Uneasy Rider

Last weekend I traveled to Austin, Texas, for the 90th birthday celebration of Dr. Elva Mclin, my mentor, friend, and longtime colleague. Another former colleague and friend of the honoree accompanied me. Because neither of us had ever been to Austin before, we elected to stay in the elegant and palatial Driskill Hotel in downtown Austin and to have dinner at the renowned Fonda San Miguel restaurant. 

Little did I know that the weekend of our trip was the annual Republic of Texas (ROT) motorcycle rally—the fifth largest in the United States—drawing 50,000 bikers to Austin and generating $38 million in income for the city. 

I should have suspected something when I counted at least thirty bikers on the short drive from the airport to downtown Austin. And where did many of the bikers gather? On sixth street, of course. And where did a number of them stay? At the Driskill, naturally. What a paradox: a magnificent hotel that seemed to encourage one to speak in awed whispers, surrounded by hundreds of Harleys. And then, there was the sound of hundreds of Harley’s. My friend and I were decked out in our best bib and tucker for the trip, and it was a hoot to check in next to booted and tee-shirted bikers in jeans or short shorts. But Austin is nothing if not eclectic. That is part of its charm. 

The Driskill Hotel, built by Colonel Driskill in 1868 for a cost of $400, 000—a king’s ransom in that time, has been completely restored and is fabulous even by today’s standards. Perhaps it is only fitting that the hotel bar (once the stables where gentlemen parked their horses and carriages) should be filled with bikers. Are not they our “urban cowboys”? 


In the spirit of the occasion, those of us staying at the hotel had our picture made under the head of a long-horned steer.
 
I did not see as much of Austin as I had hoped ( I even missed visiting the memorial to Stevie Ray Vaughn) because I spend most of my time lost. I am an excellent map reader, but I cannot navigate and drive a rental car in a strange city at the same time. So about thirty minutes after we left the hotel on our way to Leander to the celebration, I was lost. 

Due to construction, the road we were to follow simply disappeared (I think they call it a detour), and we were facing another road –actually there were two (FM—Farm to Market—Route 183, which we could not find, and FM 183A, the toll road which we could find). 

The directions clearly stated that we were not to take the toll road, but it appeared we had no choice as the other road was nowhere to be seen. After making a frantic phone call to our host and driving up and down the same highway for another fifteen minutes, I finally pulled over to a construction site in the middle of the road, jumped out of the rented Hyundai in my high heeled red patent open toe slings, and threw myself on the mercy of one of the construction workers. “Help” I cried. “We’re lost.” 

He gave me careful directions and we were soon on our way, leaving him chuckling to himself, no doubt. Attempting to return to the hotel we were lost again, but at that juncture, all roads led to Rome (aka Austin) and so we were soon found. 

Like Blanche Dubois, I have always depended up the kindness of strangers, and everyone I met in Austin was extraordinarily kind and helpful. But our trials were not over. On the trip back to the airport on Monday morning, I missed the exit to #71. I eventually exited the interstate at a strip mall in which there was a Verizon store.
“My cell phone is Verizon,” I declared to my friend, “so I am sure they will help me.” The salesperson was busy, but a man who had come in to get a new phone volunteered to help me. He wasn’t from around there, he said, but he knew where the airport was. I was to continue down the interstate, loop back onto I-35 heading north, and return to the exit that I missed. He warned me that if I kept heading south, as was my inclination, I could end up in San Antonio. 

As it turned out, I need not be in any hurry. We left Austin-Bergstrom airport at 1:10 heading for our connection in Dallas, and at 10 P.M. that night we were still in the Dallas airport, awaiting a shuttle to take us to the Super 8 motel in Benton. DFW had shut down due to weather. We finally made it to Huntsville, Alabama, at 3 P.M. on Tuesday. I had spent more time getting to and from Austin than I actually spent in that wonderful city. I am definitely going back.

Penne J. Laubenthal

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