Adventure: Sixty In The Hills

Two bikes. Three people. Sixty miles of Texas Hill Country. Butterflies, bees, and bugs of every shape and size sting into my face and body. Each drop in elevation brings temperature changes, new smells and humidity fluctuations. Bump gates and cattle guards. Visor down, I can hear myself as I sing The National Anthem. Why? Why now? My mind says I never sing but perhaps I do. Maybe this is the end. Nephew tells me some of his friends more prone to cling to the power of the establishment say “This is the end of the world.” “It’s not an eclipse, it’s an apocalypse.” If we as a nation have manufactured that many of these folks, maybe our planet would be better off if this really was the end.

The Yamaha roars with each twist of the throttle. A DG, neighbor-waking pipe blasts out scaring people and animal alike. The bike has been modified. New suspension, oil cooler, racks, skid plates, hand guards, wider pegs, LED headlight, and more. We pass an exotic game ranch where an unknown species runs from the treeline. Above forty, the knobbies hum but smooth out. The gearing taller than stock, so the bike runs fine at higher speeds. Off to my right and left are dirt roads and trails that blaze across miles of open country, but the no trespassing signs, posted by the dozen, are a stern warning. On this Sunday, these tires will see no real unpaved action.

The Beamer is effortless. Smooth, quiet, powerful. Six gears waiting to be exploited, but still in the break-in period, so the revs never breach 6,000. The bike is quick and nimble, but a twist of the throttle brings stomach butterflies that remind the pilot of what lies in reserve. The demon lives between six and twelve thousand rpms. The demon is why we ride, but the demon must be respected.

Running at sixty on a two-lane blacktop, I check the mirrors and see open road. Ten seconds later I see the grill of a black, Dodge Charger. The second the road opens up I hear the downshift and the Dodge passes at triple digits on a blind uphill and double yellow. The intangibles of the mildly reckless. The bike speeds up but the world slows down. There is no daydreaming here. There is no random thoughts. There is only the feel of the bike beneath me, and the heightened sense of managing the controls. Thumbs and fingers working dials and levers and buttons. Weight shifting from peg to peg, merging with the buzzing beast. Sixty miles in a vehicle is most often uneventful, but sixty on the moto can be life changing. Open and exposed, responsive, dangerous.

Coasting to a stop at a remote market, a market that sells Japanese snacks, the heat from the engine paints the inside of my thighs. I can feel sweat rolling down my spine, and lack of wind brings the mugginess of a Texas spring. The bikes draw attention and questions. Traveling on two instead of four is very much a novelty, even now after all these years. There is jealousy, awe, and mild annoyance. “Ya’ll have fun,” she says. We start the great beasts, flip down our visors and roar into the fading light of day.