The early morning hours are typically dedicated to R.E.M., but
not with the constant thunder of Harley-Davidsons rumbling
fifty yards from the thin walls of my 34-foot park model R.V.
South Padre Island Bikefest can indeed be seen and heard!
I chose the highway route to walk my min pin and I couldn't
take my eyes off the custom paint jobs, leather and denim,
bandanas, t-shirt slogans and sissy seats. I couldn't help but
smile, thinking that these folks were doing and portraying exactly
what they wanted unlike my fifty years as a JW.
The parking area of Isabel's Cafe was filled with Harleys. I won-
dered how the bikers were coping with the breakfast menu of
tortillas de harina with choriso, frijoles, juevos, etc. Probably,
Saturday would be the "Mexico Run." Hundreds of bikers would
eat breakfast, head for the "Free Trade Bridge" at Los Indios and
ride the twenty miles along the Rio Bravo (Rio Grande) to Progresso
Mexico. That little Mexican tourist town clears main street for the
bikers. The leather shops, cantinas, farmacias and curio shops wel-
come the visitors.
In the afternoon, my wife and I make our own run-to Blue Marlin
IGA to get something for the grill. The IGA parking lot is filled with
bikes and bikers. "Where the hell were you?" screams a 70 year old
woman to her 40 year old son. Mother and son have identically
painted Harleys. "I've been across the causeway twice looking for
you!" The old lady is walking with help of a cane, which she loops
over the handlebars. With Indian features, a denim leather
Harley-Davidson jacket and black/gray hair down to mid-back she
has my attention as she backs shakily out of her parking space. Her
son just watches to make sure she's ok before
they both take off. He fits cautiously into traffic. Grandma gooses
the throttle and passes all the traffic on the right and roars out
ahead of the pack.
Minivans, people and folding chairs line Highway 100. It is not an
official parade, but it is a parade. The fathers are drinking beer
while their kids point out strange bikes and bikers. High handle
bars, big bellies, stretched out choppers, trikes, sequinned tops .
. . . There is so much to be seen.
I'm not a biker. But I envy the individuality, the camaradarie, the
Feel free to move this post to the "Friends" forum. I guess I was reading about Rutherford, Beth Sarim when I decided to post. tms