Told by JD Dalton

Texas heat forces people to rethink their decisions.

A heat that dissolves boot rubber or makes black leather feel like a torture device. Such weather turns cold beer into pure relief.

When Roxy declared “Let’s ride to Austin and drink beer at Jester King” we all agreed at once. Not from trust in her ideas (which had failed before) but because we knew of Jester King Brewery’s fame. The wild fermentation along with farmhouse ales next to a vast ranch where folks enjoy drinks under the Texas sun made the trip worth every drop of sweat.

A simple beer run seemed too good to be true.

Rolling into trouble

We arrived when the sun dipped behind the hills with a sky of fire and dust. Jester King stood as an oasis where hops or woodsmoke mixed with pizza scents and barrel-aged sours.

A glass of Le Petit Prince hit as a new discovery-crisp along with light with hints of hay as well as citrus. The start felt modest and proper.

The main event followed: SPON, the wild fermentation series. Oak barrels next to native yeast created a taste that time itself seemed to capture. The beer made people pause in conversations to understand the taste in front of them.

“This beer shows what true flavor means,” Theo said as he turned his glass like an old scholar.

“Good,” Mack said through half-empty glass.

Ghost said nothing. His focus shifted to someone in the distance across the yard.

Roxy and the man with the hat

A few basic facts exist in life:

1.          Texas makes excellent beer.

2.          Roxy Deveraux needs supervision.

3.          The sight of her crooked smile means trouble approaches.

She sat at the bar with loud laughter next to a man in a black cowboy hat plus a spotless leather vest. He looked like someone who runs a custom chopper shop or manages an underground fight ring.

Mack let out a breath. “I don’t like him.”

“You dislike every man she talks to” I said.

“She picks the dangerous ones.”

A fact no one disputed.

Roxy turned to wave us over with eyes that sparkled from her next bad plan.

“Boys” she said as she put her arm on the cowboy’s shoulder. “Meet Clay. He tells me we race motorcycles underground tonight.”

My beer almost went down wrong. “What did you say?”

Ghost smiled. “Hell yeah.”

Mack moved his head. “No way.”

Theo wrote in his notebook. “What do you mean by underground?”

Clay showed his teeth – the kind that belong in police records. “A simple backwoods race without rules. The winner gets everything.”

“What counts as everything?” I asked.

He moved his shoulders. “Based on who shows up.”

Roxy put her hands together. “Perfect. We join in.”

Drunk choices and bad roads

No one should accept a motorcycle race after three farmhouse ales plus a barrel-aged wild saison.

But there we stood outside Austin on a dirt road with trucks along with bikes next to enough neon lights to look like a cheap carnival.

The riders made their engines roar as money passed between hands while a man with a beer mug tattoo on his neck treated dip as a basic food.

“This ranks as your worst plan ever” I told Roxy.

She winked. “Oh JD that statement lacks proof.”

A simple set of rules existed: Race. Stay alive. Come first.

The main issue? All of us lacked sobriety. Also Ghost had placed our last fuel dollars on his victory.

Everything goes to hell

A gunshot marked the start of the race.

We sped off with dirt clouds behind us as engines roared into the Texas night. Mack yelled about illegal activities but the wind took his words away.

Ghost led at the front with his usual lack of care as he dodged a stack of beer kegs.

Theo kept his odd habit to write notes during the ride.

Mack stayed fixed on his path as he made plans to deal with Roxy later.

Roxy rode with pure joy as if speed ran in her blood.

Then disaster struck.

A rider in a black hat forced Ghost to swerve into kegs. He flew over his handles or landed in a way his insurance would not cover.

Mack dodged a wild pig that ran across the track.

Theo lost control as well as drove into a yard nearby.

I watched this chaos unfold when Roxy shot past the finish line to win it all.

Then police cars arrived.

Escaping with our lives (and beer)

A person gains mental clarity at the moment they realize arrest is near.

It feels like reality hits hard ‒ one second you enjoy life to its fullest but then police lights reflect off barrels filled with illegal beer.

“RUN,” Roxy shouted as she started her bike.

We rode fast through back roads or dry creek beds with roaring engines. Dust flew up as our lungs burned. Ghost’s laughter rang out despite his injury.

The group stopped miles away inside an old shed where we sat on the ground to catch our breath.

Roxy reached for a cold Jester King beer bottle then opened it with her boot before she drank.

“Well,” she said after she wiped her mouth. “That escalated fast.”

Mack groaned. “You are trouble.”

Ghost smiled through his bruises. “This night beats all others.”

Theo looked at his notes under a coat of dust. “So Jester King: great wild ales with depth yet easy to drink which match poor choices or criminal acts.”

I let out my breath. “Texas stays off our list forever.”

Roxy gave a sly smile. “Time tells.”

But I knew in my heart this marked just a start.

Final beer notes: Jester King Brewery

•            Le Petit Prince: A light table beer that brings flavors of hay along with citrus plus a touch of funk. Works best with questionable decisions.

•            SPON: The result of wild fermentation. A drink that tastes tart as well as layered with historic depth. Not recommended before street racing.

•            Overall: The beer deserves 10/10 but chances to visit Texas again without legal issues: 0/10.