Nothing Beats a Hobo-steak

This was from a trip back in 2013. I took 4 weeks to ride around the Western states, going from one national park to another. I ended up in Moab for my birthday and celebrated with a fat steak at Jeffrey’s Steakhouse.

It made me happy and stayed a couple days in Moab. I was parked out at the comfy Red Rock Lodge. I had the place almost to myself just after the blitz of Harleys that were in town for Memorial Day.


Moab had a peacefulness that’s lazy and comfortable. The red rock cliffs surrounded the city like a deep clay tub of soothing mud.

But the road finally called, I was headed to Western Idaho from here. I was suggested to Glenns Ferry, a historic state park that marked the spot where fronteers-people cross the Snake River on the old Oregon Trail.

Oregon Trail Map

Fleeing a storm front in Utah and then pounded by high winds on the open Idaho interstate, this 500 mile journey was a little more taxing than I expected. After lunch, I was actually nodding off on the ride down I-84! I took the next exit and found a parking lot, where a gentleman let me park and nap on the ground.


After a 45 minute respite, I collected enough concentration to ride the remaining 90 miles to Glenns Ferry. The exit took me through a little town and towards the state park on the edge of the Snake River. I had just an hour before the museum and exhibit hall closed to get a little history on this historic site. Amazing how the settlers from the 1840’s selected this spot to push their animals and wagon across this river.

With plenty of daylight left, I set up my tent on a nice green patch of grass before going back into town for dinner and a well deserved alcoholic beverage. A cut of steak, large can of what looked like a margarita and instant rice side dish was on the menu for a long exhausting day.


I threw that steak straight on the grill and listened to it sizzled and popped. I recalled the long events of the day and smirked at how that same morning, I was in Southern Utah. I thought of how I was doing what those early settlers must have done after that arduous crossing of the Snake river, trying to find a little comfort for the evening.


When my hobo-style steak came ready, I savored with pure delight of how something could taste soooo good. Rice and a sweet beverage hadn’t tasted soooo good in so long. The steak I had on my celebratory birthday, a fine steak, did not even match how this hobo-steak could feed a road-weary soul!

Recipe for hobo-steak:

  1. Steak from store, your choice of cut
  2. Few spices you had put in a bag before you left on a 1 month trip
  3. Throw it on the grill over the fire
  4. Flip just a few times


Our initial ride, before we was family

Our initial ride… Before SisterCousin became family

SisterCousin sent me a message:


Amazingly, the boy showed up at crack o’dawn thirty, before I even did. We went to church, had breakfast, smelled a few flowers and then we rode. I dragged that poor broken boy around some of the goatiest roads I could think of, this way, that way, up, down, bump, twist, GO! He just followed me, happy as could be. With sweet roads like this, can you blame him?


When I’d pull over for a quick break he’d have this loopy look on his face. I couldn’t tell if he was on dope or dogfood. Turns out, he was just a little too excited about the roads. He’d never been on them before and here I had just combined a few years worth of my own  exploring into one sweet, sweet ride. I think he developed some loving feelings for western Sonoma county on that ride, which pleased me. It is one of my happy places. (I have a lot of those)


As we were heading down a descent (I get slow going downhill)  I realized he was riding right on my ass and I wasn’t the least bit concerned and he seemed, well, happy back there. I stopped to smell the flowers and take in the view. I asked if he was having fun (yes!). I was starting to think that any fella who can follow me blissfully and not need to stop or fuss was a good egg. I have had people complain about riding with me before, it makes them tired. Whatever.


We rode all day and then split. I headed home and so did SisterCousin. When I got home I saw he had sent me a message from our meeting point that morning:


So I did, a few weeks later. My new year’s resolution for 2015 was one overnight motorcycle trip per month and I had plans in my head for a ride over Memorial day….
Mistress Cheeseburger

July 4th Holiday Weekend – Screw Fireworks, Ride!

Pre ryde – Day 1

Mistress Cheeseburger sent me a fancy interweb message a few weeks back about riding motorcycles, I like motorcycles, she knows this, but SisterCousin doesn’t make plans so I promptly forgot. Whammy, flash ferward two weeks and Wednesday night or so she said sumthin like “You ready for dat weekend ridez?”
“What rides? I like rides? Let’s rides”

Just like dat, I was in.

Sistercousin had to fix his bike lickity split. Needed a new frunt tyre, new lights, lubez (can never have enough lubez) Got all my shiz in order, packed my ghetto trunk full of things and stuff. Turned down sex with someone who wasn’t, or I think wasn’t mah cousin, to go ride bikes. Yeeeehawwww


Then it was Friday morning, we dun met up at Sturbucks in Emeryville, Homedepo next door had it’s alarm going off, the homeless were pissing in the street, there was a black guy in zerbra pants dancing to Kelly Clarkson. I luv the east bay. Cheeseburger rolled up and yelled at me “You park like an asshole!”
Sidewalk parking is not asshole’ish, it is goshdarn manditory! Git it right!
Then I ates a bagel. Mmmm bagels.

Twenty minutes later I got a Performance Award from a big kind feller on a Harldy. His flash’n blue and red lights were mesmerizing, he gifted me a pretty little yeller piece of paper dat reads mah name and things I allegedly did wrongz. Hooligan’ism isn’t wrong, it’s god damn right!
Mistress Cheeseburger snapped dis cool pic of me getting awarded:


Then we brappeled along until somewhere, where we drank moar caffeine and bought some jerky, I ruv me some jerky. It is SisterCousins life sustenance. Den trouble dun showed up, BanjoBoy. Such a sillywilly hillbilly, he rides on of dem big tour’n bikes, but I think he is too stoopid to realize it ain’t a dirt bike. Somethin ain’t right wif him. But he is pretty funny, and he can ride goods too.

The three of us rode our bykes all over. Up, down, left, sometimes right. Mostly left. Hours and hours of lefts, with some rights. So many giggles, lots of gravel, some stops for gas. Every time I wanted dat foods, BanjoBoy just looked at me and rode away.  I thinks he likes watching others suffer, good thing I like to suffer.

We finally stopped for runch somewhere up in the mountains. Banjoboy took off his Stich and the mountain town drunk came up and started chatting him up. Probably because BanjoBoy’s little behind looks so cutes in his little bike shorts, dat camo t-shirt he had on completed the outfit. Oh, the cowboy boots too, always dem boots. Well the drunk guy talked, no one listened, we ates our cheese burgers. Den the drunk guy got drunker and left.

Then we rode bikes some more, up, down left and this time lots of rights. There was a lot of that stuff that bikers hate, gravel. We all likez that junk. Slippy slidez, when in doubt, throttle out! BoyHowdy! Finally Banjoboy hathed to head homes to his wifes. I dun’t has one of them, neither does Mistress Cheeseburger. So we kept ghetto touring, after buying some meat sticks. Mmmm meat sticks.


A bit later we dun set up camp in them mountains, but it started to rains, so Cheesburger took her hammock down and we set up a ghetto chanty camping tent under my construction site salvaged Tyvek tarp. GHETTO TOURING. We was comfy as could be on them rocks, and ants, and beetles (that climbed into Burgers hair, but I couldn’t stop laughing as the beetle just burrowed away deeper and deeper into her hair… laughed until I dun cried myself into a silly stooper, I dunt think she likes me no more) Neither of us slept much, cause rocks, ants, the thought of more beetles, skeeters, pretty much we were busier than a cat covering up shit on a concrete floor all night flicking things off.

Ghetto chantey in all its glory:

Soon after setting up our GhettoTouring homestead, we dun decided to trudge through them woods and climb a big rock to watch da beauty of a sunset. I only brought my flippyfloppies, so it was a challenge, as I already dun drank a portion of whiskey. But the cuts and scrapes were so worth it:



Day 2

I dun’t has much to say bout this day other than


And I had to takes a whore bath, cause whores gotta bathe too…

There was also a newt in the bathing pond, LOOK AT IT:



Then it got hotter than two hampsters fart’n in a wool sock! Both dat temperature and and dem roads. We had wet t-shirt contests all day, I soaked mah dingle berries to keep them nice and cool. As cool berries are key to comfort.

More road spooge and dem views:

Mistress leaving me again… Don’t let her fool ya, she ain’t slow!


The day was 400+ miles of hillbilly, wiener hardening bliss, no cousins involved!

We dun stopped for some tasty TacoHell before stopping for the night. I tooks off mah crispy stich and found this little feller! He was dun try’n to sting mah pecker!!!!! Nooooooo!!! Not mah one-eyed trouser snake! He was probably trapped inside mah britches for a good while. Skurry stuff.

After all day road spooging, and a near death experience with the little bee… We stayed with mah new found Ma’ma’s / Cheeseburgers Ma’ma house. I got’s me a shower and a good nights sleep, not on rocks, but I did miss the ants biting my ankles. Did I tell you I like to suffer?


Day 3

I guess it was time to heads home, as SisterCousin has to continue with his Edmumafuckincation. Mistress Cheeseburger has one of them fancy yobs that pays money or things and stuff. So off we went.

The Hoon’n started shortly after leaving, real fast hoon’n. Fast sidewalk hoon’n, fast freeway hoon’n, erratic hoon’n, you name the type of hoon’n it happened. Then Denny’s. So much meats in and around mah mouth and Mistresses mouth. We both wanted to die of shame/salt overdose. Mistress swore off food for the rest of the day.

We rode sum moar, places, things were seen, more wiener hardening roads were slayed. Then I got hungry… Thankfully so did mah ghetto touring partner in crime, who swore off food earlier.  So we pulled over and had cheesebugers. After eating dem burgas, I noticed some little leggies sticking out of Cheeseburgers byke. SHE DUN MURDERED IT!

But do not fear, we gave the little dead traveler a nice burial under some dirt n sticks’n’things in the woods.

Soon there after we rode real fast past police officers, small childrens and stoopid tourists. GET OUTA MAH WAY. This is when mah tire started to be lyke, “you gonna die son” Der was no treads left in dat center. None. De nada. I ride the most powerful bike in dis here world. I kept spinning it on corner entrances when I power-downshifted.  But do not fear, I motarded mah ghetto touring rig to victory. Lots of unintentional kegel exercises!

After a bit, we slabbed home. Mistress must have had somethin up in der somewhere, cause she wanted to go fast. So we went fast. It was skurry, I had no tyre to go fast on. Dem triple digit speed on that close course with mah rear tire just wiggling around back yonder made mah poop hole tighen up. Since my kegel muscles were tired from the earlier puckering… I was ride’n dat gravy train on biscutt wheels all da way home.

I gots back to mah shack, took off my stich, and my bruther dun hollared frum across the yard:
“That would gag a maggot on a gut wagon”

“Yur welcome”

My job is done here.