Tweet
Padre Island Ride Report
Padre Island Ride Report
by Ted Thompson
Copyright © 1997 Ted Thompson ~ all rights reserved
Catantahua!
This is the story of Ted Thompson and Brian Parker's motorcycle trip to Padre Island, Texas in August, 1997. Every word is the truth, except for the near-truths, the half-truths, and the out-and-out lies. I guess maybe every other word is the truth, something like that. I don't stand behind any of it.
Let me begin by explaining the word which appears in the subject line of this story: "Catantahua."
Catantahua is a native word with no particular meaning, and at the same time, every possible meaning. In the colorful style of the Padre Islanders, "Catantahua" is used as both a greeting and a goodbye, yes. But in the deeper sense, it embodies all that is spiritual and religious about the islanders themelves. It's intonation by the pure-of-heart hearkens unto the island gods of the sea and the sky to let the people rejoice in bounty. Signified in that one word is everything that is gentle and good, all that is sensuous and pure, about the island and her people.
Actually, ok, well...Catantahua is really just the name of some little side street on Padre Island that we passed several times on our bikes. The rest of that stuff we just figured out for ourselves, after several beers. Pretty good, huh?
In fact I might even have mispelled it, it might be "cantatahua." Or it might be the name of some seafood dish, I don't know. If so, my apologies to the natives...but really, you should just quit taking yourselves so seriously.
The pronunciation is a bit difficult for the tongue which is untrained in the musical language of the islanders. The first part is easy, almost purely phonetic: "catanta." The second and more difficult part must be emphatically accented, a la Al Pacino in "Scent of a Woman": "Hoooo-ah!" It is often used in its abbreviated form to express enthusiasm for certain bikinis, particularly the thong variety: "Hoooo-ah! Hooo-ah!" Brian and I both became quite adept in this satisfying usage.
Enough, on with the story.
On Friday August 1st I left Harrison, Arkansas on the Yamaha XS1100 Midnight Special to ride to Norman, Oklahoma to meet up with Brian, who rides a Honda Shadow 1100. Our departure south was planned for early the next morning. In planning the trip via e-mail, Brian had made it perfectly clear: he would be off the golf course by 12:45, after which he would help a ladyfriend move some furniture, and meet up with me at his house at midafternoon. All I had to do, then, was plan my trip to arrive after the moving was done, which of course is what I did. With the help of several scenic turnouts, cigarette breaks, and a leisurely lunch, I got to Brian's house right on schedule, midafternoon...and just in time to help move furniture.
I am now certain he tricked me on purpose, and he owes me, I just haven't figured out what. The good news is that he got a really bad sunburn on the back of his neck while overstaying his welcome on the golf course. And in all fairness, the gal we helped to move was a dish.
We left about 8 am Saturday and spent the first part of the day on Interstate 35, stopping long enough at the Texas border to slap on the brainbuckets. I believe the laws of Texas and other repressive states mandate sleeping in your helmet if you own a motorcycle -- perhaps I am wrong -- but we thought that was going a bit too far, even for Texas. I found a way to slip my half-shell helmet off the back of my head, where it would protect my neck in the event of a mishap (I always try to be safe.) This had the added effect of letting me get the wind in my hair, and I became expert at sliding the helmet back onto the top of my head in areas we might encounter cops.
Interstate 35 does this really neat trick north of Dallas: it splits and gives you your choice of going Interstate 35 South East, or Interstate 35 South West. It was terribly confusing to this country boy, and it was clear to me that some drivers on that treacherous bit of highway really didn't know if they were coming or going -- in fact, Brian and I actually met ourselves coming the other way somewhere in Ft. Worth. It upset our sense of cosmic balance for what...12 or 14 hours, maybe longer. Anyway, something upset our sense of cosmic balance, it was probably that.
When we got to Waco Saturday afternoon we took a brief detour to the site of the Branch Davidian slaughter of almost one hundred men, women and babies by jackbooted government thugs.
I forgot where I read it, but someone once observed that history is recorded by the type of men who hang heros. By no means do I regard Koresh as any kind of hero, but what happened at Mt. Carmel is an important, albeit tragic and shameful, part of America's history. It is being quickly and quietly absorbed into the Texas dust. If you get a chance, pay a visit before it is gone, for your children will almost certainly not be able to read of it in their Civics or American History classes. Although it was a moving experience for me to see the site, I have nothing entertaining to say on the subject, and so we move on.
We move on down the Texas Highway, by now State Route 77, a wonderful ribbon of perfect road on which to tick off miles very rapidly. We stayed the first night at a motel in Cameron...don't bother looking, it takes longer to find it on the map than it takes to drive through the place.
We drank some beer. We watched some TV. We went to sleep. Ah, vacation!
Next morning Brian made the first of his excellent weather calls, recognizing the rainclouds overhead as something we could outrun if we'd hurry. We hied away, and indeed were soon in the sunshine again, with just enough cloud cover to keep us from frying like fish in the middle of Texas. I don't know...are there fish in the middle of Texas?
We made it to the islands in the early afternoon, crossing the ferry at Port Aransas -- "Port A" as it is referred to by the natives. Since the price of accomodations at "Port A" was outrageous, we spent a good part of the rest of that afternoon looking for "Port B," (figuring logically that we might be able to afford a room there) but we never found Port B. Being amateur geographers (and alphabetographers besides), that made no sense to us at all.
We ended up swimming at the beach for a couple of hours, then driving to the north part of Corpus Christi to cash in a coupon for a $36.95 room at the Red Roof Inn. The joke was on us. The small print on that coupon read "subject to availability." Contrary to reasonableness, that is not the same as "Subject to vacancy."
It was pure bait and switch, and after a brief discussion of business ethics with the manager via his hired clerk, we got the room at the advertised price. Stayed one night, then moved to the hotel next door at a lower rate yet...what's a few leftover pubes in the bottom of the tub? After all, the room came with a refrigerator and microwave.
We reserved the room for the duration, and settled in. We used the fridge to chill our beer, and Brian wired across the door-switch on the microwave so he could use it to lay down his base tan, which was good thinking. He is very clever.
The next morning, we decided to go to the beach.
And then the next morning, we decided to go to the beach.
And so on.
Now those of you who know me, know that I am married to Roxanne, my beautiful wife of nearly 26 years, and the light o' my life. You also know that I am many things: a free thinker and an underacheiver; a beer lover and a cat hater; a daydream believer, and an unabashed, self-confessed appreciator of the female form. Roxanne knows it too, and she will be the first one to read this account, so you figure it out. Seriously though, all I did was walk on the beach, and lookit, I found some pretty shells.
One day -- I don't recall which one -- we had the pleasure of being parked on the beach next to a lovely lady in a fine-fitting bikini. I spoke with her awhile, and found out her name..."Roxanne." "Oh, that's my wife's name too," I announced happily!
DUH!
I'm kidding. My wedding band pretty well proclaims my status. And if it didn't, the untanned ring around my finger would, so what the hell? But she sure was a beauty, and after awhile I confined myself to the beach gazebo we had erect...I mean, that we had set up to get out of the sun, and as I watched this gorgeous woman sunning herself next to us, playing in the sand on all fours, I thought only good thoughts. Baseball, that's the ticket, get my mind off impure thoughts. God, look at that. Baseball. Baseballbaseballbaseball. Yeah, I'd like to take my...
Oh, nevermind.
The next day she was not at the beach...disappointment!...and I let Brian pick the spot to encamp for the day. Being early, we had our choice of miles of beach. Yeah, he picked the spot alright. The couple who parked next to us a short while later sauntered over in their Speedos and sweetly lisped their willingness to assist us in setting up our awning. We moved on down the beach.
It was day after day of the same -- sun, sand, surf, cruising the beach without helmets (even when we rode our bikes!) and staying acutely aware of the natural island wildlife. We drank several beers, I think. Got sunburned. Drank saltwater periodically to wash away the taste of the beer, especially on the waverunner. Did I mention the waverunner? They oughta call it a semi-submersible. Cough, sputter, gag.
We rented one, it was a blast! It was Brian's first time at it, and he warmed to it like a pro, got real good at it real quick, total control, missing my head by mere inches as he went roaring past me in the water, even making me dive deep on several occasions, acting like it was accidental. What a joker! Anyway, we both drank lots of seawater on top of lots of beer, and tried our best to overrev the engine, which apparently can't be done.
Afterwards we went back to our beach gazebo and laid on the bikes, drinking beer, working on our melanoma, and commenting colorfully on the wonders around us.
Stopping into a convenience store on the island on our way to the beach one morning, Brian was followed into the store by a pair of gorgeous blondes in bikinis and see-through coverups. Worrying that he might be tempted to make inappropriate overtures to these young ladies, I went in after him, made myself get very red in the face, and proclaimed loudly and seriously for all in the store to hear, "I have just one more thing to say, if you ever even so much as LOOK at him again, you and I are THROUGH!" And then sneering, "Do you understand that, BABE?!" (He hates it when I call him Babe in public. Guess he finds it demeaning or something.) Then I flounced out of the store in a convincing snit.
Brian didn't have to worry about the blondes anymore, and I was real proud for having helped my friend out of that potentially embarrassing situation.
The last night before departure, Brian decided that he couldn't be this close to the seashore without eating oysters, so we went out in search of them. We found them in downtown Corpus Christi, at a restaurant named "The Oyster Bar," one of those strange coincidences that just makes you go goose-pimply all over. We both ate oysters, drank beer, and followed it up with a fine seafood dinner, but the oysters were definitely the highlight of the meal.
Next morning we discovered to our everlasting horror that several of the buggers were still alive. Apparently it was the beer that sustained them, so be forewarned should you find yourself in similar circumstances. And next time you see Brian, ask him about that pretty pearl in his ear ring, and what he had to go through to retrieve it. He was drunk or something, he had to be.
Some of the important discoveries and observations we made on this trip might be worth noting. Here they are, in no particular order of relevance:
That there are no rhetorical answers, only rhetorical questions. After we sobered up, however, we realized this was totally incorrect. Go figger.
That you have to not only think about the consequences of your actions, but also, you have to sing the song from the Blues Brothers interminably for many days. Also John Prine is good. A cappella. In the morning. Before coffee.
That if you throw away your watch like Peter Fonda did, you won't know what time it is.
That no matter how fine a rider you are, you can't re-light a wet cigar stub in the rain at 65 mph on a bike. At least, not with your last match.
That you can never, ever, ever have too much money. Or more-than- enough pot.
That blonde waitresses with cute asses sometimes have attitudes toward drunks.
That "Aransas" Texas is not really a misspelling of "Arkansas. I think it's a ripoff. What would General Mills say if I came out with a cereal called CHEERO'S?
And finally, that Texas is just as big as everyone tries to say it is.
What else is there to say? How do you end a story of such meaningless sojourns and such trivial pursuits as we enjoyed for those days?
In our case it ended with the long ride home, which turned out to be an endurance run. Hundreds of miles of highway, a great portion of it in the rain. We spewed and skewed and skated and hydroplaned our way up through Texas in a watery waltz at high speeds, up Highway 77 and then I-35, to arrive back in Norman at 1 a.m. Brian went to sleep, and I never saw him again. I am almost certain he eventually woke up.
I took off early the next morning, calling home along the way to make a date for that night with my wife at a local hotel. And as Twain said and I have oft quoted, the curtain of charity is drawn over the remainder of that scene.
Brian Parker is an outstanding companion, a formidable beer drinker, and one hell of a motorcycle rider, and is recommended highly. Just consider the source.
Until next time...Catantahua!
by Ted Thompson
Copyright © 1997 Ted Thompson ~ all rights reserved
Catantahua!
This is the story of Ted Thompson and Brian Parker's motorcycle trip to Padre Island, Texas in August, 1997. Every word is the truth, except for the near-truths, the half-truths, and the out-and-out lies. I guess maybe every other word is the truth, something like that. I don't stand behind any of it.
Let me begin by explaining the word which appears in the subject line of this story: "Catantahua."
Catantahua is a native word with no particular meaning, and at the same time, every possible meaning. In the colorful style of the Padre Islanders, "Catantahua" is used as both a greeting and a goodbye, yes. But in the deeper sense, it embodies all that is spiritual and religious about the islanders themelves. It's intonation by the pure-of-heart hearkens unto the island gods of the sea and the sky to let the people rejoice in bounty. Signified in that one word is everything that is gentle and good, all that is sensuous and pure, about the island and her people.
Actually, ok, well...Catantahua is really just the name of some little side street on Padre Island that we passed several times on our bikes. The rest of that stuff we just figured out for ourselves, after several beers. Pretty good, huh?
In fact I might even have mispelled it, it might be "cantatahua." Or it might be the name of some seafood dish, I don't know. If so, my apologies to the natives...but really, you should just quit taking yourselves so seriously.
The pronunciation is a bit difficult for the tongue which is untrained in the musical language of the islanders. The first part is easy, almost purely phonetic: "catanta." The second and more difficult part must be emphatically accented, a la Al Pacino in "Scent of a Woman": "Hoooo-ah!" It is often used in its abbreviated form to express enthusiasm for certain bikinis, particularly the thong variety: "Hoooo-ah! Hooo-ah!" Brian and I both became quite adept in this satisfying usage.
Enough, on with the story.
On Friday August 1st I left Harrison, Arkansas on the Yamaha XS1100 Midnight Special to ride to Norman, Oklahoma to meet up with Brian, who rides a Honda Shadow 1100. Our departure south was planned for early the next morning. In planning the trip via e-mail, Brian had made it perfectly clear: he would be off the golf course by 12:45, after which he would help a ladyfriend move some furniture, and meet up with me at his house at midafternoon. All I had to do, then, was plan my trip to arrive after the moving was done, which of course is what I did. With the help of several scenic turnouts, cigarette breaks, and a leisurely lunch, I got to Brian's house right on schedule, midafternoon...and just in time to help move furniture.
I am now certain he tricked me on purpose, and he owes me, I just haven't figured out what. The good news is that he got a really bad sunburn on the back of his neck while overstaying his welcome on the golf course. And in all fairness, the gal we helped to move was a dish.
We left about 8 am Saturday and spent the first part of the day on Interstate 35, stopping long enough at the Texas border to slap on the brainbuckets. I believe the laws of Texas and other repressive states mandate sleeping in your helmet if you own a motorcycle -- perhaps I am wrong -- but we thought that was going a bit too far, even for Texas. I found a way to slip my half-shell helmet off the back of my head, where it would protect my neck in the event of a mishap (I always try to be safe.) This had the added effect of letting me get the wind in my hair, and I became expert at sliding the helmet back onto the top of my head in areas we might encounter cops.
Interstate 35 does this really neat trick north of Dallas: it splits and gives you your choice of going Interstate 35 South East, or Interstate 35 South West. It was terribly confusing to this country boy, and it was clear to me that some drivers on that treacherous bit of highway really didn't know if they were coming or going -- in fact, Brian and I actually met ourselves coming the other way somewhere in Ft. Worth. It upset our sense of cosmic balance for what...12 or 14 hours, maybe longer. Anyway, something upset our sense of cosmic balance, it was probably that.
When we got to Waco Saturday afternoon we took a brief detour to the site of the Branch Davidian slaughter of almost one hundred men, women and babies by jackbooted government thugs.
I forgot where I read it, but someone once observed that history is recorded by the type of men who hang heros. By no means do I regard Koresh as any kind of hero, but what happened at Mt. Carmel is an important, albeit tragic and shameful, part of America's history. It is being quickly and quietly absorbed into the Texas dust. If you get a chance, pay a visit before it is gone, for your children will almost certainly not be able to read of it in their Civics or American History classes. Although it was a moving experience for me to see the site, I have nothing entertaining to say on the subject, and so we move on.
We move on down the Texas Highway, by now State Route 77, a wonderful ribbon of perfect road on which to tick off miles very rapidly. We stayed the first night at a motel in Cameron...don't bother looking, it takes longer to find it on the map than it takes to drive through the place.
We drank some beer. We watched some TV. We went to sleep. Ah, vacation!
Next morning Brian made the first of his excellent weather calls, recognizing the rainclouds overhead as something we could outrun if we'd hurry. We hied away, and indeed were soon in the sunshine again, with just enough cloud cover to keep us from frying like fish in the middle of Texas. I don't know...are there fish in the middle of Texas?
We made it to the islands in the early afternoon, crossing the ferry at Port Aransas -- "Port A" as it is referred to by the natives. Since the price of accomodations at "Port A" was outrageous, we spent a good part of the rest of that afternoon looking for "Port B," (figuring logically that we might be able to afford a room there) but we never found Port B. Being amateur geographers (and alphabetographers besides), that made no sense to us at all.
We ended up swimming at the beach for a couple of hours, then driving to the north part of Corpus Christi to cash in a coupon for a $36.95 room at the Red Roof Inn. The joke was on us. The small print on that coupon read "subject to availability." Contrary to reasonableness, that is not the same as "Subject to vacancy."
It was pure bait and switch, and after a brief discussion of business ethics with the manager via his hired clerk, we got the room at the advertised price. Stayed one night, then moved to the hotel next door at a lower rate yet...what's a few leftover pubes in the bottom of the tub? After all, the room came with a refrigerator and microwave.
We reserved the room for the duration, and settled in. We used the fridge to chill our beer, and Brian wired across the door-switch on the microwave so he could use it to lay down his base tan, which was good thinking. He is very clever.
The next morning, we decided to go to the beach.
And then the next morning, we decided to go to the beach.
And so on.
Now those of you who know me, know that I am married to Roxanne, my beautiful wife of nearly 26 years, and the light o' my life. You also know that I am many things: a free thinker and an underacheiver; a beer lover and a cat hater; a daydream believer, and an unabashed, self-confessed appreciator of the female form. Roxanne knows it too, and she will be the first one to read this account, so you figure it out. Seriously though, all I did was walk on the beach, and lookit, I found some pretty shells.
One day -- I don't recall which one -- we had the pleasure of being parked on the beach next to a lovely lady in a fine-fitting bikini. I spoke with her awhile, and found out her name..."Roxanne." "Oh, that's my wife's name too," I announced happily!
DUH!
I'm kidding. My wedding band pretty well proclaims my status. And if it didn't, the untanned ring around my finger would, so what the hell? But she sure was a beauty, and after awhile I confined myself to the beach gazebo we had erect...I mean, that we had set up to get out of the sun, and as I watched this gorgeous woman sunning herself next to us, playing in the sand on all fours, I thought only good thoughts. Baseball, that's the ticket, get my mind off impure thoughts. God, look at that. Baseball. Baseballbaseballbaseball. Yeah, I'd like to take my...
Oh, nevermind.
The next day she was not at the beach...disappointment!...and I let Brian pick the spot to encamp for the day. Being early, we had our choice of miles of beach. Yeah, he picked the spot alright. The couple who parked next to us a short while later sauntered over in their Speedos and sweetly lisped their willingness to assist us in setting up our awning. We moved on down the beach.
It was day after day of the same -- sun, sand, surf, cruising the beach without helmets (even when we rode our bikes!) and staying acutely aware of the natural island wildlife. We drank several beers, I think. Got sunburned. Drank saltwater periodically to wash away the taste of the beer, especially on the waverunner. Did I mention the waverunner? They oughta call it a semi-submersible. Cough, sputter, gag.
We rented one, it was a blast! It was Brian's first time at it, and he warmed to it like a pro, got real good at it real quick, total control, missing my head by mere inches as he went roaring past me in the water, even making me dive deep on several occasions, acting like it was accidental. What a joker! Anyway, we both drank lots of seawater on top of lots of beer, and tried our best to overrev the engine, which apparently can't be done.
Afterwards we went back to our beach gazebo and laid on the bikes, drinking beer, working on our melanoma, and commenting colorfully on the wonders around us.
Stopping into a convenience store on the island on our way to the beach one morning, Brian was followed into the store by a pair of gorgeous blondes in bikinis and see-through coverups. Worrying that he might be tempted to make inappropriate overtures to these young ladies, I went in after him, made myself get very red in the face, and proclaimed loudly and seriously for all in the store to hear, "I have just one more thing to say, if you ever even so much as LOOK at him again, you and I are THROUGH!" And then sneering, "Do you understand that, BABE?!" (He hates it when I call him Babe in public. Guess he finds it demeaning or something.) Then I flounced out of the store in a convincing snit.
Brian didn't have to worry about the blondes anymore, and I was real proud for having helped my friend out of that potentially embarrassing situation.
The last night before departure, Brian decided that he couldn't be this close to the seashore without eating oysters, so we went out in search of them. We found them in downtown Corpus Christi, at a restaurant named "The Oyster Bar," one of those strange coincidences that just makes you go goose-pimply all over. We both ate oysters, drank beer, and followed it up with a fine seafood dinner, but the oysters were definitely the highlight of the meal.
Next morning we discovered to our everlasting horror that several of the buggers were still alive. Apparently it was the beer that sustained them, so be forewarned should you find yourself in similar circumstances. And next time you see Brian, ask him about that pretty pearl in his ear ring, and what he had to go through to retrieve it. He was drunk or something, he had to be.
Some of the important discoveries and observations we made on this trip might be worth noting. Here they are, in no particular order of relevance:
That there are no rhetorical answers, only rhetorical questions. After we sobered up, however, we realized this was totally incorrect. Go figger.
That you have to not only think about the consequences of your actions, but also, you have to sing the song from the Blues Brothers interminably for many days. Also John Prine is good. A cappella. In the morning. Before coffee.
That if you throw away your watch like Peter Fonda did, you won't know what time it is.
That no matter how fine a rider you are, you can't re-light a wet cigar stub in the rain at 65 mph on a bike. At least, not with your last match.
That you can never, ever, ever have too much money. Or more-than- enough pot.
That blonde waitresses with cute asses sometimes have attitudes toward drunks.
That "Aransas" Texas is not really a misspelling of "Arkansas. I think it's a ripoff. What would General Mills say if I came out with a cereal called CHEERO'S?
And finally, that Texas is just as big as everyone tries to say it is.
What else is there to say? How do you end a story of such meaningless sojourns and such trivial pursuits as we enjoyed for those days?
In our case it ended with the long ride home, which turned out to be an endurance run. Hundreds of miles of highway, a great portion of it in the rain. We spewed and skewed and skated and hydroplaned our way up through Texas in a watery waltz at high speeds, up Highway 77 and then I-35, to arrive back in Norman at 1 a.m. Brian went to sleep, and I never saw him again. I am almost certain he eventually woke up.
I took off early the next morning, calling home along the way to make a date for that night with my wife at a local hotel. And as Twain said and I have oft quoted, the curtain of charity is drawn over the remainder of that scene.
Brian Parker is an outstanding companion, a formidable beer drinker, and one hell of a motorcycle rider, and is recommended highly. Just consider the source.
Until next time...Catantahua!