My breath fogs up my face shield. I breathe in exhaust as sweat runs down my leg. I want to rev the engine of my Kawasaki Ninja ZX-14R out of agitation at the stoplight that is keeping me from my ride—my sacred place.
At stoplights, I look over from my bike at the “cagers” sitting inside their cars. They may have left home or work, but they are still inside—swiping, texting, or talking on their Bluetooth devices. I feel like I’m on a set, watching a commercial with paid actors artificially busy behind the glass.
It’s a winter day, yet a blue sky prevails. I am heading to Burnet County, to Park Road 4, known for steep drops and sharp curves. I merge onto US 281, outside of Austin, and instantly feel relief. I am lulled by the hum of my motor as it gently vibrates through the handlebars—into my hands, my arms, my chest. It’s almost as if I’m not there, like I am one with the bike. That’s what happens when we’re present, doing what we love; we detach, producing this other state that clears the mind. And I’m here to detach from what has lately felt like living just to keep up.
Hill Country Motorheads Motorcycle Museum
2001 W. SH 29, Burnet.
512-553-4078;
hillcountry
motorheads.com
It’s not long before I cross into Burnet County. Rock country. Land of feldspar and quartz. I pass cement plants, an underground mine, and a sign for Granite Shoals. The latter, a town abutting Lake LBJ, is named after shallow pools in depressions across slabs of pink granite that mark the area.
I pass Shawn’s Cycle Shop, owned by my mechanic, Shawn McCaleb. I’ll always remember two things he said to me. Once, I told him my motorcycle, a high-displacement sport bike known for straight-line acceleration, felt more stable at higher speeds. He replied, “Doesn’t Kawasaki make ships?” He was right. Another time, when I was lamenting repairs I needed, he confided, “If you’re putting your heart and soul into these things, you should feel good about wearing out a few parts.”
Enjoying this article?Before riding on Park Road 4, I want to make a stop outside Marble Falls, past Shawn’s shop. There’s no sign. You have to know where to turn.
Hidden on US 281, across from a large quarry, is a Depression-era roadside park with just one picnic table. The tract is plain but the view isn’t. Packsaddle Mountain and the Colorado River appear in the distance. The river shimmers and the sun beams with soft light that fills the valley, infusing me as well. My stress dissipates. I need this ride. This winter has been rough, working part-time jobs and raising a teenage son.
I remember wiping down my bike minutes before the trip, worrying about this and that, when a bee appeared, bouncing on and off my gas tank. I moved out of the way at first, then stopped to watch it hover. For just a moment, a bee took my mind away from all my worries.
In an interview with journalist Bill Moyers on PBS in 1988, mythologist Joseph Campbell explained the modern dilemma: “As you get older, the claims of the environment upon you are so great that you hardly know where the hell you are. You’re always doing something that is required of you. This minute. That minute. Another minute. Where is your bliss station?”
I am headed toward mine: Park Road 4, a 15.5-mile stretch joining Longhorn Cavern State Park and Inks Lake State Park. The high country features dark gray limestone, while the bottomland is full of pink rocks and boulders.
Janell Hanlon, a local I asked for advice before the ride, recommended I start here, a section she calls “The Up.” She and her husband, Pat, are owners of Hill Country Motorheads Motorcycle Museum, a showroom of vintage motorbikes in Burnet.
“Once you turn left off of 281 onto Park Road 4,” she said, “you’re going to feel your mood, your body, your everything change.” But she issued a warning: “If you don’t have the concentration of at least a mid-level rider, you can go off the mountain. You can get distracted by the view and maybe miss a curve.”
I exit the roadside park, scan for loose gravel, and carefully cross the highway. As I turn onto the parkway, I think of the Civilian Conservation Corps who built the entrance portals here and Park Road 4 with picks, wheelbarrows, and shovels. Some were my son’s age—17.
The ride is delightfully quiet as I pass numerous ranches. A century ago, the countryside would have been full of grazing sheep and goats. I continue cruising atop Backbone Ridge, waiting for the drop.
Two miles in, I see the sign for a steep grade and plummet down gleefully. I catch a glimpse of the valley floor to my left and lift my visor, taking in the air with a wicked smile. I continue over more Loch Ness hills and twisties, gritting my teeth. I realize now why the road was graded to follow the natural contours of the Hill Country, to complement, not compete with, the natural environment.
I can see Longhorn Cavern State Park’s administration building ahead. The Sam Bass underground entrance is to my left, but the caverns pass underneath Park Road 4 to the other side of the road for a quarter mile. Park manager Evan Archilla says the CCC removed 3,000 dump trucks of subterranean debris to reveal the chambers and rooms that tourists visit today.
Park Road 4 is old, originally made for much slower cars. In some places, there’s road chatter, drop-offs, and no shoulder. Add a surprise turn and the risks go up.
“We’ve had more than one person take out the front gate at the park—cars and bikes coming around that curve too fast,” Archilla says.
About a mile ahead, the tree line recedes, and a castle appears. A dream project built by Terry and Kim Young of Burnet, Falkenstein Castle is a VRBO rental. For about $2,000 a night, guests can enjoy a six-bedroom castle with jetted tubs, private balconies, a 40,000-gallon koi pond, and a water feature with gems and crystals.
The cool air refreshes me. I know the best part awaits. A mile ahead, 7 miles from US 281, I begin the second drop into Hoover’s Valley. Guard walls made of limestone stand on the north and south sides of the road. The road winds down and reveals lush ranch land and vineyards.
At the bottom of the hill, Park Road 4 veers, joining Ranch-to-Market Road 2342, and runs flat past Perissos Vineyard and Winery and Hoover’s Valley Country Store. I continue riding north, parallel to Peter’s Creek, and make a hard right turn by Inks Dam. As Hanlon advised, this section is more technical—very easy to “go wide.”
I stop and park at Devil’s Waterhole Overlook. I walk up to the railing and look down into the canyon, where the rock is a billion years old. I stand under the canopy of a live oak growing out of a large outcropping, all my earlier agitation now an afterthought.
I ride back up Backbone Ridge and end at what I consider the most underrated vista in Texas: Longhorn Cavern State Park Scenic Overlook, a picnic area built by the CCC in 1940. I park at the precipice of the hill. A lone, young live oak stands just beyond me, and I peer miles ahead at Packsaddle Mountain and Lake LBJ. Cars are parked, engines running, with silhouettes inside. I dismount, take off my gloves, and place them on my seat. When I look down, I discover a honeybee crawling on one of my gloves.
In the Moyers interview, Campbell said, “Most of our action is economically or socially determined and does not come out of our life.” Where does that leave us? What do we do? Perhaps it takes a ride to figure it out.
I can’t say why I saw a bee land on my motorcycle twice that day—in December. But I do know bees live a short life. When they get tired, some sleep in flowers, carrying pollen from flower to flower as they wander. And I know I can’t see anything like this if I stay inside and do what’s only required. I must be out here, avoiding cages at all costs.
