Too Young to Die

Posted Tue Aug 10, 2004 in Motorcycling

I recall my so called misspent youth
It seems more worthwhile
Every single day
Cruisin’ Van Nuys and acting so uncouth
All the joys of runnin’ away…

The day dawned bright, but a bit cloudy—a mix of potential and portent. That’s an interesting combination.

The forecast was for possible showers in the morning, then isolated showers in the afternoon. I bungeed my regular jacket to Shadowfax’s back seat in case it should rain hard, then loaded my camera, PDA, phone, and water in the right side case. After a bite of breakfast, I told Wife goodbye and headed out for Iraan (pronounced “Ira-ann”) to meet my colleague and friend. Our ultimate destination was the SH 349 bridge over Dry Creek for an inspection. Ultimately, the research team will have to determine whether it will be included in the research study I’m working on.

There was no speed limit
On the Nevada state line
The air was red wine
On those top down nights
Just you and me
My old rollerskate
And the common sense
To know our rights…

I headed south on U.S. 87. Near Tahoka, Texas, we ran into fog. Visibility was about a quarter to a half-mile. Tahoka is where my doctor works. Yeah, I drive about 40 miles each way to see the doctor. (He’s my friend and brother-in-Christ as well as my doctor and I’d drive further than that to visit him. He takes good care of my family and me.) The words of the song (actually, the music too) “Too Young to Die” by David Crosby echoed in my mind. It’s one of my favorite songs and may be the best album in my collection. (Those words provide the counterpoint to this story, as well. Credit where it’s due!)

On the other side of Tahoka, we rode out of the fog. Maybe it was symbolic of the fog my brain has been in these last couple of years. But, with the clearing of the fog, the metaphorical fog in my mind seemed to clear as well. I could feel that old wanderlust, fed by the bike, fill my heart with the joy of the road.

At Lamesa, I stopped at the McDonalds to get rid of some coffee. I was tempted to buy another cup, but decided to keep going as I was running a bit late. As I re-suited, a man, middle-fiftyish with a white straw cowboy hat asked,

“Where you goin’ today?”

“Iraan, to see a failed bridge.”

“Oh yeah, I heard about that a couple of weeks ago. You gonna rebuild it?”

“No, I’m working on a research project and they want to see if I want to include Dry Creek in our research.”

“You from Tech?”

“Yeah, I’m a professor at Tech.”

“Thought so—got your colors on.” he said, referring to my red and black summer-weight jacket.

“You have a gud’un.” he admonished, nodding, and waved as he walked into the store.

I turned right at the road sign and wandered through town to pick up SH 137 and SH 349. SH 349 was the goal and it leads to Midland and beyond. Lamesa is where we used to see movies at the drive-in theater. It was the closest drive-in until someone built one here in Lubbock. I remember gathering at the Lamesa drive-in with friends and watching movies there in the cool of a summer evening. It was a good time spent with good friends.

Once on SH 349, I set the cruise at 77mph (yep, Shadowfax has automotive cruise control), which is about 70mph +-, and motored on.

Sweet old racin’ car of mine
Roarin’ down that broken line
I never been so much alive
Too fast for comfort
Too low to fly
Too young to die…

We crossed through the lower part of the south high plains, surrounded by cotton and corn fields, and by natural lands. The sun was hidden by clouds, but every now and then it would peek through, lighting the surrounding landscape with new morning light, warm and tender.

You say a man can’t love a material thing
With aluminum skin
And a cast iron soul
But they never heard your engine sing
Ah there’s peace in losing control
“Sticky fingers” turned up real loud
Ah, we were flirtin’ with catastrophe
We were doing everything that’s not allowed
Life didn’t come
With a warranty
For you and me…

I stopped in Midland, Texas to refuel. I still don’t know how far Shadowfax can go without refueling. I know it’s somewhere near 200 miles, but I’m not confident enough yet to know if it’s 200 miles or 240 miles and it makes a difference. Iraan is 201 miles from home according the my mapping software. It was a short stop, and we rode on through town.

Once outside of Midland I reset the cruise and motored on. We passed fields where goats are grazed. I couldn’t resist honking at them as we passed, laughing as they bounced off, startled by Shadowfax’s beeker horn. A couple of the old billies just looked up at us, either too old or too ornery to be startled.

Sweet old racin’ car of mine
Roarin’ down that broken line
I never been so much alive
Too fast for comfort
Too low to fly
Too young to die

There is peace in losing control…

I was reminded of a time when we visited some friends in the country. As we prepared to leave, we were standing around outside, still talking. I heard the na-aaa-aaa of a goat off in the distance. Me, being the person I am, couldn’t resist.

“Na-aaa-aa,” I said.

“Na-aaa-aa!” came the reply.

With each interchange, the tone on the other end became more and more insistent.

I laughed, “that’s probably some old billy who’s getting pretty upset!” and terminated the conversation.

We passed through Rankin, Texas, and I started watching the skies again. The clouds were thicker here, more threatening of rain. I could tell that there weren’t any showers close by, because I could see through the the hills beyond. That’s right, I’d reached the hill/mesa country in the southwest part of Texas.

The hills were pretty, misty in the distance with all the water in the air. The air was cool, too, almost too cool for August in Texas. But, I’ll take whatever cool I can get. The last few miles into Iraan made me wonder if I’d get there before getting wet. Shadowfax and I haven’t been through rain before. I didn’t know how well I’d be protected. But the rain held off and I met my friend at the Town and Country, as planned, only late.

I always seem to be late. Poor planning, I guess. I thought I’d have plenty of time.

I refueled, then met Allen, who was sitting there next to my friend, astride an R850R, the sister of Jezebel, only with a smaller engine. We talked a bit, then said goodbye and Friend and I went for lunch at the Old Cafe.

There I learned that Iraan was named for Ira Yates, a local rancher (who owned the land of the Yates field) and Ann Crawford (I think), the wife of the winner of the contest to name Iraan.

After lunch we rode the fifty miles to Dry Creek. We rode through a brief shower or two. Yeah, Shadowfax has a place inside, where you can hide, safe from the pouring rain. (Nods to David Wilcox and Eye of the Hurricane.) My arms caught a few drops, but it wasn’t bad. The helmet was wet, but nothing else.

At one point, I rode across a patch of asphalt, shiny-wet with rain. I had a funny feeling as I approached the patch, and sure enough, I could feel the tires squirm on the water, but their grip was true.

The way was all on SH 349, which is a great road and fun. Friend pointed at the spot where I had my turkey encounter. I rolled on the throttle and closed up the distance between us, not wanting him to scare up something wild and have it come my direction.

I saw a red cone beside the road and wondered what it meant. Just over the top of the next hill, I found out. Road Hazard! Water overtopping the pavement had stripped the pavement from the base, leaving a two-inch drop and then rise. Bu-bump! was all there was, and I managed to get my butt off the seat so that the machine would be balanced on the way across. I didn’t even have time to curse.

At the site, we parked the bikes and drank some water. The damage to the pavement was evident to me, even at a distance. It amazes me how water strips the pavement from the base. I could see where the pavement had slid from the roadway base onto the right-of-way in big chunks of asphaltic slab.

The bridge was subjected to a left abutment failure from flowing water. The flood waters had undermined the end treatment, which exposed the abutment. Then the abutment was eroded as well, undermining the roadway, which hung there, suspended about ten feet above grade. It was a disaster waiting to happen. If an automobile had crossed it, there would have been an accident.

We wandered around the site for a couple of hours, me making pictures and Friend describing what happened. Then we packed up and headed back to Iraan to refuel and head for the house. We said our goodbyes and parted ways again, each heading home.

For me, it had already been a long day. I’d ridden 300 miles, which is as long a ride as I’ve done on Shadowfax. I had doubts about whether I’d be up to the ride home or not. My legs were still sore from the Saturday ride and I thought that my elbows might hurt from the pressure. I need a set of bar-backs to put me a little more upright. The bike is designed for someone a bit taller than my 5ft-8in frame.

But, I forgot about the aches and pains as I rode onward. The sun was shining between broken clouds and the hills were beautiful. The air was warm, but not Texas-summer hot. I knew, though, that I still had three hours of riding ahead of me.

When I die I don’t wanna go to heaven
I just wanna drive my beautiful machine
Up north on some Sonoma country road
With Jimmy Dean and Steve McQueen
All the boys be singin’, singin’

Sweet old racin’ car of mine
Roarin’ down that broken line
I never been so much alive
Too fast for comfort
Too low to fly
Too young to die…

I rode on, tired, but satisfied that I had done what I’d come to do. I don’t know if we’ll add Dry Creek to our inventory or not. That’s up to the group to decide. It’s different than the others, and has a different watershed as well. It might make a good addition. We’ll see.

At Midland, I stopped again to get a drink.

“Hello!” a voice called as I entered the convenience store.

Startled, I looked over my shoulder to see a black woman, a clerk, grinning at me. “Hey,” I responded, nodding. I walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a Gatorade, then paid for it and sat down. I pulled out the cellphone to call home. As the phone powered up, I was greeted with a voicemail from one of the administrative assistants, needing information about a student employee. Too late to call back, I filed the request for treatment today.

“Where are you?” Wife asked when I called in.

“Midland. I’m getting a drink and taking a break.” We chatted for a few minutes. She was glad to know I was safe and feeling pretty good. I finished my Gatorade as we talked, then said goodbye and walked back to Shadowfax, always there, always full of potential. We got back on the highway, headed for the house.

We passed a few vehicles on the way home. It always amazes me when I roll on the throttle at 70mph in sixth gear and in a few yards am running 90mph or more. I love that kind of performance. It makes passing another vehicle easy and safe.

As the miles passed, that old familiar fatigue set in. My legs were tired and stiff, still unused to the machine. My arms, while not really sore, were tired too from the pressure of holding more weight than they had to on Bathsheba, but not too bad, certainly not as bad as I was afraid they might be.

I stopped in Tahoka to refuel, still uncertain about how far Shadowfax can go on a full tank of fuel. I rode the rest of the way home, satisfied that I can still ride a good day, 500 miles or so. I guess I’m still a motorcyclist.

Just a little bit too young…

Too young…

To die

Yeah, I guess that, after surviving the wreck and the pains associated with it and then the pains of dealing with the insurance company after the fact, I’m still a motorcyclist. It has a nice ring to it, motorcyclist.