5569 Miles: A Trailways Bus Trip, Picking Up the Bike, and The Texas Hill Country, Chapter 2
A Trailways Bus Trip
An incident from the early 80's will illustrate the nature of the population in West Texas back then and even more so today. One must keep in mind the history of this area, even though it took place over 160 years ago. In 1983, my wife and I did one of the nuttiest things we have ever done in our lives. Her family lived on the California coast, and we were on the west coast of Florida at the time with our three small children. I was working in a church and had little money, none to make a flight for a family of five. Regardless, an elder in the church reminded me at board meetings at least once a year that he thought I was being paid too much. So one day Linda saw an ad on a box of Cheerios that offered a free trip to anywhere in the US for three children on TRAILWAYS BUS LINES if we bought 12 boxes of Cheerios, which we did. Then we purchased two tickets for ourselves for $300. At the time, I didn't think much of it. To save money, I could endure a non-stop bus ride for five days one way - and five days in return - for $300, no problem. I could sit back and sight-see the whole country as we all rode in comfort. There is no amount of money anyone could pay me today to ride a bus to the end of my driveway from what took place on that trip.
St. Petersburg To Houston
The five of us left St. Petersburg for Los Angeles about 6 pm one night. Around 3 am when I was in a dead, coma-like sleep, I heard what sounded like a voice somewhere in the distance shouting something about everybody having to get off the bus. I was laying in a seat scrunched in a fetal position with my neck bent at 90 degrees on the armrest. As I started to come around with my eyes almost welded shut and my head and neck feeling like it had been in medieval stocks, blazing light burned into my eyes while the bus driver was screaming that all passengers had to vacate the bus so it could be CLEANED. Cleaned? Did he say CLEANED? I looked at my watch. It was 3 am. Now I knew why the tickets were free. This and a lot of other things that Trailways did on that trip made absolutely no sense. But I later learned that that bus traveled from Miami to Los Angeles every five days. When it got to LA, there was a two hour turn-around prep, and that bus was back in Miami five days later to repeat it all over again non-stop. Back and forth that bus went, 2.5 million miles a year, and the engine was rebuilt several times along the way. What they did where or when made no difference to them. The bus had its own schedule regardless of the fools who paid to ride it.
The Bathroom In the Back
But the best part was yet to come. This bus was equipped with a bathroom in the back. It had a long way to roll, and it wasn't stopping sometimes for hours. So some people brought food stores with them on board. Others would jump off and quickly grab a coffee or some snacks at infrequent stops. As the bus jostled down I-10 in high heat and humidity along that Gulf Coast trail, that mixture of quick acting caffeine and junk food began to coalesce and churtle in bouncing stomachs for some interesting results. Before long, you would hear that bathroom door begin to crack open. As time crept along, more passengers began to pop up and stream their way towards the back where there always sat a pack of tawdry miscreants who looked like they should have been harmonizing "Tie A Yellow Ribbon ‘Round The Old Oak Tree." These people always sat on the back row and right next to the bathroom. So whoever decided to make his or her way back there had to endure their leering smirks. But that was okay because for having to endure those perverts in the back, the occupant of that little room probably had a nice surprise for them once he or she opened the door and waltzed back down the aisle from that rolling outhouse. Once in a while someone from up front would suddenly leap from his seat and bolt down the rocking aisle grabbing seat top after seat top and race for the back like someone who had eaten a pot of pinto beans and five bowls of chili chased by a six pack of Budweiser. Gaging the speed anyone was headed for the back and the look of concern I perceived on his or her face, I calculated the result on the misery meter for the ashen-white faced morons on the back row who were now praying somebody up front would get off the jam-packed bus at the next stop so they could move up and away from the ungodly odors that were emanating from that toilet. Once in a while one of those misfits right next to the bathroom who looked like he was going to vomit would waddle forth to see if maybe he had missed an empty seat after all. Without the sight of relief and saddled with dismay, he would slink into the back again like the Golem. As the miles cranked out, everybody felt dread anytime anyone rose from his seat and took the long walk back as if he was descending into a sewer.
My wife was praying the next stop was near because only desperation would make her or anyone head for the back where you could hear the contents of the holding tank sloshing around in the highway dips and filling up fast. The whole bus was becoming bathroom conscious. If you listened closely, you could hear every sound that was coming from that hell-hole. Every time that bathroom door opened was the same thing as pushing the door open to one of those disgusting gas stations where a lone cashier who looks like he has been standing there for days without a bath hands you a key on a broom handle to an outside toilet. The door is usually painted blue and partially open when you get there, and you have a very ominous feeling about what you are going to see when you look at that toilet. The bus was air-conditioned bus, but as soon as someone headed to the back, people started cursing and saying, "Open that %$#@ window before he opens that door." Those windows were like air vents into a mine shaft that had just collapsed on workers in West Virginia. When that door was cracked, powerful vapors instantly rushed down the aisle all the way to the front door. As soon as the driver finally pulled into the next station, everybody was already standing in the aisle and ready to charge off that bus like it was on fire.
Roaches
In addition to that, the bus was loaded with roaches. Yes, roaches. I had done exterminator work for awhile in Grand Rapids when I was 27 years old, and many times I had been sent out to bus companies to exterminate cockroaches from buses. The German and Brown-Banded roach thrived in heat. They blossomed even more in humidity. In one year, a pregnant cockroach left in a house alone can produce 18 million offspring. This bus was well on its way. We used to say that when you saw a cockroach in open daylight prowling around in the plain view, the house was loaded with them. This bus had scores of BABY roaches crawling around on the floor and seats and out of the heat ducts in the middle of the day. Between the roaches and the rolling outhouse, I cringed at touching anything. And there were four days to go.
All of this is to point out what happened once we got to Houston, Texas, on that bus. The entire national makeup of the traveling public completely changed once the bus unloaded in what is now the fourth largest city in America. This was the end of the line for the black folk. They piled off, and an army of Hispanics who spoke only Spanish charged on and refilled the seats all the way across Texas as we headed to San Antonio and west up U.S. 90 toward to El Paso. This part of the world is given over to Mexico.
Picking Up the K1200RS
The next morning after our flight to El Paso, my wife and I sprang from the sack early, enjoyed a hearty breakfast of biscuits and gravy at a Cracker Barrel, and were sitting up outside like pigs in a wheel barrow waiting for the man who had $13,500 of our money. As I had anticipated, he arrived and drove us to his home where I finally laid my natural eyes upon that 1998 K1200RS that brightly reflected the Texas sun off its yellow skin. It was all he said it was. With a brief signing ceremony on the surface of the title, Linda and I mounted up, drove down the hill, and swung out on I-10 headed for Key West.
Linda and I went to El Paso together for the first time in August of 1969. This was the week after Charles Manson and his merry band had killed Sharon Tate and all those people in Los Angeles. We were on our honeymoon back then at the tender ages of 20 and 23 and were coming from San Francisco via Los Angeles to Dallas where I was going to attend my first year of seminary. So before we left El Paso, we took a detour to a high spot over-looking El Paso that we had visited together almost 31 years before and briefly mused over our lives and the events that brought us back to this place with education and children totally behind us.
With that, we climbed back on the new steed and cautiously made our way down the mountain into El Paso's urban center and started a long journey by aiming the BMW east. The Beemer was an easy ride. I could feel incredible power under harness as I gripped the steel reins, and I moved with great confidence through the traffic on this sunny early March day. I took it easy to get accustomed to the new feel and agility of the bike as we began to put El Paso behind us and enter into the desert. The Beemer had such power that it was effortless to get to 80 mph. I was soon at 90. Then 100.
El Paso To Kerrville
It was a beautiful day in West Texas. The miles rolled off our wheels. Several times I saw in the distance a pack of Harleys herded together. Harleys seem to generally travel in packs. You will rarely if ever see that practice with Beemer riders. A Beemer rider tends to be a loner. Even if he is gregarious and loves to be surrounded by others, a Beemer rider will most likely travel solo because there are so few BMW's on the roads compared to Harleys and other bikes. In addition to that, Beemers are known to be very fast, all of them, and they are virtually silent compared to other bikes. So the speed is easy to bring up. One can be going 90 mph and hear very little, if any, engine noise. Hence, like sport bikes, BMWs lead (more like leave) traffic. At 65 mph, it seems as if you are barely moving. Over time, it seemed that the sweet spot for that K1200Rs was about 90 mph. Most of the time I was at 80-90 mph. Because of the feeling of embarrassment I had when I drove off on my Harley from my first BMW test ride, from that day forward I became a BMW evangelist. An army of Harleys miles ahead of me on the desert floor just gave me the incentive to conduct an advertising campaign. So as soon as I saw them, I accelerated speed to catch up. Making sure there were no cops anywhere to be seen - when I was about one half of a mile back - I opened the throttle. I shot past all Harleys at 100 mph...or more. Often I used to glance over my shoulder to see the model of bike that was going by. But when you are going 65-70 mph and are passed by someone doing 100 mph plus, you don't see much. You might catch that blue and white BMW emblem. But that would be it. I continued that practice on open highways for all Harleys and other bikes in the cruiser category. Today I ride a cruiser again, and I am quite content. Those Harley riders probably were too. But I wanted them to think about it.
Texas Hill Country
Linda and I probed the west Texas desert that first day for 550 miles. That blanket of blackness that was the West Texas night crept over us, and the air turned cold as we merged from the desert into the Texas Hill Country. Our powerful lights punched through the darkness. Deer are always a problem for a motorcyclist at night, but this bike was equipped with powerful PIAA lights that spread out their beams like arms and took in the covered sides of the highway, clearly exposing wildlife lurking off the shoulder. At last we coasted off of I-10 onto Texas 16 in Kerrville, right in the heart of the Texas Hill Country. I happened to pull up to one of those motels where there is an Indian proprietor in the back room brewing up something with curry in it. Curry sweetness permeated through every crack and every corridor of the place. As I stood there inhaling curry fumes, I asked the desk clerk the price for a room. He hesitated. I knew what that meant. He was thinking about what to charge. Rarely have I found a fixed rate in these places. They look out the window when they see you drive up to see if is dark or light, glance at the clock to see how much sleeping time is left, determine if you are rich or poor or tired or willing to check on other places for a better price, and then they quote you. His price was high. I turned to leave. That's all you have to do because they ALWAYS come back with a better rate. I was tired. It was good enough. I remember nothing else that night.
The Texas Hill Country is a region in central Texas that consists of tall, rugged, limestone or granite hills. When you travel east on I-10, you will start to enter the Hill Country just west of Junction, Texas. You will emerge in the northern suburbs of San Antonio. If you ever listen to western songs that speak of prickly pear cactus, this is a region where you will find them. In 2008, The New York Times declared the Hill Country "the No. 1 vacation spot in the nation." Parts of two major metropolitan areas - Austin and San Antonio - are in the Hill Country. Fredericksburg, just north of Kerrville, is a very popular and quaint little town that has become a weekend destination for people in Central Texas, especially those of Austin and San Antonio. The Hill Country has also made Texas second to Florida as the most popular retirement destination in the United States. Lance Armstrong, President Lyndon B. and Lady Bird Johnson, Tommy Lee Jones, and Willie Nelson either are from or now reside in the Hill Country. If you like Tejano music, the accordion was popularized in that genre of music because of influences from this area.
An incident from the early 80's will illustrate the nature of the population in West Texas back then and even more so today. One must keep in mind the history of this area, even though it took place over 160 years ago. In 1983, my wife and I did one of the nuttiest things we have ever done in our lives. Her family lived on the California coast, and we were on the west coast of Florida at the time with our three small children. I was working in a church and had little money, none to make a flight for a family of five. Regardless, an elder in the church reminded me at board meetings at least once a year that he thought I was being paid too much. So one day Linda saw an ad on a box of Cheerios that offered a free trip to anywhere in the US for three children on TRAILWAYS BUS LINES if we bought 12 boxes of Cheerios, which we did. Then we purchased two tickets for ourselves for $300. At the time, I didn't think much of it. To save money, I could endure a non-stop bus ride for five days one way - and five days in return - for $300, no problem. I could sit back and sight-see the whole country as we all rode in comfort. There is no amount of money anyone could pay me today to ride a bus to the end of my driveway from what took place on that trip.
St. Petersburg To Houston
The five of us left St. Petersburg for Los Angeles about 6 pm one night. Around 3 am when I was in a dead, coma-like sleep, I heard what sounded like a voice somewhere in the distance shouting something about everybody having to get off the bus. I was laying in a seat scrunched in a fetal position with my neck bent at 90 degrees on the armrest. As I started to come around with my eyes almost welded shut and my head and neck feeling like it had been in medieval stocks, blazing light burned into my eyes while the bus driver was screaming that all passengers had to vacate the bus so it could be CLEANED. Cleaned? Did he say CLEANED? I looked at my watch. It was 3 am. Now I knew why the tickets were free. This and a lot of other things that Trailways did on that trip made absolutely no sense. But I later learned that that bus traveled from Miami to Los Angeles every five days. When it got to LA, there was a two hour turn-around prep, and that bus was back in Miami five days later to repeat it all over again non-stop. Back and forth that bus went, 2.5 million miles a year, and the engine was rebuilt several times along the way. What they did where or when made no difference to them. The bus had its own schedule regardless of the fools who paid to ride it.
The Bathroom In the Back
But the best part was yet to come. This bus was equipped with a bathroom in the back. It had a long way to roll, and it wasn't stopping sometimes for hours. So some people brought food stores with them on board. Others would jump off and quickly grab a coffee or some snacks at infrequent stops. As the bus jostled down I-10 in high heat and humidity along that Gulf Coast trail, that mixture of quick acting caffeine and junk food began to coalesce and churtle in bouncing stomachs for some interesting results. Before long, you would hear that bathroom door begin to crack open. As time crept along, more passengers began to pop up and stream their way towards the back where there always sat a pack of tawdry miscreants who looked like they should have been harmonizing "Tie A Yellow Ribbon ‘Round The Old Oak Tree." These people always sat on the back row and right next to the bathroom. So whoever decided to make his or her way back there had to endure their leering smirks. But that was okay because for having to endure those perverts in the back, the occupant of that little room probably had a nice surprise for them once he or she opened the door and waltzed back down the aisle from that rolling outhouse. Once in a while someone from up front would suddenly leap from his seat and bolt down the rocking aisle grabbing seat top after seat top and race for the back like someone who had eaten a pot of pinto beans and five bowls of chili chased by a six pack of Budweiser. Gaging the speed anyone was headed for the back and the look of concern I perceived on his or her face, I calculated the result on the misery meter for the ashen-white faced morons on the back row who were now praying somebody up front would get off the jam-packed bus at the next stop so they could move up and away from the ungodly odors that were emanating from that toilet. Once in a while one of those misfits right next to the bathroom who looked like he was going to vomit would waddle forth to see if maybe he had missed an empty seat after all. Without the sight of relief and saddled with dismay, he would slink into the back again like the Golem. As the miles cranked out, everybody felt dread anytime anyone rose from his seat and took the long walk back as if he was descending into a sewer.
My wife was praying the next stop was near because only desperation would make her or anyone head for the back where you could hear the contents of the holding tank sloshing around in the highway dips and filling up fast. The whole bus was becoming bathroom conscious. If you listened closely, you could hear every sound that was coming from that hell-hole. Every time that bathroom door opened was the same thing as pushing the door open to one of those disgusting gas stations where a lone cashier who looks like he has been standing there for days without a bath hands you a key on a broom handle to an outside toilet. The door is usually painted blue and partially open when you get there, and you have a very ominous feeling about what you are going to see when you look at that toilet. The bus was air-conditioned bus, but as soon as someone headed to the back, people started cursing and saying, "Open that %$#@ window before he opens that door." Those windows were like air vents into a mine shaft that had just collapsed on workers in West Virginia. When that door was cracked, powerful vapors instantly rushed down the aisle all the way to the front door. As soon as the driver finally pulled into the next station, everybody was already standing in the aisle and ready to charge off that bus like it was on fire.
Roaches
In addition to that, the bus was loaded with roaches. Yes, roaches. I had done exterminator work for awhile in Grand Rapids when I was 27 years old, and many times I had been sent out to bus companies to exterminate cockroaches from buses. The German and Brown-Banded roach thrived in heat. They blossomed even more in humidity. In one year, a pregnant cockroach left in a house alone can produce 18 million offspring. This bus was well on its way. We used to say that when you saw a cockroach in open daylight prowling around in the plain view, the house was loaded with them. This bus had scores of BABY roaches crawling around on the floor and seats and out of the heat ducts in the middle of the day. Between the roaches and the rolling outhouse, I cringed at touching anything. And there were four days to go.
All of this is to point out what happened once we got to Houston, Texas, on that bus. The entire national makeup of the traveling public completely changed once the bus unloaded in what is now the fourth largest city in America. This was the end of the line for the black folk. They piled off, and an army of Hispanics who spoke only Spanish charged on and refilled the seats all the way across Texas as we headed to San Antonio and west up U.S. 90 toward to El Paso. This part of the world is given over to Mexico.
Picking Up the K1200RS
The next morning after our flight to El Paso, my wife and I sprang from the sack early, enjoyed a hearty breakfast of biscuits and gravy at a Cracker Barrel, and were sitting up outside like pigs in a wheel barrow waiting for the man who had $13,500 of our money. As I had anticipated, he arrived and drove us to his home where I finally laid my natural eyes upon that 1998 K1200RS that brightly reflected the Texas sun off its yellow skin. It was all he said it was. With a brief signing ceremony on the surface of the title, Linda and I mounted up, drove down the hill, and swung out on I-10 headed for Key West.
Linda and I went to El Paso together for the first time in August of 1969. This was the week after Charles Manson and his merry band had killed Sharon Tate and all those people in Los Angeles. We were on our honeymoon back then at the tender ages of 20 and 23 and were coming from San Francisco via Los Angeles to Dallas where I was going to attend my first year of seminary. So before we left El Paso, we took a detour to a high spot over-looking El Paso that we had visited together almost 31 years before and briefly mused over our lives and the events that brought us back to this place with education and children totally behind us.
With that, we climbed back on the new steed and cautiously made our way down the mountain into El Paso's urban center and started a long journey by aiming the BMW east. The Beemer was an easy ride. I could feel incredible power under harness as I gripped the steel reins, and I moved with great confidence through the traffic on this sunny early March day. I took it easy to get accustomed to the new feel and agility of the bike as we began to put El Paso behind us and enter into the desert. The Beemer had such power that it was effortless to get to 80 mph. I was soon at 90. Then 100.
El Paso To Kerrville
It was a beautiful day in West Texas. The miles rolled off our wheels. Several times I saw in the distance a pack of Harleys herded together. Harleys seem to generally travel in packs. You will rarely if ever see that practice with Beemer riders. A Beemer rider tends to be a loner. Even if he is gregarious and loves to be surrounded by others, a Beemer rider will most likely travel solo because there are so few BMW's on the roads compared to Harleys and other bikes. In addition to that, Beemers are known to be very fast, all of them, and they are virtually silent compared to other bikes. So the speed is easy to bring up. One can be going 90 mph and hear very little, if any, engine noise. Hence, like sport bikes, BMWs lead (more like leave) traffic. At 65 mph, it seems as if you are barely moving. Over time, it seemed that the sweet spot for that K1200Rs was about 90 mph. Most of the time I was at 80-90 mph. Because of the feeling of embarrassment I had when I drove off on my Harley from my first BMW test ride, from that day forward I became a BMW evangelist. An army of Harleys miles ahead of me on the desert floor just gave me the incentive to conduct an advertising campaign. So as soon as I saw them, I accelerated speed to catch up. Making sure there were no cops anywhere to be seen - when I was about one half of a mile back - I opened the throttle. I shot past all Harleys at 100 mph...or more. Often I used to glance over my shoulder to see the model of bike that was going by. But when you are going 65-70 mph and are passed by someone doing 100 mph plus, you don't see much. You might catch that blue and white BMW emblem. But that would be it. I continued that practice on open highways for all Harleys and other bikes in the cruiser category. Today I ride a cruiser again, and I am quite content. Those Harley riders probably were too. But I wanted them to think about it.
Texas Hill Country
Linda and I probed the west Texas desert that first day for 550 miles. That blanket of blackness that was the West Texas night crept over us, and the air turned cold as we merged from the desert into the Texas Hill Country. Our powerful lights punched through the darkness. Deer are always a problem for a motorcyclist at night, but this bike was equipped with powerful PIAA lights that spread out their beams like arms and took in the covered sides of the highway, clearly exposing wildlife lurking off the shoulder. At last we coasted off of I-10 onto Texas 16 in Kerrville, right in the heart of the Texas Hill Country. I happened to pull up to one of those motels where there is an Indian proprietor in the back room brewing up something with curry in it. Curry sweetness permeated through every crack and every corridor of the place. As I stood there inhaling curry fumes, I asked the desk clerk the price for a room. He hesitated. I knew what that meant. He was thinking about what to charge. Rarely have I found a fixed rate in these places. They look out the window when they see you drive up to see if is dark or light, glance at the clock to see how much sleeping time is left, determine if you are rich or poor or tired or willing to check on other places for a better price, and then they quote you. His price was high. I turned to leave. That's all you have to do because they ALWAYS come back with a better rate. I was tired. It was good enough. I remember nothing else that night.
The Texas Hill Country is a region in central Texas that consists of tall, rugged, limestone or granite hills. When you travel east on I-10, you will start to enter the Hill Country just west of Junction, Texas. You will emerge in the northern suburbs of San Antonio. If you ever listen to western songs that speak of prickly pear cactus, this is a region where you will find them. In 2008, The New York Times declared the Hill Country "the No. 1 vacation spot in the nation." Parts of two major metropolitan areas - Austin and San Antonio - are in the Hill Country. Fredericksburg, just north of Kerrville, is a very popular and quaint little town that has become a weekend destination for people in Central Texas, especially those of Austin and San Antonio. The Hill Country has also made Texas second to Florida as the most popular retirement destination in the United States. Lance Armstrong, President Lyndon B. and Lady Bird Johnson, Tommy Lee Jones, and Willie Nelson either are from or now reside in the Hill Country. If you like Tejano music, the accordion was popularized in that genre of music because of influences from this area.