master Sonora Air
Pants: Diamond Gusset Defender Jeans
Boots: Sidi Doha
Gloves: Tour Master Dri Mesh®

Hurtling south through Nixon, I realize that warm breezes and expansive blue skies have given cause to pause my internal iPod. The static-like thrum of turbulence sneaking around the Cross Road's wide windscreen has put the Von Ehrics on hold. The feeling of solitude is calming and the throttle begins deescalating from escape-mode. By the time I roll through the dusty streets of Nixon, I have truly made that getaway. Though road signs identify the same towns featured on the map, indicators of civilization prove few and far between. Gillett, Helena, and Pawnee - all materialize as little more than crossroads. This is where people are few and loneliness is freedom.

Familiar chain signs in Beeville are a reminder that hydration and petrol needs should be attended to sooner rather than later, especially in these parts. Despite their afternoon retreat, the mid-October sun and bone-dry air remain a potent combination. A pasty palette is a surefire sign that a few gallons of go-juice won't be the only liquid restocked during this short visit.

Along many stretches, cacti offer the only companionship.

Straight as an arrow, Route 202 shoots east across a slightly rolling, nearly featureless terrain dotted with clumps of low, rugged looking trees. I can't name them for sure and have little urge to stop for a closer look. Far from ready to engage in fits of amateur horticulture, I continue grooving to the V-twin thump and chasing the tip of the asphalt triangle that forever disappears into the glistening heat waves ahead. This country inspires turning wheels, looking forward, and leaving behind.

The golden, evening sun rays cast long shadows and an eerily warm glow on the stuccoed limestone walls of Goliad's Presidio La Bahia on the banks of the San Antonio River. The imposing fortifications and their antique cannons strike an odd contrast to the crucifix-topped steeple of the mission building inside. This historic Spanish fort was originally built in 1749 and restored between 1963 and 1967. It is now considered to be the finest example of a presidio in the United States. The comforting yet forbidding paradox of the structure is strangely reminiscent of the landscape it hails over.

The winds of a big, weekend bicycle race blow me a little off course for the evening. The crowd of peddlers in Goliad has left the town's two motels booked solid. Sometimes the piper of spontaneity is paid with a few extra miles. Fortunately, rooms, Whataburger, and frosty beverages abound in nearby Victoria.

And my Shiner Bock longnecks are getting cold too, I tried to try it all...