Close Encounters of the Fowl Kind (Day 1 of a Fall Ride)

Posted Tue Sep 24, 2002 in Motorcycling

I taught my class, let them know I’d be out on Friday, and returned to my office to clear the things that remained and get home. A few minutes later I was headed home on Jezebel to pack up, load up, and head out. I knew it would take a few minutes, but wasn’t really in a hurry. I stopped at the Chevron station at Frankford and 66th Street and refueled, then rode the last half-mile home.

I stepped into the house where I was greeted by Young Son, doffed my riding gear, and went to find my wife. She was sitting at the computer in an IM session with a friend. While she finished, I began collecting my things, using the kitchen table as a staging area. I gathered up camera, PDA, mobile phone, GPS unit (new toy), cables, water, and maps. I went to my room and selected some clothing for the trip, underwear, a couple spare pairs of jeans, t-shirts, and my necessaries bag. I sat down on the bed and installed the software for my new mobile phone onto the notebook, shut it down, and packed it too.

With everything gathered up, I nuked the remainder of the leftover London Broil, added a little spicy mustard, and put it in a pita for a quick lunch. We needed to sign an affidavit of eligibility for Young Son’s membership in the Scholastic Kid’s Council, for whom he’ll be reviewing and writing this year. I’m so proud of him for submitting the application (he wrote an essay).
(Dang my shoulder hurts with the notebook on this motel-room counter!)

We headed over to the bank to have the affidavit notarized, then said our goodbyes while I slathered on some sunscreen and passed out hugs and kisses. It took me a couple of minutes (stop laughing wife!) for me to put the GPS unit into navigation mode. Once that was accomplished (with my wife giving me a hard time in the background), I headed south for Garden City, where I was to meet my riding partner, colleague, and graduate student (in one person) for the remainder of the trip.

It was a beautiful West Texas afternoon. The sky was blue and dotted with puffy white cumulus clouds. The wind was down and the air was warm. As I rode south on U.S. 87 towards Tahoka, the stress of the last few weeks drained from me. I could feel myself relax with the miles. The GPS unit told me my heading and how far to my next waypoint. I might not need paper maps anymore except as a backup in case of electronic failure.

One thing of interest is that the speedometer on my bike is fast by about six miles per hour at 70mph and about four miles per hour at 30mph. Hmmm… no wonder so many vehicles pass me when I think I’m at the speed limit.

At Lamesa, I turned south on SH 137 and rode on through Stanton, Texas. The road is a pretty straight shot that splits the line connecting Midland and Odessa; I shaved a few miles off my route.

I stopped somewhere south from Lamesa and made a few images. This one of some abandoned ranch hand housing struck me as interesting.

I arrived in Garden City about 1445, stopped at the convenience store, and pulled up to the pump. My riding partner was sitting in the shade next to his beautiful new (to him) 1983 BMW R80RT, and it’s a beauty of a machine. It stood there, glowing red in the midafternoon sunlight, ready to roll. He pulled it over to the pump and refueled as well, then we both parked and went inside so I could get a snack and a drink.

The conversation rolled around the usual topics while I drank a couple of Gatorades and ate a Payday bar (or two). After a brief rest, we mounted up and headed south on FM 33 back to SH 137 and stopped off at Stiles, Texas (now a ghost town) to look at the culvert for Centralia Draw. The drainage area for this structure is something over 100 square miles. The estimated design discharge is 15,000 cubic feet per second or so. The rated capacity of the structure is about 4,000 cfs, but the structure has never overtopped. Clearly, the watershed does not generate as much runoff as the standard methods might indicate. I find this fascinating as I’ve been working on revised methods for hydrology in Texas and have suspected that the methods need recalibrating for the dry climate that exists over most of the state.

We remounted and continued on SH 137 toward Big Lake, then turned west on U.S. 67 to Texon, where we stopped so I could see the Texon Scar. It is a big, ugly, wasteland where an estimated 1 billion barrels of brine were dumped during the early part of the oil boom. The salt killed nearly everything and, after fifty years, the impact can still clearly be seen. I stopped and made a few images for my records, then we turned back toward Big Lake and rode south on SH 137 to Ozona and IH-10.

I don’t generally ride the interstate highway system. I don’t enjoy the heavy truck traffic and the lack of character that the interstates have. But, traffic was light as we turned west toward Sheffield and I was in country I haven’t seen in probably 20 years. The landscape was arid and the geomorphology of wind and water was evident in that the landscape was cut into rough valley walls that dropped into the dry streambeds. The afternoon sun was beginning to glow and a large thunderstorm cell could be seen 50 or 100 miles north of us. As we approached our exit, a large Dodge pickup pulled up close behind me (too close), then backed off a bit.

We exited the interstate at SH 290 and headed for Ft. Lancaster, an old cavalry outpost. The pickup followed us, more closely than the Lead Rider was comfortable with, so he rolled on the throttle to put a little distance between us, but the truck driver was uncooperative. We pulled off at a picnic area for a drink and for a photo-op.

The Old Government Road was cut into the side of the Pecos River valley and was a major route in the development of west Texas. At the bottom of the valley wall is Ft. Lancaster. I made a few images, relaxed, drank some more water, and then we headed on. It was a fun run down the valley wall and I passed the Lead Rider, made a squid of myself (motorcycle slang for riding on ahead), and then pulled up to wait at the bottom of the hill and the entrance to Ft. Lancaster. Unfortunately, the monument was closed so I didn’t get to go inside, but I think I’ll have to come back sometime.

I was getting low on fuel, so I was relieved when we rolled into Sheffield and the fuel stop was still open. We pulled into the station, where two men were visiting. The first was a short thirty-something with bright blue eyes, short brown hair, and a greasy t-shirt. He walked over to the pump, started it, and handed me the nozzle. He asked about the bikes as I refueled. The other man, taller with medium brown hair, a ballcap, and sunglasses wandered over and started looking over the Lead Rider’s RT. I finished fueling Jezebel, handed off the nozzle, and made note of my fuel usage in my PDA. Jezebel made about 41 miles per gallon, a little off her best but not bad nonetheless.

“Did you see that doe walk through town this morning?” the shorter man asked his friend.

“Nope” he replied.

“Yeah, this morning, my buddy across the street was staring at something. I hollered at him and he pointed at a big doe just walking through town in broad daylight.” He continued.

I followed him inside to pay for our fuel and grabbed a Gatorade from the cooler.

“You want that on here?” he asked, nodding at my credit card.

“No, I’ll just pay for it. How much?” I asked.

“A buck… Bradshaw ain’t got nuthin’ on me.” he grinned.

“Bradshaw?” I asked, I guess a little road weary.

“Terry…” and I got it finally, the reference was to the long-distance phone service commercial. Sheesh….

“We get a lot of bikes through here,” he continued, “mostly Goldwings, Harley’s, and Beemers. There are good roads here, but you be careful.” he finished.

As we went back outside, he asked where we were going. “State Highway 349 to Dryden, then onto Rocksprings.” the Lead Rider replied.

The shorter man looked me in the eye, “You be careful and watch for those deer. They’ve been runnin’ lately. There ain’t no services for 50 miles, except some buzzard picking at your ass.” I had no idea of the foreshadowing that statement entailed. We remounted, fired up the bikes, and started to pull off. “You might want to watch that helmet.” the other man said.

The Lead Rider grinned, “I lose track of everything when I get to jawin’.” He retrieved his helmet from the seat behind him, put it on, and we rode off. The Lead Rider has just renewed his interest in motorcycling and it takes quite a bit of practice to get all the details. I have a ritual I follow when I’m on the road so that I don’t forget things. Because if I don’t follow my ritual, I forget things too!

We headed off down SH 349 and the ride was gorgeous, as promised. This is desert country, not the sand-dunes-Hollywood trash, but a place where there is plenty of life but little water. The road is in great condition and very inviting. But, given the warning, I was wary of Bambi.

We saw plenty of buzzards working roadkill as we headed south. That fact alone was a bit alarming, although I see it all the time when traveling on the open highway. The buzzards are a bit scary as they tend to fly off across the road in the path of oncoming traffic. I really don’t want to connect with one of those heavy carrion-eaters. We rounded a wide bend in the road and the Lead Rider stretched out his left hand, pointing to some wild turkeys on the left. I came up on them as they were headed off the right-of-way to the left so I didn’t expect them to fly into my path. I watched them running through the boundary fence, when I caught a flash of black in my peripheral vision on the right.

WHAM… I was hit hard on the right side of my helmet. I was stunned and shocked and don’t remember much about what happened over the next few moments. I instinctively rolled off the throttle, immediately reducing speed, shaken, and pulled to the side of the highway a couple hundred yards down the road. Fortunately, stunned as I was, I never felt I was in danger of losing control of the machine. Jezebel, I fear, is more stable than her rider. I saw the Lead Rider roll on, but thought he’d reverse in a minute or two when he didn’t see me in the mirrors and I needed to stop, do a damage assessment, and collect my reeling thoughts.

I shut down the bike, dropped the sidestand, and stepped off. The windscreen had popped two of the four plastic bolts that hold the upper and lower sections together. The visor from my helmet was gone and the right-side hinge was destroyed. I had pain in my neck and shoulder on the right side, but I didn’t seem too badly damaged. But I was covered in turkey efflux. More turkey feces were on my shirt and on the bike. I retrieved my water bottle from the tankbag and stood there, washing my sunglasses to clear them when the Lead Rider returned. I think he was expecting to find me crashed. I didn’t crash, but the experience was bad enough.

After a few minutes, I climbed back aboard, reversed direction, and rode down the road, looking for my nemesis. I found the hen, eviscerated by my face shield, on the north east side of the road. Shards from the visor were scattered about the highway, a shiny testament to my encounter. The Lead Rider made a photograph of me and my dearly departed friend. I certainly came out on the better end of the encounter. I guess that sheer physical size does matter. Armor doesn’t hurt either.

The helmet did its job, but will have to be replaced. We rode off down SH 349 to Dryden, where we stopped so that the Lead Rider could call ahead. We were way behind schedule and it was just getting dark. After a bit of water, we headed of toward Del Rio, with me in the lead so that my brighter lights would actually be useful.

I could tell that this leg would not be fun. I was already sore from the impact and the wind was working me pretty badly with no face shield and the windscreen damaged. At least everything was holding together. I reflected on the fact that I was still riding, hurting a bit but not taken out by a bird. I now know that somehow I kept on the road when I probably should have crashed. I was stunned badly enough that my recollection of the moments after the impact is blurred.

It took us another hour-and-a-half to get to Del Rio. As we approached, I began to think this would be a good place to call it a day so that I would have a chance of finding a replacement helmet and repairing my windscreen in the morning.

We stopped at an Exxon station, refueled, and I suggested that we stay in Del Rio. I think it was a good call. The Days Inn, while not a paragon of comfort, was clean enough and cheap enough. We found a Kettle for some food (it was too late for most of the restaurants) and I called in. I wondered what Wife might have to say.

“I need a new helmet.” I said.

“What happened?” she said, concern in her voice.

“I hit a turkey… and it’s not the Lead Rider…” I replied. He laughed, sitting across from me at the Kettle. Wife laughed on the other end.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m a little sore, but I’m fine. I didn’t crash, I didn’t lose control, and I’m not hurt.” I assured her.

“Well, you told me some good stories would come from this trip.” she mused. “Now I guess you have one!”

We chatted a while longer of the phone, then said goodnight and we headed off toward the Days Inn for a shower and sleep. The 464-mile ride had taken it’s toll on my old body. Now you know why my shoulder hurts this morning typing on the notebook on the counter in this motel room.

1. Efflux? That's a good one!

   — Dazed&Confused    25 September 2002, 14:12    #
   
   

2. I have, on occasion, had good diction. :)

   — ruminator    25 September 2002, 22:27    #