You meet the nicest people on motorcycles … and sometimes it leads to blogs about nothing.
Those among my inner circle of trust – ha — the 20-some-odd friends on Facebook — have already read a couple of pieces of this story. First, I posted the story of the crazed neighbor on the morning of the lunar eclipse — “The Blood Moon.” Some of you may recall that I was out early with my Nikon and tripod trying to capture a celestial selfie during the event. Ha … up early, wide awake and doing something I enjoy had made me extra positive. So, inadvertently in a great mood, I said hello to several people on the street, and “Did you see the eclipse?,” to a neighbor on the street.
Her response?
She gathered up her robe or night gown ever so tightly — or whatever she sleeps in and apparently waters the grass in — and yelled at me, “Don’t come any closer!”
Not a problem, lady … I laughed and moved on, continuing down the center of the street in the dark carrying the camera and the tripod — extended to about 5 feet tall, swung over my shoulder.
So just tuck that mental image away for a second …
That was neighbors — the bad part.
Then, a few days later another neighbor restored my faith in humanity. Some older gentleman stopped me on the side of the road as I was riding out of my driveway on the smaller of my two motorbikes. “I like your Speedmaster. I used to have one just like it,” he sung out. We traded quips, shared notes and before you know it, this stranger offered me the left over maintenance manual from his old Triumph motorcycle … at least a 50-dollar item … cash money.
What a great neighbor! After he gave me the book, he invited me to go riding motorcycles some day. So hang on to that too … It’s like a tale of two neighbors.
So today, I stepped out on to the balcony cafe of PingWi-Fi world headquarters when I saw the good neighbor, not the crazed neighbor, walk by.
“Hey Gary! Do you want to go riding today?”
He said give me thirty minutes, but hah … he was ready and on his Harley in 15. I think he is always ready. I like that.
So in my usual clueless fashion, or what some might call laid-back-ish, I said let’s ride to Mineral Wells (Texas … about 45 minutes west of Fort Worth) … “You lead. I’ll follow … whatever.”
We cruised out to Mineral Wells — an excellent choice with the autumn leaves so vibrant along the way — but a little slow for my tastes. But, we were safe and there were lots of great views. We were going to lunch too and I was really looking forward to that.
So when we whizzed on by downtown MW and the historic, empty, perhaps haunted Baker Hotel in the healing waters heart of town, I assumed Gary must know of a little place at the other end of town.
We kept going. I was thinking at that point, that “Gary did hear me say food, right?”
(“Dude. In my culture we eat at least three times a day, and usually one of those is when the big hand meets the little hand at the top of dial.”)
We cruised on, west on 180 … The Palo Pinto Highway as it is known in those parts.
We crossed over The Brazos River … no food. But an awesome bridge …
We hung a left and headed south on 4, I think it was … and came to a “Y” in the road. We hung another left … and kind of out in the middle of nowhere, my one-hour friendship with Gary became suspect as we pulled into a private drive.
Man … I hope this is some hole-in-the-wall restaurant … a best-kept secret … a greasy spoon … one of those.
It wasn’t. It was a small, nondescript house with kind of an airplane-hangar/garage behind it. We parked our bikes and some guy comes out to meet us at the drive.
Gary told me “This is Larry” and I shook the guy’s hand, and immediately noticed that all of the fingers on one of his hands had been cut off at the second knuckle.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t lots of mafia movies include an airplane hangar or warehouse out in the boonies, and a guy with missing fingers?
A little bit of me was rethinking this excursion … For the second time in recent months … in a precarious situation, I just looked at the guy and said, “You’re not going to kill me … are you?.”
But the guys didn’t even pay me no mind and started raving about my big Triumph. Gary had brought me out to Harry’s just to shoot the breeze, talk motorcycles and quiz me on the specs of the 1700 cc, parallel twin … yada … yada … yada. Ha … and we migrated to the garage that was not a hangar at all, and everyone kicked back in a lawn chair … (I thought I was laid back.) … Ha … it seemed for a few minutes like maybe everyone was going to nap while Biff the wonder dog from down the street ate doggie treats from Harry’s fingers and nipped at insects in the still air.
I hated to be rude and break up the pow wow … but I was hungry. It was after 2 p.m. at this point. Harry rejected our invitation to join us for lunch, but he did show me his nice Yamaha under a cover in the back, beside his dirt bike.
Gary said, “I think I’ll take him (me) to Mary’s.” Great … more motorcycle show-and-tell with the gang, I thought.
We hopped on 3137 … I think … We cruised on, across a very dry Palo Pinto Creek Reservoir … to 919 I think … to 193, past Gordon and Mingus. (Did anyone try to ping us at Mingus … I digress …) after Gary cut through some ranch property that had a nice new sign stating “No Trespassing,” and on to Strawn, Texas.
“So this is Strawn,” I thought. Wasn’t it the town featured in the documentary about six-man football in Texas? (Six-man, not to be confused with the 12th Man in the previous blog …) Why yes it was, because the first thing that greeted us as we roared into the town of 500+ was a sign proclaiming their six-man prowess … winners of the Texas football state championship in 2003 and 2008.
Great film “6” … great fun this six-man version of gridiron … check it out.
I think I may have written something about the film at The Dallas International Film Festival a few years back … I remember for sure that one of my former PR clients Ken Capps has a cameo in the film. I digress …
Finally, we went through the 6-man center of the universe and we parked at Mary’s. I have since been told that Mary’s is high on the list of favorite biker cafes in Texas. But this day, there are two … sort of … and several cowboys. I see why all the hoopla. Mary’s serves up a chicken fried steak in three sizes … tall, grande and venti … no wait a minute their city slicker … small, medium and large. I chose medium. Good honk! The medium chicken fried steak covered every bit of the plate except the part that was under an avalanche of mashed potatoes … and the steak extended to hang off two ends of the plate. Huge, I tell yah.
Finally we were eating and joking and talking about our neighborhood. Gary told me about a woman who lives close to him who is nice, but lives alone (I think he said) … and is “a little paranoid.”
“Wait a second … Paranoid, you say?,” I said.
“Gary. I think I have met her.”
“Whattaya mean?,” he asks.
Well, Gary, one morning I was out with my camera to see the lunar eclipse … I recalled.
He chortles … “Ha-Ha … That was you!?! She has been telling everyone in the neighborhood about some guy wondering up and down the middle of the street in the dark … with a weed eater!”
I cracked up.
So you see friends … this little blog about nothing started with what looked like a biker mob adventure, and ended in a Fort Worth, “Texas Weed Eater Massa-cree!”
When we stopped laughing, I hoped I was not too stuffed to ride back to my neighborhood. I love my neighborhood.
Know what I sayin?
