Touring With Molly

There’s something uniquely compelling about a motorcycle journey that serves a purpose beyond the ride itself. When the rumble of an engine becomes a vehicle for change, the miles take on a deeper meaning. That’s the spirit behind my recent tour around Texas, a ride I undertook with my trusty companion Molly—my well‑worn, much‑loved motorcycle—to raise awareness and funds for a cause close to my heart. This is the story of carving a loop around the Lone Star State, one mile at a time, and discovering that the open road always has lessons to teach.

Why Molly?

Every rider has a relationship with their machine, but some bonds go deeper than chrome and displacement figures. Molly is a 2005 Suzuki V‑Strom 650, a bike that’s seen better days cosmetically but has never let me down mechanically. She wears her scratches like badges of honor, earned on gravel backroads and rain‑soaked interstates. I bought her used nearly a decade ago, and over time she’s become more than transportation—she’s a partner in every adventure.

The name came from a long‑ago trip through the Hill Country, when a fellow rider joked that the bike’s gentle, predictable nature reminded him of a loyal old dog named Molly. The name stuck. Now, when I fire her up, it feels less like starting an engine and more like waking a friend. That friendship was about to be tested on a 2,800‑mile loop around a state big enough to swallow whole countries.

Before any extended tour, it pays to give your motorcycle a thorough once‑over. While I handle most of my own maintenance, I always recommend that riders consult resources like our own Check Yer Ride guide to make sure they haven’t missed anything critical. For Molly, that meant fresh oil, a new chain and sprockets, and a careful inspection of the tires that would soon eat up miles of Texas asphalt.

The Lone Star Route

Texas is a continent masquerading as a state—crossing it by motorcycle is a commitment. My plan was a counter‑clockwise loop starting and ending in Austin, with waypoints calculated not by shortest distance but by the promise of two‑lane blacktop, quirky roadside stops, and the kind of small‑town diners where the pie is homemade and the coffee is bottomless. The rough outline: Austin to the Piney Woods of East Texas, dipping down to the Gulf Coast, skirting the border to Big Bend, then cutting north through the Davis Mountains and Panhandle before swinging back through the Hill Country.

Texas riding offers staggering variety. The Piney Woods deliver towering pines and gentle curves through towns like Nacogdoches and Lufkin, where the scent of barbecue drifts across the road. The Gulf Coast features long, flat stretches with impossible humidity, but also the reward of fresh seafood and the sound of waves at spots like Matagorda Bay. Then comes the stark, humbling beauty of Big Bend—a place where the sky is so vast that you feel both insignificant and utterly alive. North of there, the Davis Mountains provide welcome relief from the desert heat, with winding roads like the famous “Twisted Sisters” of the Hill Country but with far less traffic.

Weather is a constant companion on a ride like this. I learned to check the radar obsessively, dodging thunderstorms that build over the Plains with startling speed. One afternoon near Del Rio, the sky turned an ominous shade of green that I’d only ever seen in tornado‑warning documentaries. Molly and I waited it out under a gas station awning, sharing the space with a friendly border patrol agent who offered me a cold bottle of water and a story about his own long‑lost Honda CB750. That’s the thing about a journey like this: the road provides not just challenges, but also kindness from strangers who become part of your narrative.

Riding for a Purpose

This tour wasn’t just about personal exploration. For years, I’ve been moved by the way motorcycle communities rally around causes, from ride‑for‑charity events to individual efforts that generate real change. My cause on this trip was raising awareness and donations for mental health support programs in rural Texas. These areas have limited access to care, and the stigma around seeking help remains stubbornly high. I partnered with a small nonprofit that provides teletherapy vouchers to farming and ranching communities, and every mile I rode was sponsored by friends, family, and fellow enthusiasts who wanted to make a difference.

“You’re doing something good on that machine, son. Keep the rubber down and the spirit up.” —A diner owner in Marfa, when I explained why I was riding.

Carrying a cause changes the nature of a tour. Stops for fuel or food become opportunities to share the mission, and I was consistently amazed at the generosity of people I met. In tiny towns like Sanderson and Bovina, folks would press a few dollars into my hand or simply say, “Thank you for doing this.” Those moments reframed the fatigue and saddle soreness as minor inconveniences. The ride wasn’t just about me and Molly—it was about stitching together a web of human connection across a vast landscape.

One of the most powerful encounters happened at a rest area near Van Horn, where a young man noticed the decal on my saddlebag promoting the cause. He quietly shared that he had lost a brother to suicide the year before. We talked for almost an hour, and when I pulled away, I realized that the conversation alone—the simple act of listening—had made the entire trip worthwhile. Motorcycles break down barriers. They invite conversations that might otherwise never happen.

Lessons from the Saddle

Long‑distance touring is the ultimate teacher, and every multi‑day ride imparts lessons that go beyond mechanics or navigation. Here are a few that the Lone Star Loop reinforced for me:

• Flexibility is essential. Maps and plans are great, but road closures, sudden weather, and unexpected discoveries demand a willingness to adapt. The best memories often come from detours you didn’t intend to take.
• Packing light is a discipline. With only saddlebags and a tail pack, I had to prioritize. After a week, I realized I hadn’t used half of what I’d brought. The freedom of minimal gear mirrors the freedom of the ride itself.
• Hydration can’t be ignored. Texas heat is relentless, especially in the flatlands. I made it a rule to drink at least a liter of water at every fuel stop, whether I felt thirsty or not.
• People are mostly good. Time and again, strangers offered help, directions, or simply a moment of camaraderie. The news may focus on division, but the road reveals a quieter, kinder truth.

One lesson I didn’t expect was the value of slow travel. Modern life encourages rushing, but on a motorcycle, you experience the spaces between destinations. You smell the rain before it hits, feel the temperature change as you descend into a valley, and notice the subtle shifts in vegetation that mark different ecosystems. That gradual immersion is something no car trip can replicate. It’s a reminder that the journey really is the destination.

Gear and Preparation for the Long Haul

A ride of this magnitude demands careful preparation, both for the motorcycle and the rider. While I’ve already mentioned the mechanical checklist, rider gear is equally critical. For this tour, I relied on a layered approach: a mesh jacket for airflow in the lowlands, a waterproof liner for Gulf Coast rains, and a heated vest that I never thought I’d need until a cold front plunged Panhandle temperatures into the 40s at sunrise. My Shoei helmet, though aging, continues to provide excellent ventilation and minimal fatigue, while a Bluetooth communicator let me listen to podcasts during the endless straight miles without disconnecting from engine sounds and traffic alerts.

Navigation deserves special attention in a state as large as Texas. I used a combination of a handlebar‑mounted GPS for primary routing and paper maps for backup and big‑picture planning. Cell service disappears in many parts of West Texas, so relying solely on a smartphone is a gamble. I also carried a personal locator beacon, a habit from dual‑sport riding in remote areas that I’ve never regretted. Comfort upgrades, such as an aftermarket seat and highway pegs, made a world of difference on 400‑mile days. For riders considering their own long tour, I can’t overstate the importance of a seat that fits your anatomy; Molly’s stock seat was replaced years ago with a custom Sargent unit that has been worth every penny.

Finally, I incorporated a small tool kit and tire repair kit, along with a mini air compressor. I never needed them, but knowing they were there allowed me to explore gravel spurs and less‑traveled routes without anxiety. The peace of mind that comes from self‑sufficiency is a key ingredient in an enjoyable tour.

The Ride Home and What Comes Next

Rolling back into Austin after seventeen days and 2,800 miles, I felt a familiar mix of exhaustion and euphoria. Molly’s odometer had clicked past a satisfying milestone, and the cause had raised over $4,000 in donations—a modest but meaningful sum for a small nonprofit. More importantly, the conversations sparked along the way planted seeds of awareness in places that might otherwise never have considered mental health support as a community priority.

The end of a tour always brings a quiet letdown, a kind of decompression that can last for days. The rhythm of the road—pack, ride, fuel, eat, sleep, repeat—becomes a comfortable routine, and returning to a stationary life takes adjustment. I’ve learned to ease that transition by immediately starting a list of maintenance tasks for Molly (she deserved an oil change and a thorough cleaning after her hard work) and by beginning to sketch ideas for the next journey. Already, the atlas on my desk is marked with potential routes through Arkansas and Oklahoma, maybe even a longer loop that reaches into New Mexico.

If there’s one takeaway from this experience, it’s that you don’t need the newest bike or the most expensive gear to undertake a meaningful motorcycle tour. Molly is proof that a well‑maintained, faithful machine can carry you farther than you think, both geographically and emotionally. The key is simply to go, to say yes to the road, and to find a purpose—no matter how small—that makes the miles matter.