It sure ain't cold

I don't know if anyone has noticed, but it's hot.

I mean, it's really, really hot - like "able to fry an egg on the sidewalk" hot.

Or, fry an old guy riding his motor- cycle over a s p h a lroads after one in the afternoon. Ia m a z e s me that the older I get, the less I can handle the Texas heat.

A couple of years ago, I rode my motorcycle to San Diego. That year, 2007, we went out there in May ... and the temperatures as we traveled through West Texas were above 100 degrees.

The same held true for southern New Mexico and the desert of southern Arizona and on into southern California.

And my brother-in-law was riding his bike along with me on that trip. And, as a former truck driver, he set the pace like we were taking an 18-wheeler cross country.

We'd ride for several hours, get a motel room for just a few hours rest or napping, then get back on the road again.

Here's a little tip - when riding in that kind of heat, make sure to drink lots of water along the way.

We crossed into southern California on the second day. We had to stop just inside the border to put on helmets because of the helmet laws in that state.

Then we started back up again. After a few miles, I began to get queasy. It got bad enough that I passed my brother-in-law, put my blinker on, and pulled over on the highway's shoulder.

Stepping off the bike, he looked at me and asked me if I was OK. Ignoring my answer, he reached into the cooler on the small motorcycle trailer he was pulling, grabbed a bottle of water, and brought it to me.

I took maybe one gulp before having my knees fold up and I collapsed to the roadway on my hands and knees.

It was nearly a total "pass out" situation.

Three bottles of water later, we eased back on the road and - stopping several times - made it the last 100 or so miles into San Diego.

Sometimes you're just not as young as you used to be, I've found out.