Frenchy's Rant

It started like most adventures for me usually start.

First I realize that I am starting to get bored, then something magical happens to snaps me out of the doldrums. This time, to help me through the descending funk, I’d been reading Adventure Rider about various intrepid and/or foolish souls that sink gobs of their own money chasing their dream of riding the Dakar Rally. The Dakar Rally is without a doubt the toughest, most grueling contest known to man, and looks like one hell of an adventure. Stretching 9000 KM through Argentina, Chile and Peru, these intrepid/foolish souls race for 14 days in some of the most inhospitable terrain the planet has to offer.

Blogging quiet spell broken, at least for a bit! Congratulations if you are one of the one people that still check this dormant site. Now, on with the update!

So, what’s been happening in the world of Frenchy? In between bouts of planning for my impending nuptials this coming spring (an event that I have considered blogging about – until I realized that if Sleeping Beauty read the blog, there would be no wedding…) I have been having the greatest time enjoying my mid-life crisis with something I’ve always wanted since I was a wee lad; I’ve been riding a dirt bike.

But, you say, wait a minute! Soon, you’ll be drowning in bills for your wedding, an event that will surely dwarf Kate and Willy’s little royal shindig. How on Earth were you able to get away with buying a dirt bike (Nickname: Mid-Wife Crisis) with that enormous extravaganza on the horizon??

Funny you should ask.

A month or so ago (it could actually have been three months, a year, or more… I’ve realized there is no such thing as time anymore… but that’s another story.) WWE did a show at the Mohegan Sun casino in Connecticut. After lunch, rather than reporting directly back to work as I am supposed to, I instead reported directly to the nearest slot machine, inserted a very hard-earned $20 bill, and pressed a different kind of magic button.

Here is what happened on the very first spin:

Two 7’s and a Double Jackpot! Wow! Fuck! I won on my first spin! (Dontcha hate people like that? Me too.)

While lights flashed, bells rang, and I ducked to avoid the throngs of weirdos that suddenly wanted to touch me for luck, I looked at the little red readout to see how much two 7’s and a Double Jackpot was worth.

I learned this combination was worth exactly $400! Coolness! Then, I realized something else. Each spin on this slot machine cost $5. Which meant… I had won a LOT more than I thought.

Faster than I could say “Luck never gives; it only lends,” two thousand thoughts swam through my muddled brain. I COULD do something stupid with this free money… go bet it all on red at the roulette table; waste it on rented chairs for the Reception of the Century; book *gasp* dancing lessons for said Reception; join the Macallan of the Month club; pay off some rapidly-piling-up bills… all stupid and bad ideas.

So instead of doing something stupid with all that money, I perused craigslist and came up with this little gem:

Mid-Wife Crisis
In other words, I bet my money on red, and came up a winner! Best Day Ever.

And until either my Tarnished Bronze VISA company takes it away or my lovely bride-to-be demands I take dancing lessons, I’m going to ride the hell out of this thing as much and as often as I can.

More later…

Been a long time, both for writing and for riding, and to be honest, I’m not sure the reason. Since Rushing to Houston, I’ve ridden Rain Cloud Follows, my trusty Yamaha motorcycle exactly zero miles. Maybe I needed a break, or, more frightening to contemplate, it’s possible I’ve come to the end of another hobby, like my brief stint as a competitive yodeler or that time I took up interpretive dance.

One thing is certain, I need to find out for sure, and there’s no time like the present. With a burst of enthusiasm the previous evening, I set the alarm for Stupid Early, barely sleeping a wink. Sleeping Beauty is up with me before the alarm, concern evident in her eyes, even in the pre-dawn gloom. As I climb aboard my ride, my new fiancée leans in close and says, “Be careful, ride safe.”

“Good idea,” I reply.

Trying to look cool, I go to thumb the starter and beep the horn instead.

Not a good sign.  Has it really been that long?

When I finally find the start button, Rain Cloud Follows hesitates. Cherr-rurr-rurr-ruuuu-uurrrrrr! Coughing and sputtering, mocking my neglect. I know the bike will start, once the point has been made. After a few more stabs at the starter, my old friend comes back to life.

Tentatively, I twist the throttle, and start rolling down the driveway. Here goes nothing! I make a wide, sloppy turn onto the street. Uh-oh. Riding a motorcycle is just like riding a bike, right? It’ll come back… or, at least that’s what I try and convince myself. Until it does, I’ll admit I’m a bit rusty, and more than a bit nervous. After that first turn, my adrenalin pump kicks in, the old electric mixture of excitement and mild fear trickling through my veins once again.

My second turn is better, though before I have a chance to make a third, I am stopped dead in my tracks. The California Dept of Traffic Jams and General Clusterfuckery is hard at work this early morning. The highway is closed and every early morning commuter is stuck on the surface roads, all jockeying for position. I’m nearly crushed by an enormous dump truck, then a stupid looking Scion takes a shot at the empty space immediately in front of me. As the oblivious driver tries to squash me, I can’t help but think how her vehicle looks like the designers took an old shoebox, punched out a windshield and handed it to the Scion engineers with a shrug. I sputter through the impromptu logjam until I can safely squirt onto the highway, where I almost immediately run over a giant chunk of road debris; the sudden, unexpected jolt briefly makes me airborne.

Five minutes, and I’ve almost been killed four times. Why am I doing this again?

I’ve forgotten the feeling, the rush of the wind, the scent of the road; how sensitive I am to the temperature, knowing every degree change. Maybe that’s why I’m doing this. To remember.

I turn off the highway onto Little Tujunga Canyon road, a windy little squiggle of a road who’s real purpose is a mystery to me. Tentatively, I lean into the first curve. At first I’m using too much brake, picking the wrong entry points, missing the line. In a word, I am riding like shit. After a few harrowing minutes, I settle down and it slowly starts coming back to me. Yes, it is just like riding a bike. The sun starts to dapple the road. At some point on my fear-filled highway blast, the morning broke. I was too busy trying to stay shiny side up to notice the sunrise.

Sunrise on Little T

Slowly, the rust shakes off, and soon that involuntary smile is back. I hear a loud, awful noise in my helmet, confirming everything is OK.

I am singing.

From ‘Little T’, I snake my way over to Route 129, which leads me to Ojai (pronounced like Ohio – without the last O.) and the main attraction of my day – Route 33. I pull in for breakfast, and am immediately swarmed by a bike gang. Ten racing bikes with ten riders in full race leathers pull in and surround me. The smell of burning race gas fills my helmet. These guys are serious.

Rain Cloud Follows and Friends

“Been up the hill yet?” one young race pilot asks, pointing at the goodness that is Route 33. I think to myself that before this morning, I was starting to wonder if maybe I was over the hill,  but right now, on my way to getting my belly stretched full of pancakes and with miles of early morning excellence ahead, I just feel good.

Why did I ever stop doing this?

I slink out of the restaurant before the racers finish their meal. I know they’ll catch and pass me soon, but I don’t care.

Separated at Birth?

At a nearby fuel stop, another FJR, Rain Cloud’s exact twin pulls up next to me. After a conversation made awkward by full face helmets and earplugs, I understand one thing the passenger says to me: “We don’t ride on weekends, too many idiots out killing themselves.” With a wave we part, both of us intent on staying ahead of the racer/idiots.

Spanish Broom

In Full Bloom

Along the roadside the Spanish Broom is in full bloom, scenting the air with heady perfume. The curves sweep deep, and with renewed confidence, I dip into each and every one with a smile.

Highway to Heaven

I stop to check out a severely wrecked guardrail. A guy in a pickup truck that also stopped to survey the damage says he heard a motorcycle did this last weekend. I find it hard to believe anything on two wheels could do this much damage unless the motorcycle was doing 300 MPH.

Wrecked Rail

Weaving and winding through an endless succession of perfect curves, Rain Cloud Follows and I perform an impressive interpretive dance the entire length of Route 33. The racer/idiots never catch me, which for some reason feels like a small victory.

Onward!

One thing has become perfectly clear. Motorcycling is more than a hobby; it is me, it’s what I do. With a loud, competitive yodel echoing in my helmet, I set my course for home, with renewed dreams of far-off rides swirling in my head.

The Road That Never Ends

I haven’t posted in such a long time that I actually forgot how it’s done. Took me about ten minutes of fiddling around to remember.

Now that’s just sad. Used to be I’d post just about once a day… guess I had more to say then? Or maybe I just realized that sometimes it’s better to keep yer damn trap shut. I dunno…

But now that I’ve remembered how it’s done, maybe… just maybe… I’ll pick it up again.

Leave a comment and let me know what you think…

How disappointing.

Granted, this tire –  a Michelin Pilot Road II, one of the best I’ve found – faithfully served Rain Cloud Follows on both the Road to WrestleMania XXVI ride and on the Alaskan Adventure – in fact, when I did the math – using my fingers and toes – I realized the tire had over 12,000 miles on it, but still, what a hunk of junk! To give up the tread now, out here in the middle of nowhere, so close to home could be a big disaster; unless of course, I could find a nearby motorcycle shop with a tire that fits.

A quick Google search put my mind at rest. Deming Cycle Center was located less than a mile from my hotel. What could be easier?

Well, for one, the shop could still be in business, which, of course, it wasn’t.

I started making a flurry of phone calls. I quickly learned that there isn’t much in the way of motorcycle dealers out in the lonely middle of New Mexico, so my calling flurry was exactly two calls long. The first shop I tried didn’t have the tire I needed, and wanted my credit card number and my left kidney to install the crappy tire they did have. The second shop I called, Cochise Motorsports in Sierra Vista, AZ not only had the tire in stock, their service department made it clear they were overstocked with kidneys, and quoted me a very reasonable price, sweetening the deal by promising to install the tire as soon as I arrived.

I limped two hundred miles from Deming, and during a quick lunch next door, the excellent service department at Cochise outfitted Rain Cloud Follows with brand new sneaker, and both man and machine were set for the long slog home.

Thanks, Cochise Motorsports!

The mechanic warned me that the new tire might be a little slick, and recommended taking it easy for the first hundred miles or so. During lunch, I consulted the Map-kin and realized that the Coronado National Memorial, another hard-to-get-to, out-of-the-way National Memorial was only thirty miles from my present position. What a perfect way, I reasoned, to break in my new tire, and cross another National Monument off my list.

What is Coronado a National Memorial to? I have no idea. Instead of getting an Monument education, I spent my time in the visitor’s center asking the cute ranger chick if she drew the short straw to get assigned to this far out of the way post.

“No,” she said, “I actually picked this place. I wanted to work here.”

“Why?”

Motioning over her shoulder, she replied, “I wanted to work for my boss.”

Her boss, sitting behind his desk and looking all rangerly was probably the most handsome ranger in the whole Park Service. This stud could easily have been the National Parks ranger recruitment poster hunk.

Got it.

I’d noticed on my analog map another dashed line out of the the park, leading in a roundabout way back to the highway. I asked the cute rangerette about road conditions.

“Well, it hasn’t rained in a long time, so you’ll probably be OK. Motorcycles go through there all the time. You won’t have a problem.”

At that moment, I could think of no better way to break in my new sport touring tire than scraping it up another mountain dirt road. I proceeded with the confidence the Lord only ordains in a fool.

About a mile up the narrow, winding goat path, I was stopped by my new best friends, the US Border Patrol. One agent, dressed from head to toe in camouflage, with three pistols strapped to his person, walked up to me shaking his head.

Eyeballing the Glock holstered on this guy’s chest, I nervously stammered, “Umm, am I OK to go through here?”

He laughed, “Yep, son, you’re OK, but you’re also nuts! I never seen a bike that big up this way.”

That’s OK, I know something that this well-armed GI Joe wannabe probably doesn’t. The Lord looks after a fool.

I stopped to take my final Ghost Rider tribute picture of this ride.

Ghost Rider Tribute – Final Day

Through seventeen miles of dirt, this fool was well looked after. Not only by the Big Biker in the Sky, but also by the US Border Patrol. I counted seventeen patrol trucks that passed me; most drivers shaking their heads at my folly. I never ended up under the motorcycle as I slipped and slid over gravel, mud and through three water crossings. Only once did I get really scared – through my final, particularly hairy water crossing. As I deftly flailed Rain Cloud Follows through the rapidly flowing water, I shouted out, “HerrrUmmmWoo! Ha ha ha! ShitshitshitshitSHIT! AAAhhhhh! FUCK! WoooGrrHaHaHa!“

Nobody heard me, proving the old adage that if a numbskull shouts in the woods, nobody really cares.

In hindsight, I probably should have asked Cochise Motorsports to put a knobby dirt tire on instead.

Safely back on pavement, I soaked in some more of that beautiful Southwestern scenery.

I stopped in a restaurant, and was a little startled by my waitresses’ all too familiar accent.

“How you doin’? You rode that bike all the way heah from Rho’ Disland?”

A fellow New Englander. Perfect. She told me that thirty years ago, she came from Massachusetts to babysit for a weekend, and never left. We chatted a while, and when I asked her about all the border patrol trucks I’d seen, she said, “Yeah, you know, illegals and smugglahs come through heah every night. Sometimes they knock on my dooh late at night askin’ for food and watah. I give them some because they’re humans aftah all, but then I tell ’em to be on theih way. I still like it heah bettah than the East Coast. I don’t miss all that snow!”

I got on my way, back on the highway and hammered all the way to Yuma. I thought I could win back the cost of my tire at a casino, which proved a bad idea. The Lord may look after a fool, but not all the time.

The next morning, I decided to get up early, cut my losses and make short work of the remaining miles between me and the garage. By this time, even my riding picture action shots were half-assed.

With these few final snapshots, my 3452 mile journey was complete. I toasted the Best Ride Ever with my beautiful girlfriend, and, uncontrollably, that familiar melancholy post-ride feeling once again set in.

The Entire 3452 Mile Route

One thing cheered me up a little. There are rumors that Rush may continue the Time Machine Tour next spring and summer…

To Be Continued…