Indian Summer

It's one of those beautiful West Texas Indian summer days that catch you unaware, because of the rarity of its occurring on a Sunday. So, without a map or a plan you throw on some layers, fire up the cycle and take to the back roads.

Sure enough, at 70 mph without a windscreen the reality of November bites your blue jeaned legs and the back of your neck. Even your gloved hands ache for better clothes. So, you slow to 60 and the wind noise subsides pleasantly, and before long the chilled extremities are forgotten. Now you can concentrate on the flocks of migrating ducks, geese and sandhill cranes that form dark shapes over the playa lakes. Way, way up high, far above the clattering, clucking migrations, a red-tail hawk circles, supervising. It's such a nice day now, that you think if only you could convince these birds to turn and go back north, maybe we could postpone winter for a little while longer.

Eventually at this reduced speed, you gain company in the rearview mirror. A large cattle truck, probably on this lonely two lane back road on the sly in an effort to conceal his weight, status, or other impropriety from the troopers on the interstate, is coming up fast trying to make up his lost time. The idea of his stinking (and probably moist) slipstream encourages the extremities to brace themselves for the wind chill, and you roll on the throttle, on past 70, up to 85 where you notice that the road, though straight and smooth, now appears much narrower, and the brush more likely to loose a deer or antelope into your path. The truck is disappearing into the mirror now, so you relax the throttle a bit and keep a close eye on the road, looking for a turn off where you can stop, rub your hands and let the misguided trucker migrate on his way.

Instead, you find another road up ahead, branching off to the left. You had forgotten this road, an old farm road which though it doesn't connect any farms anymore, is paved none the less and is even less traveled than the other one. Now the sun is higher and is in front of you and all the coldness is forgotten. With the warming sun and enormous cobalt sky, your spirit begins to soar and you revel at the sound of the exhaust and the feel of the road beneath you. Wow, you've gone sixty miles already, and not a single bug splat. Hurray for November!

Now you're getting into the canyon country, where the featureless plain starts to show signs of breaking up into crevices and gullies. You and your bike dance through the curves at the bottom of the occasional draw or creek bed and you thrill to the sound of the engine as it torques happily each climb back onto the plain. Soon you're on the final expanse of wide open plains and you marvel at the enormity of the pool table flatness of this country.

Then suddenly, without warning, the bottom falls out and you find yourself a thousand feet above the world. The blue hills and purple valleys below in stark contrast to the pale yellow plain behind you. You are on the edge of the Caprock Escarpment overlooking the Palo Duro Canyon.

The sky has given up some of its grandeur to the vast expanse of vistas opening up below. You can see 30 miles in the distant canyons, and can just make out the road and landmarks ahead and below you. Now you understand how the hawk feels as he surveys his next meal. Never mind that your own next meal is a Subway sandwich stuffed in your saddlebag, your talons clamp the controls and you manuever the machine quickly and gracefully through the winding road past breathtaking scenery down into the canyon where ultimately you light upon a picnic
table perched near a rocky canyon wall.

The motorcycle is quiet now. Its noise is replaced by the rustling of the few remaining cottonwood leaves and the murmur of the nearby stream. You take off your jacket, unruffle your feathers, and enjoy quite possibly the best sandwich you have ever eaten.