Frenchy's Rant

Leaving Bisbee was hard, as leaving any truly great place is. But sometimes in life, you have to make hard decisions, and with my flight booked out of Phoenix to the final WWE show before Wrestlemania eminent, it’s time to make the hard decision and head north.

A stop in Tombstone made that decision a little easier, for a few minutes.

I hitch Rain Cloud Follows to the sidewalk, and mosey down Main Street.

Tombstone is a tourist trap, but it is a cool one, because at least they have gunfights on the hour. Any tourist trap can be made infinitely better with the simple addition of a gunfight. Instead of watching the battle, which I have already seen, I stop into my favorite Tombstone watering hole for a quick beverage.

The beverage goes right through me, and I see this sign in the Cowboy’s room.

I Wonder If They Knew I Was Coming?

To my horror, when I return to Rain Cloud Follows, I can tell something is wrong. After a quick check, I realize some slimy little shit, some random scumbag stole my favorite possession, the Kingdom of Rhode Island flag that I’ve proudly flown on every ride I have taken on Rain Cloud Follows.

Missing – Reward for Capture of Flag Thief

Tombstone is still a pretty lawless place. Where is Wyatt Earp when you need him?

Shit.

After fantasizing about hangings, drawing and quarterings, waterboardings and other messy methods of punishing the Flag Thief, I resolve to get over my loss and somehow find the strength to carry on. The fact that I am heading to the Kitt Peak Observatory for an evening of stargazing makes this resolution easier.

But first, my Ghost Rider Tribute, which I changed up so the missing flag wouldn’t be noticed.

Kitt Peak Observatory, located about forty five miles outside Tucson, hosts twenty-six telescopes. A Nightly Observer program offers, for a small fee, the opportunity for visitors to use one of their sixteen inch telescopes to peer out at the universe. When I found out about the program a few weeks ago, I immediately signed up.

The ride up to the top of Kitt Peak is exhilarating, I’m easily the first to arrive. The group, almost forty strong, is excited to learn about the stars and see some up close and personal. But first, we gather outside to watch the sunset.

With the distracting sun safely out of the way, we are taken on a tour of the universe, first with binoculars, then, what everyone is waiting for, through the telescope.

I have to admit that the views were somewhat disappointing. While I was expecting this view of the Cigar Galaxy:

Through the sixteen inch eye of the Schmidt-Cassegrain telescope, it looked more like this:

Then, our guide explained that the light from the Cigar Galaxy that we were seeing left that galaxy about twelve MILLION years ago, and is just now reaching the Earth. For all we know – and there is no easy way to tell with any amount of certainty –  the Cigar Galaxy might not even be there anymore.

Because of the enormous distance involved, what we are seeing at that moment is what the Cigar Galaxy looked like twelve million years in the past. This is such a huge mind fuck it still makes me dizzy just thinking about it. Telescopes have a way of putting everything in perspective, and making me feel incredibly small and insignificant.

The fun wasn’t over when the program ended, not by a long shot. At the end of the viewing, our guide announced, “Folks, as there is active astronomical research going on all night, we need a favor from you. Light from headlights can mess up sensitive telescopes, so we ask as you leave that you please refrain from turning on your headlights until you are one mile down the access road.”

Ummm…. Say what?

After asking if they were out of their minds, I tell them I can’t just switch off my headlights. The guide assures me he is serious, then offers a low tech solution – taping manila folders over my headlights. Oh yeah baby, I’ll just use the force to get down that first winding, windy mile of mountainous road.

This is what the first mile looked like:

And not just because I had my eyes shut for most of it.

The remaining miles back to Tucson were much less exciting as that first mile was. For anyone interested, I can highly, enthusiastically, one hundred percent recommend against taping folders over your headlights and descending a mountain road at midnight. My toast that night is to the Best Day Ever to Still-Be-Alive-After-Blatantly-Cheating-Death-on-the-Side-of-a-Mountain.

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Standin’ on the corner in Winslow, Arizona, and nothing happens. No girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford, or anything else for that matter slows down to take a look at me. Ah well, back to runnin’ down the road to Bisbee.

The temperature stays in the low 50’s, and at these high elevations, snow still lines both sides of the road.

Then, finally, thankfully, the elevation starts to drop. Suddenly, where there were pine trees and snow there is now cacti and sand. That’s more like it!

My Garmin Everlost routes me off the highway, and for a change, I am happy for the detour. Usually the little wonder of technology will have me exit the highway only to perform a U-Turn or two and get right back on. This time the Garmin has excellent scenery and roads on the mind (or memory chips as it were) and I’m along in the Tonto National Forest for the ride.

The remaining miles between me and Bisbee decrease, speed and time conquering distance as always. The sun sets and the last fifty miles to my home for the night are completed in darkness.

Copper Queen Hotel – The Next Morning

I check in at the Copper Queen Hotel, and am told the room next to mine is supposedly haunted. I thumb through the Ghost Journal on the counter; some of the stories are quite well written. I don’t really believe in ghosts, but you never know…

I have dinner at a local restaurant, and the hostess, a kind older lady offers up the line of the night. A strange couple sits next to me at the bar, a couple that can’t seem to keep their hands off each other. When the hostess asks for their order, the lady spells out a complicated list of changes she wants to her dish, including adding shrimp. The hostess informs the woman that adding shrimp will result in a $3 additional charge, to which the woman starts loudly complaining. The hostess leans in close and whispers, “Listen lady, I’m pushing 70. Do you really think I need this shit? So, tell me. Do you want the shrimp or not?”

Stunned, the woman at the bar says, “Ummm, yes. OK.” My new favorite hostess then responded in a loud voice, “Well, the customer is always right!”

There is plenty of entertainment to be had in Bisbee, ghosts or not. The newly opened Old Bisbee Brewing Company is a great place for an India Pale Ale or three, and a story. After ordering my second, the bartendress, a cute girl around twenty-five asks if I’m enjoying the brew. Being a bit of a beer connoisseur, with the beer connoisseur belly to prove it, I reply, “Yes, very much. It’s just right.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that. I’m the brewmaster, and that’s my recipe.”

Woah. Interesting. A girl brewmaster that makes excellent beer. If it wasn’t for Fiona………..

Turns out the Old Bisbee Brewing Company has only been open about a week, and on the night I am there, the place is packed. Mindy, the brewmaster, attended Brewmaster school in England. I sample every beer in the place, and have to say that there wasn’t a bad one in the bunch. Beer school paid off for Mindy.

I walk around Bisbee, and am almost in a constant state of amazement. Everyone in the town, from local residents to tourists says hello, which seems to have become a lost art in most parts of the US. Usually a single traveler in a bar will be roundly ignored, in Bisbee that doesn’t happen, because you aren’t a single traveler for long, you are almost instantly absorbed into a group. In an alleyway I’m convinced for a second that I see a ghost, then I wonder if it’s just the after effects of Mindy’s brewmastery.

Further down Brewery Avenue, I do another double take.

A house sits on the corner that is so interesting I have to go back in the morning for pictures, and to make sure I’m not losing my mind.

Yes, Bisbee is a very interesting place. I vow to come back someday, but as the Road to Wrestlemania is winding to it’s inevitable end, I know I have to leave. With one night left, and one more fun stop planned before work interrupts my ride once again, I sadly point Rain Cloud Follows away from my new favorite town towards the drier pastures of Tucson, then Phoenix, and the reason for this whole ride – Wrestlemania XXVI.

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What strange place have I landed in? Tuba City? No Tuba Hall of Fame, no tuba factory, no Ooom-Pah Band in the town square to greet me when I arrive. In fact, Tuba City’s list of NO’s goes on and on, the worst no of all being NO ALCOHOL. The warning from the front desk is dire, the penalty for being caught with alcohol on the reservation is extremely severe.

Even though I still have a cold, I refuse to take any type of cold medicine that doesn’t come from Scotland, preferably a nice single malt aged in oak barrels for, oh, say, twelve years or so. Since I always have an emergency stash of “cold medicine” in my bag, I’m afraid the Anti-Fun League might bust down my door at any moment. In an effort to avoid ‘extremely severe’ penalties, I disguise my contraband as cleverly as I can.

Before retiring for the evening, I toast the Best Day Ever with a healthy dose of Scottish Nyquil. It helps a little, but the next morning I wake up still under the weather. I put on my helmet, and a sneeze immediately shotgun blasts everything in sight. Not a great start to the day.

As I’m cleaning my visor, a friendly Navajo man walks over to me and gives me sage route advice. “See the Dinosaur Tracks on your way out of Tuba City, then seek out Grand Falls. Do not bother with Meteor Crater, it is a tourist trap.”

I thank my new friend, and with a clean visor and clear conscience am out of Tuba City and on my way to see the Dino Footprints.

Nothing is quite as invigorating as cresting a small rise on a small two laner, well over the posted speed limit, then suddenly realizing there is a gigantic land yacht sprawled across your lane struggling to pass another gigantic land yacht. Turns out that pure terror is good for the senses, and a great cold remedy. Narrowly avoiding becoming one with the dinosaur footprints spread over the landscape, I emergency swerve away from the lumbering Winnebago. I didn’t sneeze for the rest of the day.

When my heart rate returns to normal, I pull into the Dinosaur Footprints parking lot, with ‘Tourist Trap’ senses tingling. A lone man in a red jacket waits as I park, then introduces himself. “Hello. I am Junior, and I will take you on a tour of the footprints. Please, follow me.”

I follow Junior approximately twelve feet, and he points at the ground. “Here is one. They say this was a T. Rex.”

I nod appropriately, making various ‘I’m interested’ noises, as I wonder how much this ‘tour’ is going to cost. Junior leads me to the next print, about five feet away.

“They say this is also a T. Rex. I think he was running.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” I say.

Junior leads me in a hundred yard circle, pointing out a few more prints, and places where prints have been removed. Then, the tour reaches its inevitable climax. Pointing to a non-descript whitish stone he tells me, “They say this is the bones of a giant flying dinosaur. They have scopes that prove it. The other bones are in a museum in Flagstaff. They took them away back in the forties.”

He proceeds to point out the ribcage of this flying dinosaur, then abruptly asks me for a ride into town. I guess that signals the end of the tour. Shaking his hand, I hand Junior some money but decline his request for a ride into town.

Being one that loves cheesy roadside attractions, I feel the tour was totally worth it.

I search for Grand Falls for about an hour, but the Falls elude me. My Garmin Everlost is no help at all, sending me in ever expanding circles that always seem to end up at the same place. Finally, I resign myself that Grand Falls will have to wait for another day. That’s OK, because I know the biggest cheesy roadside attraction, Meteor Crater, is yet to come.

I pass snow-covered mountains on my way towards Meteor Crater, and though it is chilly, all is right with the world. The anticipation of seeing an actual meteor impact site has my imagination reeling. A long time ago I flew over Meteor Crater, and vowed to one day peer into its rim. I’m excited to have another Place-I’ll-Only-Visit Once to tick off my ever growing list.

On the access road, I stop to take my daily Ghost Rider Tribute picture.

And then, finally, after a lifetime of waiting, my time to unravel the mysteries of Meteor Crater has finally arrived.

Meteor Crater is exactly what I expect it to be – a big hole in the ground – seven hundred feet deep and four thousand feet across – that costs $15 to go look in. And… that’s about it. They’ve made it a bit more interesting by placing a wooden cutout astronaut at the center of the crater, paying tribute to the Apollo astronauts that trained there for their eventual moon mission, which may or may not have been filmed on location in Meteor Crater.

If all that isn’t enticing enough, the Subway restaurant there also offers a free cookie if you buy a sandwich. Awesome.

After this intermission, it’s time to buckle down and get going. On the highway, another RV, this time with a gigantic boat in tow, nearly capsizes right in front of me. The camper slowly started drifting off the road, then jerked violently left to regain the lane. The boat trailer swings wildly back and forth, one wheel skipping in the air. Already hip to the wild and unpredictable ways of the RV’ers, I drop the hammer to avoid this shipwreck. Rain Cloud Follows and I are southbound, heading for the delicious vortex of weirdness known as Bisbee, a place so fantastic it really deserves its own post.

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At the crack of very late morning, I’m half awake, and not feeling so good. For a change, the previous night’s nickel beers didn’t do me in, I just have some kind of cold or virus or, more likely, a super strain of the Bubonic plague infecting me. I can feel it in my head, my sinuses and my chest, and no, it doesn’t feel good.

Hoping the awfulness will soon clear, I stare at the map in my tankbag, and in my semi-hallucinogenic state, a new route starts to form. “Hmm, there are a lot of scenic roads up in that toothbrush shaped state. Didn’t notice those before.” As I get out of bed, I already know my plans have changed, so I grab my Map-kin, blow my nose in it, pitch it in the trash and head out towards the scenic roads of my second favorite state, ToothBrushLand.

To save a little time getting between my current location and my new destination of Utah, I opt for the highway. I had all distances, sights and places to stay worked out on the Map-kin, but that’s in the trash. Now I’m venturing into unknown territory.

I love it.

The little bit of I-15 that thrusts into Arizona is as good as any mountain road I’ve ever had the pleasure of slowing traffic down on, with deep, sweeping, beautiful curves lovingly sheltered in a mountainous canyon. Even though I’m under the weather, I know my route change was the right move. A few curvaceous hours later, I am surprised to find myself at the gates of Zion National Park.

I love Zion.

What’s not to love?

I mean really…

Zion Rocks!!

Signs at the Zion-Mt. Carmel tunnel warn to wait for an escort, but at the guard house I’m just waved on. The tunnel is a miracle of 1930’s technology. Dug by unemployed cartoon characters after World War One using mostly TNT and other dangerous cartoon methods. This is a fact that I just made up.

All I know is on the other side of the tunnel, the temperature started to drop.

After the park exit, the temperature still drops, the road straightens out, but it is no less scenic.

Utah is without a doubt my second or third favorite state. If they could just fix their wacky alcohol laws, Utah would definitely be my second favorite state after the Kingdom of Rhode Island.

By improvising a route, I knew I’d need to figure out a place to stay, and I also knew that out in the great wide nothingness of upper Utah, places to stay would be sparse. One thing I know, accommodations always work themselves out, so there’s no sense in worrying. Besides, there’s still a lot to see before the sun sets.

Today’s Ghost Rider Tribute

I follow the map as Route 89 takes a sharp bend, and I am suddenly riding in a huge semi-circle. I trust the designers of the road made this detour for a reason, and my trust is rewarded with the best scenery of the whole trip.

Navajo Bridge

Marble Canyon

I could not have felt luckier if I’d hit for thirty-two hundred nickels the other night.

On an adventure, everything is a compromise. At the beginning, adding hundreds of miles to detour to an exotic location is a great idea. At the end of the day, those additional hundreds of miles can leave you far from a place to sleep.

But the sunsets out in the middle of nowhere are nice, and riding in the dark is fun, for a while. The closest town to me is Tuba City, nearly one hundred miles away. To Tuba City I go.The miles tick off as I assure myself the big TC has plenty of hotels to host the legions of faithful fans that must visit the Tuba Hall of Fame. In inky blackness, I pull into a safe haven, and manage to secure an expensive room.

With my head still stuffy and sick, I am soon fast asleep. I am at least five hundred miles from Bisbee, where I have a reservation at a haunted hotel for the following night, but that’s a problem for a new day.

Screw it. I’ll rework that part of the plan in the morning.

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The silence is thrilling, the emptiness all-encompassing, the involuntary smile on my face is so wide it hurts. All of this can only mean one thing: A scant three hundred fifty days from the last time we set out – Rain Cloud Follows and I are once again doing it, we’re on the Road to Wrestlemania.

Last year’s Road took me, my riding buddy Dark Meat Snack (and occasionally my girlfriend Fiona) on a long and winding commute to work from California to Houston, the site of Wrestlemania XXV. This year’s version of Wrestlemania – the XXVIth – is being held at the University of Phoenix stadium in Glendale, AZ. In a straight line, the UoP stadium is around three hundred fifty miles from my adopted home in California. I figured with a little creative planning and Map-kining, I could make this year’s commute to work last a few days and at least fifteen hundred miles.

The 2010 Road to Wrestlemania Map-kin

For various reasons (a marriage in Abi’s case and a new addition to her sister’s family in Fiona’s) this year I am riding the first half solo – not such a bad way to go if you ask me. My route the first day takes me up 395 in California, a pleasant backroad-ish route, until I’m involuntarily tagged into a spirited but annoying game of Pass the Ass.

A white pickup truck races past me, pulls in directly front of me and sloooooows down. I then turn up the wick and pass him. This driving exhibition, more boredom induced that road rage, continues for about eighty miles until I’m finally tired of it. At the Trona cut off, I fake Mr. ‘I-Love-My-White-Truck’ out, turn off 395 onto Trona Wildrose road, and am once again peacefully on my way to Death Valley.

I stop at a breathtaking scenic vista high above an incredible valley for a few photos, and am amazed at what happens next. As I set up my shot, a fighter jet comes screaming out of the sun, wags his wings back a forth a few times at me then races away over the mountains.

I smile as the jet disappears in the distance, then notice another flier watching in mutual appreciation, or possibly jealousy.

Not ten feet from me, a Chukar partridge sticks his head out of the scrub, intently watching the activity. He coos and honks away, saying, “Hey Dude, take my picture!” I oblige, then he whoops it up, flaps himself into a frenzy and also disappears into the distance. As I start putting my camera away for a second time, I notice something out of the corner of my eye in the direction my feathered friend flapped off to. Brown, vaguely car shaped and way, way down in the valley, I wonder what it could be.

Pulling out my big lens, I realize the brown lump is a car, or at least it used to be. The owner must have taken a serious wrong turn many years ago.

Happy with my decision to stop and the pictures it provided, I realize that daylight is already starting to be at a premium, and if I’m going to make it to the Furnace Creek Inn in Death Valley before sunset, I’ve got to crank it up a notch. I mount up and rapidly descend towards my eventual home for the evening.

Along the way, a tempting road side sign offers a tempting distraction. Though somewhat in a hurry to get a room before nightfall, I’m always willing to sacrifice the destination for the day.

It’s not hard to figure out what happens next. Yielding to temptation, I turn right down the 3 1/2 mile dirt road down to do some sloppy dual sport riding and bust some ghosts, of course. Sunset be damned!

As far as ghost towns go, Ballarat is definitely one. Not a good one, but at least there is one deserted building that is somewhat interesting.

Rain Cloud Follows handles the dirt road like a pig in ballet slippers, we’re slippin’ and slidin’ all over the place as we make our way back to the pavement. The fighter jet makes a return pass overhead, low, fast and loud!

Life is good.

Before I left home, I decided to take one ‘Ghost Rider Tribute’ picture per day on this ride. Ghost Rider, for those few that live under rocks and don’t know, is Neil Peart’s excellent book about life and motorcycling. That book is one of the main reasons I ride as much as I do.

Here is today’s tribute:

All this ridin’, off roadin’ and photographin’ in the desert makes a guy hungry and thirsty. I stopped to top up both me and the bike in Stovepipe Wells.

The sun paints the sky as I brush the last crumbs of apple pie off my well insulated belly. Rain Cloud Follows and I race deeper into the desert with our night’s home of the Furnace Creek Inn locked in my sights.

Unfortunately, when I got there, I found out there was no room at the Inn. I guess they expect people to make reservations, which would mean they also expect people to know where they are going ahead of time. I hate making reservations, because then I’m stuck having to be somewhere at the end of the day. As they say, the adventure begins when the plan derails, and now, in the desert at night without a place to stay, I’m on an adventure.

Checking the GPS, I realized there isn’t much out in the desert in the way of hotels. I briefly considered going back to Ballarat, because I knew of at least one building with a vacancy. No roof, but at least vacancy. Then I find another hotel, right across the state line in Nevada called the Longstreet Inn. Beggars can’t be choosers, so I head that way to try and sort something out.

My oasis turns out to be the place where elderly weirdos hold their elderly weirdo meetings. But, at least the Longstreet Inn has a room, and not long after I check in I easily figure out why. This is the kind of place where the bartender gets mad at you for expecting him to get you a drink. After waiting and enduring a long, “What the fuck do you want?” stare, I finally am able to toast the Best Day Ever, substituting Jameson for Macallan in honor of my patron saint, Patrick.

I wander over to the sad looking slot machines, and am soon on a roll. Bells keep ringing, and I keep winning. Pretty soon I am up, way up. The little voice of reason, the one I almost always ignore, shouts in my ear, “Take the money and run!” For once I do the sensible thing and hit the Cash Out button.

Excited to be instantly rich, I quickly realize two things. One, instead of dollars like I thought, I was only playing for nickels, and two, instead of printing a slip that I can take to a cashier, this is a first generation slot machine, and by hitting the Cash Out button, sixteen hundred nickels are slowly clank-clank-clanking their way into the tray.

The worst is yet to come. The grumpy bartender is also the grumpy cashier. He gives me the Stink Eye as patiently I sit at the bar with my brimming bucketful of nickels. Finally, with a great big sigh, he trudges over to me and just stands there. After a minute of hoping I’d just vanish, he asks if I want to cash in my nickels.

“No, I want to buy another beer!” I paid for a Corona with 110 nickels, and, being the generous soul I am, I even tip this grouch with two more of my newly won nickels. I take my nickel bucket back to the room, and am soon fast asleep, with visions of deserted roads still to come dancing in my head.

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