November 15, 2013

Morning:
           Nine hours. That's how long I slept in Sonora, TX, at 40 degrees but snug and warm in the camper. Sonora is in a river valley so it was quiet. I drove to Junction, an hour east. Junction, just another TX university town I never heard of. There was a bitter morning desert mist covering the freeway. I could see an old highway paralleling to the south and spent 50 miles trying to get directions to it. And nobody could tell me if it went to San Antonio.

           After four sets of wrong directions, I tanked up my spare cans and took random turns until I found that little highway, Old Texas 27. It is hell listening to people give you directions because you have to politely listen even when you know they are wrong. All of them said to go under the freeway, but that would put me on the north side. I specifically asked for south side. Old Texas 27 is neither on the road map or the GPS. Thusly, I got to Ingram, a town I have heard of.
           Ingram, TX. I stopped for coffee and a host of admiring passersby and picked up some small hardware. It is obvious I’m going to successfully complete this highly experimental trip, so things are loosening up a bit. Just west of town, they have a replica of Stonehenge. Well, it is completely standing and in good repair, so I mean a replica in that context. The trip down Texas 27 made the morning for me. I move around 53 mph so it was fun watching people lead-footing it down I-10 just a few yards to the north while I sailed along in comfort.
           There are plenty of farms in hill country that look like movie sets. This is old Texas, settled for hundreds of years. The old highway has great scenery through little towns where the largest population is the cemetery. And the bridges are much nicer, eash having some character. On the freeway often the only way to know it’s a bridge is when the sound of the tires changes. This beautiful old road ends where I-10 turns south to San Antonio around 50 miles north of the city.
           I might add the cold front caught up with us overnight and the ride through the near desert areas was brisk and foggy, a dry cold fog. As nice as the freeways are between towns, when they get into a city, I’ve learned to dislike them. They contort traffic patterns that predate the superhighways and rarely do so smoothly. Again the GPS let me down because it cannot find specific parks like the Alamo. I drove until I saw a few exits saying downtown and headed straight in.
           Those who designed Miami’s streets were merely stupid. Those who designed San Antonio were insane.

Daytime:
           What I did was find myself on old cobblestone streets that shook the daylights out of my precious Honda and pod. There are no signs downtown pointing to the Alamo, but almost every pedestrian knows the way. This is an unplanned stop, but dang if I’ll go through this town again without having a look.

           The Alamo. It's surrounded once more by hostiles. In this case, $10 parking lots. I'm glad I'm not too old to walk six blocks, and I'm further glad because although the Alamo itself is free, it also isn't there any more. That's could be a good reason it is free. But define free, for as soon as you enter, every farmer and his daughter of the revolution have their hand out for a donation. Up yours, San Antonio. The fort is gone, making the lot of them a pack of low-life con artists in my book.
           No Alamo? That's correct. When somebody says "Remember the Alamo", what do you think of? All the signs, the hype, and the tour guides are there, but not the Alamo. Of course, you want to see the site where Davie Crockett, Travis Tritt, and Johnny Wayne had their finest hours. Here I am, outside the chapel, waiting for the roar of the cannons that haven’t been there in 120 years.
           It's gone. Completely torn down in the 1890s. Today, the fort site is hotels, museums, and medium-scale coffee shops. There is a 15 foot high wall around a compound containing the chapel, billed as the "Alamo Shrine". But it played an insignificant part in the battle. Only when you get inside and hear hundreds of people asking where the fort is do you learn that you've been suckered.
           While parking, I noticed my temperature gauge had risen. This was to turn out as the second breakdown of this trip. It was resolved by an emergency $5 repair, but kept me in San Antonio for another 18 hours. I took the ten bucks I saved on parking went to an authentic Mexican restaurant. Oh, it was authentic. I could hardly finish the food, most of which I recognized. The area around the Alamo is nice if you can get a more than a block off the beaten track. I’d heard about the river walk but since that was not signposted either, I didn’t bother.

           Back at the bike, that overheating was quickly traced to the small oil drip from earlier in the trip. This slowly dropped the oil pressure to the point the crankcase was heating and that heat built up enough to cause me concern. I again topped up with oil but within five miles, the oil cap fell off and I was soaked in hot oil before I could pull off the freeway. A few phone calls confirmed Honda does not make that part any longer, but a helpful Yamaha dealership said bring the motorcycle in. I've misplaced the name of this nice outfit, but it is on I-10 heading north. Their sign faces the wrong way.

Evening:
           Five hours later finds me still in San Antonio. I knew it would only be a matter of time before I lost that irreplaceable oil case cap. It had no safety chain so you had to set it somewhere to change the oil. So now it is somewhere between Street E and Exit 559. I found the Yamaha dealership but it took 3-1/2 hour and a half a tank of gas. You cannot get directions from most strangers because they can’t give you the facts without tarnishing matters with their opinions. I had to call the dealership six times because they gave me the wrong directions. They did not seem capable of understanding a tourist may not know east and west in a cowboy town two hours after dark.
           The guy kept saying to go down I-10. Upon finally finding the place, he meant north and not south. Ahem, dude, you don’t drive “down” to Canada. You drive “down” to Mexico. Down is south. The other guy said go past Heubner to Dezavalu, two names not on the map or the GPS. People who give directions like that are dipshits. Since the streets are not alphabetical, I had to slow down at each exit to read the signs and several time got caught in a turn-only lane at rush hour with an overheating crank case. Adventure. The kind of adventure where it takes a half hour to get back on the freeway because you overheat at every red light. Yeah, that kind.
           Fortunately, there was a super-sharp guy at the dealership. He fashioned a plug out of a stiff plastic muffler baffle. So other than this slight but for the first time overheating problem, I’ll be on my way tomorrow. The repair was minor but not the delay. It will now be back to the rush since I’m still 1,386 miles from base. At least four days travel.
           I checked in with all my people. Except for one very cruel, as it turned out, Canadian lady. Not Marion. She would be allowed to be cruel. I then sat down to ponder the day and managed to repair the Nikon. I clamped it back shut with a bracket I cannibalized off the interior of the pod. I now need a screwdriver to open the camera to get at the memory card, but it works. So, why don’t I have a picture of the camera repair? I covered that elsewhere. Even with a mirror, you can’t do that kind of selfie.
           The Tom-Tom GPS can’t be repaired, it is a faulty design. One way to trick it into giving directions is to ask around until you find the name of the next big city on the road nearest to where he is standing. Then at least you will head in the right direction 51% of the time. That’s a funny, ha-ha.