As we barreled down Farm Road 1725, I knew I was at the perfect place for the day. Halfway between New Waverly and Humble, Texas, I was flying down the road, racing Mike to my son’s school. Here it was 2:20, and he gets out of school at 3:10. I had never been late to pick him up before and I didn’t plan on starting this day. I pushed the Revolution 1250 motor just a little harder and glanced down as my speedometer was smoothly passing 120 mph. This bike was in it’s sweet spot and gaining power! Somewhere between the adrenaline rush of speed and scanning for bacon, I wondered how did this day get away from me so fast?
I awoke this morning to another start of dreary overcast skies, drizzle, and wet roads. As soon as I wake up, I always check the weather to see if riding is a option, or a futile attempt at pain management. The past few weeks it seemed every one of my free days started with rain. Rain isn’t too bad, but coupled with the 35 to 50 degree temperatures doesn't work for me. Plus, I try to stay dry. This day called for clear skies by noon and a high of 50 degrees…perfect! I finished my coffee and headed to the gym for a morning workout of shoulders and forearms. Since starting martial arts training, I restructured my workouts to emphasize quickness and strength rather than brute power and muscle. Eliminating visions of becoming a bear, I leaned more towards the style and speed of a cat.
The music in the gym rumbled an array of rap, disco, and homo music, so I usually jammed on my iPod. As I made my way from station to station, it took all my energy to ignore the emerging sunlight coming in through the front windows. With each glimmer of brilliant rays, images of the roads pulled me away from the ever important mind-muscle connection. I finished my last set of laterals and could feel my shoulders burning with isometric pressure and pain. Although I wanted to ride, 15 more minutes would put this workout into my personal record books, so I pushed past the pain again. Although I wanted to sprint out of the gym and rush home, I needed to spend a few minutes stretching after my lifts were complete. I discovered as I got older that it takes twice as long to warm up and cool-down after a workout, but the trade-off is less injuries and faster recuperation.
As I pulled out of the gym I heard my phone buzzing in the console. I reached for it and saw “Mike” clearly on the display. It seems my buddy had the same thought as me.
“What up?” I answered.
I was met with Mike’s typical baritone laugh as he always gets a kick out of my simple salute. “You ready to ride?”
It was more of a statement than a question.
“Heading to the house now. Give me 30 minutes to shower and check over the bike and I’ll meet you somewhere.”
“Ok, yeah, 30 minutes works for me, I’ve still gotta check the bike.”
I laughed at the mention of his bike. Mike rode crotch rockets until the day he saw a Bandido flying down the freeway on a stripped-down Electra Glide. With visions of that bike in his head, he sold his Hyabusa and GSXR, and bought a brand-new Electra Glide, before stripping it down. Three weeks later, Harley introduced the Street Glide. He was pissed.
After spending a few years riding his couch with wheels, he decided he wanted something different and hopped onto a Shovelhead bobber. After wrestling that bike across the country on two separate trips, he decided a new build was in order. With a Twin Cam motor and tranny sitting in his garage, he ordered an FXR frame with FLH mounts from Chopperguys and started his latest build. After almost a year he has a stripped down FLH with 20-inch Gimphanger handlebars and enough chrome to catch your eye. He has become the poster child for anti-Harley with FTF stickers abound and refused to wear anything that bears “The mark of the beast” as he calls it. The new bike pulls a legitimate 117 rwhp, and sounds like a fire-breathing demon when the exhaust bellows out of his racing 2-into-1 pipe; a formidable opponent indeed.
I hung up just as I pulled into the driveway. Our home is a two-story track home that sits in Houston’s 2008 “Neighborhood of the Year.” While living there makes my wife and kids happy, my stomach turns every month when the bills roll in. If it wasn’t for having to support my family, I wouldn’t be involved in the rat race of trying to make as much dough as possible, working swing shift in a plant, and scraping by every month on a prayer.
I would most likely be a fulltime writer, mechanic, shit, maybe even a tattoo artist. I am sure I would be sleeved and my hair would be at my ass, as well as a goatee would tickle my stomach. But in my world, as it is, I get by clean shaven and well groomed. For some insane reason, I am trapped by the world I have created, and I can’t find an escape….at least until I go for a ride.
I’m not trying to please anyone, and I am surely not answering to anyone. It’s usually just me and the bike flowing with the road. There are times when the thrill is killed by flashing red and blues or bad weather, but other than that it is usually ecstasy.
I hit the garage door opener in my console and smiled as the door gave way to the center of my escape. Sitting in the garage, the sight of the slammed black V-Rod incites pure adrenaline and an incredible endorphin rush. The long wheelbase that ends at the fat 240 rear amplifies what the bike was built for, speed with comfort. Comparing this bike with my Harleys of the past is like trying to compare driving a hot rod pickup and a corvette, there’s just no comparison. The speed, power, handling, stopping power, everything far exceeds any bike I have ever ridden. This bike straight up makes my soul smile.
I wheeled her out of the garage and checked the front axle and fork bolts to be sure they were tight. I had put a brand new Metzeler front tire on just the day before, so I was looking forward to seeing how she compared to the stock Dunflop. The tire was still hairy, as I had only put around three miles on her before the downpours started. I think I had amassed an amazing 50 miles in the last week due to work and weather, so I was itching for a ride to open up my soul.
After a quick shower and necessary layering, I grabbed my leather jacket, Vindicta vest, road map, and cell phone before heading out the door. My visiting father in law decided to head outside to watch the launch as he was quietly dreaming of his own escape. His example of “someday” reasoning is one of the reasons I said “screw it” years before and promised myself I’d never wait to get a bike. If I wanted I bike, I made a vow I’d get one, and that is that.
I gave Mike a quick call to secure a meeting spot and was not surprised that he picked a familiar destination. “Meet me at the Shell station a New Waverly.”
I couldn’t help but laugh when he said it and I quickly challenged, “Race you there, bitch!” With that I hung up the phone and thumbed the starter. The high revving Revolution barked through the D and D Fatcat, reminding my neighbors that I lived on the street. I donned my gear and checked off my inventory before giving my father in law a goodbye knuckle bump. While wearing a full-face helmet had been my style he past two years, I have recently started wearing my jockey-styled beanie again since that’s what Bandit wears. Actually, with the weather being somewhat cool and the winter months coming to an end, I just wanted to feel the wind on my face.
I pulled onto the street and blasted away at a respectable pace before having to slam hard on the brakes due to the Harris County Constable sitting at the end of my street. He was doing his morning rounds through the neighborhoods and just happened to be heading down my street as I started the bike. Luckily for me he followed me all the way to Beltway 8, slowing me down to a snail’s pace. Sometimes things like that turn into a blessing, ‘cuz I realized I needed gas, enabling me to stop at a station while he rolled by. Maybe he was in search of someone else to pester or he had run out of doughnuts and kolaches. Either way, at least he wasn’t behind me anymore.
I started down Highway 59 cruising at 75 mph. The bike felt strong as the rpm range pulled steadily. I could ride in 3rd gear at 6500 rpms or 5th gear at 3500 rpms, either way it didn’t matter. The bike was smooth and pulled steadily throughout the rpm range, making the Night Rod Special a dream to ride on the open road. I quickly made my way north to Cleveland, Texas, where I would take the 105 exchange towards Conroe. Just as I crossed the freeway, I caught the Farm Road 1725 heading Northeast. This road crossed into the Sam Houston National Forest and has some of the best twisties in our area. I swear this is some of the best riding in Texas!
I leaned into each corner almost doubling the recommended speed for the turns. The bike seemed to take it all and begged for more, as I could feel the road melting beneath the tires. I wasn’t riding the road as much as conquering it; the front tire eating the asphalt like a dragon sucking the wind in before exhaling flames out of the exhaust. This is living.
Twenty minutes after exiting 59, I was at the 105 junction. This two-lane blacktop was my gateway to New Waverly, where I was sure Mike was waiting. After the hassle of the police escort, I figured I lost 15 minutes. Since it took Mike 45 minutes to get to New Waverly, and it usually took me an hour, I figured he had enough time to beat me there. Now I had the added bonus of getting to hear his remarks about how his tractor styled motor outruns my “ricer-Porsche.” I put the coals to it and tried to scan for any parked cars, headlights, or speed traps. While I pushed 80 mph, the road began to change from straightway blacktop to a rolling hills striped with a ribbon of road piercing the center. I sat back and let the rhythm of the road mix with the wind. It cleared my head. Next thing I knew, I was pulling up to Rt. 75, where I could see the Shell just up ahead on the right. I pulled into the only Shell in New Waverly and was pleased to see I was the only bike in attendance. I beat him…again.
Sitting at the station trying to thaw out my fingertips, I could not help but remember 2006. Mike and I had met at this exact station on a Monday night at 12:30. We left that station heading for our second trip to Sturgis, and besides gas and food; we didn’t stop till we reached the Mecca 26 hours later. How could I not smile when remembering that Groundhog’s day existence of riding, drinking, crashing, only to wake up and do it all again? About the time my hands started to recover, I could hear Mike’s bike in the distance. The vision of him gripping the apes while gliding into the station parking lot reminded me of David Mann images from the past. Besides the Twin Cam motor, you would never guess this to be a fairly new bike. Built for the road, he styled the bike to be low yet comfortable.
He pulled next to my bike and slid off the seat with a smile. As I reached my hand out to greet him he smiled and said, “I can’t feel my fucking fingers.”
We both laughed at the common sentiment we both felt. There are certain pains that are associated riding in the cold. We laughed as we remembered our 2006 trip and tried to ignore the fact that we were both freezing. Although the sun was starting to peek out of the clouds, the wind seemed to push the clouds over it, causing a sharp chill. I looked at my watch and noticed it was already 12:20; I had to be back home in less than 3 hours–no problem.
We decided to visit with the local real estate agent, who was also Mike’s uncle. The uncle sat with us a few minutes. I became accustomed to Mike's routine; time was irrelevant to him. The visit cut into our ride, and at the moment more troubling to me, lunch. I finally cleared my throat and patted my stomach before Mike realized I was ready to go. Twenty minutes after the “quick” visit started, we were headed back to our bikes.
Mike looked at me puzzled before finally rattling off, “Why are you always in a hurry?”
“I already waited 30 minutes for you to ride your tractor to get here,” I said. “I came to ride not to play catch up with Auntie Em and Uncle Jeb.”
He couldn’t help but laugh at my sarcasm, yet he had to retort with the customary, “You’re such a dick.”
We mounted our bikes and started back to the diner we agreed on for lunch. As we pulled into the lot, we both backed our bikes to the front curb. Our pipes rattled the shop windows as we backed in. We were greeted with nasty stares from the fat farmers and blue-hairs sucking down their daily provisions. Their eyes averted quickly once we started towards the door. While we rarely start trouble, we both had enough experience and know-how to handle it should someone feel squirrelly. Once inside, I knew we wouldn’t have any trouble from this crowd. The biggest threat would be from a couple of fat ranchers, each pushing 250 lbs. While I wouldn’t dare match up with one of them head on, I was sure their cardio would be easily taxed should an altercation occur. They were too busy stuffing their faces to even give us a look.
Our waitress was very easy on the eyes from the chest up. Her full breasts topped off an attractive face and wonderful eyes. Her long mane-like hair was pulled tight into a ponytail. She was probably a former homecoming queen, before she had a baby. At least I guess she had a baby, which would explain the half a beer gut and saddlebags she supported. Then again, she could have just been a party girl who liked beer and potato chips.
The food was typical of a country diner on our area; large portions, plenty of flavor, and a very reasonable price. I enjoyed the seasoned brisket and fried okra washing it all down with sweet southern iced tea. Mike ate the hearty catfish special and beans. After a meal like this I am thankful to live in the south.
Looking at the cock as we paid, I realized it was already 2:15 pm. I was easily an hour away from the house. I had to jam home to pick up my son from his school at 3:10! How was I going to make the hour trip in less than that in traffic? I told Mike I had to blaze and he relished the idea of a quick ride chasing the clock. Smiling, I challenged, “Keep up if you can.”
“No problem, I just have to get gas first.” Typical of Mike, take off for a road trip with the bare minimum of gas. I waited as he filled up and tried to visualize the quickest route back with the fewest chances of bacon impediment. I settled on the same route I took in and prayed for a little help from above.
We took off back towards 150 at a steady clip of 80 mph. Mike tried to blast past me at one point, and I didn’t even downshift. I flew past him and noticed my speed touching 120 mph when I let off the throttle. The front end dipped as it absorbed each bump in the road. I could see Mike hanging with me in my rear view mirror, but I hadn’t put the coals to her yet.
We came to 1725 and took it eastbound towards Cleveland, Texas. I knew I had 20 minutes of twisties but needed to cut that time in half. I decided to push my luck and double the posted speed limit for most of the road. Occasionally, I would encounter a lumbering truck and blazed past him. I couldn’t be late, my son was waiting. I would often catch the reflection of Mike dipping in and out of my mirror, but knew he was pushing hard to keep up. While I didn’t have to slow too much for the winding road, I noticed I would make distance on him until we hit a straightaway. I knew he was gunning hard to keep up, while I never left 4th gear. The superiority of the Revolution motor, coupled to D&D performance exhaust, showed through in spades.
Just as we hit Cleveland, I noticed we shaved 10 minutes off the normal time on the road. I was now in Cleveland, 25 minutes from the house. Unfortunately, it was 2:40 and the afternoon traffic was starting to build. Just then Mike signaled to me, he had to take a leak, so we pulled into a parking lot and he ran behind the dumpster. What is it about riding in the cold that makes you have to pee so often?
Once he straddled his bike we hit the freeway smoking. I laid a 60-foot burnout leading up to the feeder as my bike's tach danced near the 9000 rpm, redline. If it wasn’t for the design of the seat supporting me from movement, I was sure this bike would easily ride right out from under me. The acceleration was astounding and it reminded me of the time I rode in an retired fighter jet, when I was a kid.
I tried to hold off on the throttle because although Mike’s bike was a hot rod, we had already established I reached my peak horsepower much quicker than he did and would therefore walk away from him. I tried to keep the needle dancing between 80 – 90 mph. We were fairly cautious coming home, but had to maneuver between lines of vehicles occasionally, sometimes on the brink of collision. For the most part, we cut through traffic like a knife through butter.
Once we reached Townsend Blvd., I patted my head, my signal to Mike. I spotted a cop ahead. The rest of the trip would be a challenge to navigate above the speed limits while avoiding traffic, as well as the piggly wiggly. FM 1960 is an obstacle course of traffic, cops, construction, as well as traffic back ups.
As I rounded the first corner, I saw my greatest fear materialize in a sea of red lights. It was 3:00 pm on the nose and I didn’t have time to spare. Without thought or preparation, I flicked the bike in and out of traffic dancing between the two lanes while trying to balance on the white line separating us. Between the assholes swerving towards me at the last minute and trying to compensate for the road reflectors, I was worried the bike would take a beating. To my surprise, she handles everything the road put in her way and didn’t miss a beat, once again solidifying the fact this was the best motorcycle I have ever ridden. While I am glad it says Harley-Davidson on it, I must admit I would have bought this bike no matter who made it.
My watch ticked to 3:07, and I am 5 miles from the school. We are sitting at a stoplight and I notice a cop at the adjoining light eyeballing us hard. Luckily, I saw him as I was getting ready to lay some rubber down on the green signal. Time was running short.
The light turned green and we pulled smoothly away from the light and watched the cop become smaller and smaller. Just as I thought he was out of sight, I hit the throttle as I could see the entrance to my neighborhood ahead. I could feel him eyeballing us when I decided to make a hard right into the adjoining neighborhood. As we pulled into the first street I saw him flip a u-turn and turn on his lights. It was 3:09, and I was 2 miles away, but I now had to make it through a maze of suburban streets, kids, soccer moms, bus stops, while running from the po-po. Shit!
Thankfully I spend a decent amount of time riding, so I can handle my bike and I know these neighborhoods like the back of my hand. I am sure the cop followed us, but after two or three streets, he would have no way of following me and I was counting on the fact that he would anticipate we would be heading away from a school zone instead of towards it.
I could see the school ahead and saw the line of kids leaving the campus. Some were heading towards the buses, some were heading towards the parent’s cars and their bike racks, while the rest were heading across the street to the “walkers” pickup point. That’s where my boy would be. We cruised past the school and watched as the kids laughed and waved, always excited when the bikes roll by.
We made it to the corner where I pick him up and we parked the bikes on the sidewalk. Most of the parents know me by now, so they usually give a friendly wave. Just as we got off the bikes, you could hear a police car in the distance, siren getting fainter as he was getting further away. Just as we took off our helmets and gloves, I could see my boy rounding the corner…right on time. Yeah, today was definitely a good day.
