You just never know about people. Take my friend … my new friend Jack, for example … full of surprises.  We became friends after I saw him a few times at Starbucks.  I recognized him as a former musician from my church’s orchestra.  Ha … I think he was quite flattered that “this stranger” (me) knew him for his prowess on the bassoon.  I would wager that bassoonists don’t have that many groupies … I digress.

Anywho, I said “hello,” and we started talking.

It wasn’t long before the topic turned to my motorcycle — parked outside the cafe.  Soon I learned that Jack is like the elderly statesman of Harley Davidson.  I thought I had done some cool road trips … but … Jack — all “five-foot-nothing” of him, with a child-like gleam in his eyes — told me about the vintage bike he road across most of The United States when he was 16!  How cool.  Nowawdays you hear about more and more doctors and lawyers and dentists who have become successful and then bought a bike.  Jack, the bassoonist and retired dentist cut his teeth on a hawg … many many years ago.

As I headed northeast of Houston on my bike yesterday, I thought of Jack and his great stories, and hoped my new adventure might interest the grandkids … if there are any, one of these days.  Yesterday was the perfect combinations of motorcycles, road trips and The Dirty Gig.  If not a granpappy story … perhaps worthy of a blog.

For the weekend, most of the personnel from the disaster relief project — a project that started a couple of months ago — were given days off for Sunday and Memorial Day — as more flooding hit. Faster than you can say M-P-H, I was planning a Triumph trip.  On the map, I sized up motorcycle routes to Goliad for some great Texas history … perhaps a return trip to Galveston Isle … maybe even a road trip to Beeville, Texas to see the boyhood home of an old, old friend. (Why he is not on Facebook is beyond me …)

Then the phone rang.  Well it didn’t ring, it buzzed and made a noise not unlike a microwave when the popcorn’s done, to tell me I had a new text message.

“Do you want to ride your motorcycle for three hours and get paid for it?”

Silly question.  Where do I sign?  I said yes, and then asked what was needed by the folks from The Dirty Gig.  The colleague sent me a brief note with the task and the street address.  (Hmmm … small town … I guess this is all the info. I need …)

I was asked to travel northeast, toward the flooding in the area, and to go to  one address where the dehumidifiers needed to be checked … inside some business that had some minor flooding.  Pretty simple.

So … my resumé already lists newspaper, blog, book publisher, advertising, PR, boyhood farmer and disaster technician … now add professional motorcycle pilot.

“Yes kiddo … I used to get paid for riding my motorcycle.” I digress …

I “flew” south first and then east out of (H)ouston to dodge some of the known wetspots, where flood waters had overcome the freeways … and eventually north.  On and near US 90, I learned there are Texas towns called Liberty, Hull, Daisetta, Rye and Dallardsville on my way to Colmsneil.  How many of you have ever heard of Colmsneil and/or can pronounce it like the locals do?  (I passed by a town called Ray Wood … wishing I had taken a selfie for my friend, who is of course, named Ray Wood … but I figured he probably already had the shot …) I thumbed my nose to the road sign for a town called Big Sandy.  (Vega, Texas readers will know why …)

Everything in Colmsneil was pretty much shut down, so I never heard the correct pronunciation.  Ha … I had guessed, correctly, the town was small.  But I was incorrect in thinking I could find the address of the flooded business with my gps.  No dice.  In a slight oversight, the person who sent me the information about the project had not included the company name.  And guess who was not on the job Sunday … yes, the guy with the needed information. … I rode around in the woods searching for a while … which is not all bad.

So,  finally I did what you do in a small town.  I pulled into the gas station for info., and nourishment.  And like the locals, I eyed the multiple varieties of fried food.  That was when I realized just how backwoodsy Colmsneil is … in addition to some delicious looking chicken strips, there were two or three fried items I could not identify.  What were they?  Didn’t know.  So, I had to have them.  From now on, whenever I get paid to ride a motorcycle, I will dine on fried chicken strips, fried boudain balls, and fried jambala crawfish pie.  Me-oh-my-oh! (“Cajun” for Yum!)

OH … what a stroke of luck.  I soon learned that I couldn’t find the address because the name of the street had been changed to a numbered county road.  However … However, I was in luck.  The lady serving the fried cajun cuisine was also the part-time mail deliverer in the thriving metropolis of Colmsneil and she told me the name of the company, the road conditions to the business and even how many service trucks would be parked out front.  She even offered to get in her car and lead me over there … you know … after her shift changed, or after she sold all the crawfish pies … whichever came first.

Got ‘er done.  It was a quick in-and-out task.  But the ride was the bigger challenge.  I had heard the river water in the area — flowing down from Austin and the Texas Hill Country who had their own issues with flooding the day before — was supposed to crest just about the time I was heading back to Houston.

So … was I going to earn my pay this day?  Would I be labeled “a fool” for riding the motorcycle into the flood zone.  Luck was still with me.  I hit one place where my backroad — 770 between Batson and the Daisetta-Hull High School was overtaken by floodwater … but it was just in one lane.  No traffic was coming, so I crept into the other lane and stayed dry, two wheels down.  I haven’t heard if the flooding became worse later in the day, as more flood waters rushed downstream toward The Gulf of Mexico.  I did take note that when I crossed the San Jacinto and the Trinity River bridges near Liberty in the morning, the flood waters were high but still 8-10 feet below the bridge.  Six hours later on my return trip, the water was within three or four feet of the bottom side of the bridge.  The river water was almost up to the crosswise of a nearby train trestle.  I might have puckered just a little riding over the water, hoping the engineers had done the math correctly at the time of bridge construction some 20 years prior.

So, yes it was my lucky day.  Hardly any water on the road.  A paid motorcycle road trip in and around some bayou country, the beautiful pines and rolling hills of The Big Thicket, and four songs I will never play again (fours songs to be blogged about on another day).  The ride through the woods on 265, east of Colmsneil … awesome!

Know what I sayin?