June, 2007. Rocky and her moms are enjoying a quiet evening, just finishing up dinner, when something strange happens . . . the ground begins to tremble . . . a low rumble can be heard in the distance, growing louder, louder, finally so deep and loud that it can be felt in the bones. The moms look at each other, smiles spreading across their faces. The all jump in the car and head downtown. It’s their favorite time of year! Pride? Pshaw! It’s time for . . .
. . . ROT!
(the Republic of Texas Biker Rally.)
Harleys of all shapes and sizes – choppers, hogs, all shiny chrome and custom art, some with horrendously large monster truck engines, some with steer horns across the front – plus the few very brave drivers on Japanese crotch rockets. Biker women in bright pink string bikinis, chaps and leather bandanas. Scary-looking dudes with old German helmets, fat black boots and head-to-toe tattoos. Did I mention women in bikinis and chaps?
Sorry, I was afraid to stare at them, much less take a picture.
When the sun goes down the bikes are parked all the way up the middle of Congress Avenue, as far as you can see, almost up to the capital building. For one weekend a year, gritty, salty bikers from all over the Great Nation of Texas are everywhere you go, from Ginny’s L’il Longhorn Saloon to Starbucks. Every corner of the city resounds with the roar of Harley engines.
She was a horsie-girl from a very young age. To see a horse, her eyes would glow with wonder.
“I’m NOT a horse, Mama. I’m a Budweiser Clydesdale.”
And she remains a Budweiser Clydesdale for weeks. Endless, endless hours of “you be a mama Clydesdale Fairy, and I’ll be a baby Clydesdale Fairy, and lets gallop with the motorcycles, OK, Mama? OK? Just one more time!”