Frenchy's Rant

Women.

You can’t live with ’em, you can’t live without ’em, or at least that’s how the saying goes. But, can you have a good time on a ride when you are outnumbered by them? The intrepid scientist in me endeavored to find out.

The plan? Something a little different this time. Instead of going on a massive coast to coast jaunt, I thought we’d try something a little saner. Death Valley National Park is a scant 270 miles from my adopted winter haven in California, so, I asked Fiona her thoughts on buzzing up there, staying overnight, taking some pictures, doing some touristy sightseeing stuff, then buzzing back home?

Simple plan, right? Maybe too simple. How can I complicate it a bit?

Sleeping Beauty and I invited Keith’s sister Jessica to come along, and she readily agreed. Another first! Not one but TWO hot chicks and dumb ol’ me! I’ve never been outnumbered by the fairer sex on a motorcycle trip before. OK, now we’re getting complicated. Perfect!

Thursday morning took forever to arrive. Isn’t that always the way when you have something great planned? The hours and days slowly trickle by. Stuck at work, I spent my time wisely; learning everything I could about Death Valley, scouring maps, reading other ride reports, tracking down waypoints and loading the GPS.

Finally, Death Valley Day dawned. Fiona had been battling a nasty cold all week, and was feeling, in her words, ‘like shit.’ Concerned, I asked her if she wanted to cancel the trip. “Death Valley will always be there,” I reasoned, “We can go another time.”

She replied, “No. *ACHOO!* We’re going! *SNIFF SNIFF* What would we *SNIFF* do, sit here and watch *ACHOO!* TV?”

Bless you. Seriously!

We loaded up Rain Cloud Follows, decked out in brand new Pilot Road II’s and a newly installed, super sweet Ohlin’s rear shock; pulled out of the driveway, and, a little later than planned but with Fiona finally feeling up to the task at hand, we soon were on our way to meet up with Jessica.

The shortest route between our house and hers is also the curviest; a squiggly line on the map better known as the fantastic Angeles Forest Highway. Another great road in a series of great roads all within 15 miles of the house… why don’t I live here again??

Anyway, we met Jessica and headed north. Not directly north, because that would be too easy, and too boring. We headed northwest-ish instead. I decided we’d sample Caliente Bodfish road, another fantastic looking squiggle that kept coming up in my work-sponsored trip research phase.

About an hour up Route 58, we had a slight problem. I doubted we had enough gas to get from Caliente to Bodfish, and also doubted there would be much in the way of gas stations on this road. My trusty GPS indicated the closest station was in the town of Arvin, eleven miles in the opposite direction. Without much choice, we turned left, and were pleasantly greeted by the most expansive fields of incredible wildflowers I have ever seen.

Yup. I knew this trip would be different. I soon learned when on a chick-trip, you not only stop to smell the flowers, you pick them too!

This rolling train of Beemers have no idea what they missed.

Caliente Bodfish road was everything I expected, and more. Free range cows amble aimlessly along roadsides, and sometimes even in the road.

We cork-screwed around in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains for a few pleasant hours, winding through the scenic valley, and sometimes scaring ourselves silly as the radiuses (radii?) of the corners suddenly decreased. My new Ohlins shock got a serious workout on the uneven surface of this twisty, fun road.

Still somewhat embarrassed by the girly flower debacle, we stopped to get a more… err… manly picture.

A tank! Whew! That’s better!

Finishing my seventy mile detour, we headed for the town of Ridgecrest. Once again close to empty, we stopped in a small gas station for fuel. Two young kids on old dirtbikes, deep in discussion, stopped whatever they were doing and came racing over to check us out.

The older one on the blue Honda checked out my FJR as I checked out his bike. “It’s a sixty-seven,” he told me with a small measure of pride.

The boys asked if we were on a long trip, and when I told then where we came from and where we were going, they just said, “Cooooool.” I asked if Mr. Sixty-Seven wanted to trade bikes with me, and his head almost fell off from nodding so hard. Reminded of me when I was that age, dreaming of someday having a motorcycle of my own. At least this kid had one, and apparently lived in a town where the cops don’t hassle kids on motorcycles. A good place. We all filled up and went our separate ways.

Thanks to my fun, cow-filled side trip, we were still pretty far from Death Valley, and time was no longer on our side.

We stopped for dinner, and the sun sank below the horizon. With a reservation at the Furnace Creek Ranch, and no other real options, we soldiered on into the darkness.

And it was DARK dark. Complete, inky blackness surrounded us as we closed the gap between us and our goal.

My mind started playing tricks on me, trying to fill in the blank nothingness we drove into. I started ‘seeing’ sailing ships, flying saucers and all manner of other bizarre things. My mind conjured pictures of those freaks from The Hills Have Eyes staggering out of the darkness. Who needs drugs when you can just ride a dark, moonless road?

At Towne Pass, 4856 feet above sea level, my FJR thermometer read 41 degrees. Fiona, still sick and suffering (silently) disliked this part of the ride. Very much. When we finally reached sea level and Furnace Creek Ranch, much to Sneezing Beauty’s relief, the thermometer climbed 30 degrees to a more agreeable, more comfortable 71.

We checked in, toasted the Best Day Ever, then decided, as you would in Death Valley, to go swimming. I even got a great swimsuit picture!

Tomorrow, we tour the hell out of Death Valley, and, as usual, the plans change.

Part Two of this riveting saga can be found here.

Taking a little break from blogging… to do my second favorite thing – ride. And then, of course, right back to writing a blog about that ride.

And then, the silly season hell known as Wrestlemania begins.

Can’t wait!

In my never-ending quest to try and learn how to take ‘good’ pictures, I signed up for a one day class at Adorama Camera store in New York City. The instructor, Bryan Peterson has written a few books that I’ve read, and these books have helped me to understand why my pictures suck as much as they do. When I received a spam email from Adorama about Bryan’s class, I signed up right away.

I had no idea what I was in for.

Bryan Peterson – The Mad Scientist

The class was held on the first day of Daylight Savings Time. However, as Bryan confessed, if it wasn’t for a reminder email from Adorama, the class might not have happened at all.

“This is a true story. I was down in Nashville on Friday and Saturday, when I got the email from Adorama saying that all my students for Sunday’s class had been notified about the upcoming time change. I thought to myself, ‘What the hell? My class isn’t until April sixth!’ Just to make sure, I looked it up on Adorama’s website, and… Shit! I’d forgotten all about this class! I had to book a super-expensive same day ticket to get my butt to New York. If it wasn’t for that email, y’all would’ve been sitting here waiting for me, while I was in Nashville sitting in my car, smoking cigarettes and listening to music!”

It made me wonder… Cigarettes?? Are you sure?

At one point his cell phone started ringing in his pocket. Looking a bit befuddled, he turned around a few times saying, “Is that me? Is that me?” Finally he figured out it WAS him. He took the phone out of his pocket, without answering it but still ringing, put it on a table, then went back to teaching the class.

The guy may not know how to operate a cell phone or a calendar, but he can take pictures. Really good ones. Despite his nuttiness, the class was great, and I actually took a lot away from it that should help document the many upcoming rides for the 2009 season, including this week’s Death Valley run.

The next morning, we decided to do one final Milk Run before Keith had to go home. Sleeping Beauty elected to stay home, so Unleaded, Jessica and I boarded our bikes, and headed for Route 39 for the last time on this Marathon Milk Run.

Stopping for fuel, I noticed a problem. A BIG, BIG problem.

Now, I ain’t no tire scientist, but I know this much – these Pilot Powers are history. And so is our last ride up Azusa Canyon.

Or is it?

I’m stubborn as a mule, and don’t give up that easily. Keith offered to buy breakfast instead, Jessica graciously offered to let me ride her bike and go up on the back of Keith’s.

But I had a better idea.

Oh yeah baby! That’s right! I took to the canyon on Fiona’s baby Ninja!! Call it a Milkshake Run, call it whatever you want, but make sure you call it fun!

Even with Keith singing ‘Fat Guy on a Little Bike’ at the top of his lungs the whole run, I seriously couldn’t stop smiling. This little Ninja has some balls, enough to haul this fat guy around at top speed. It’s so much lighter than the FJR that it just seems to fall into the corners with unprecedented ease.

What a BLAST!

In order to get Unleaded to his flight on time, we had to cut our last Milk Run short. We finished in record time.

And sadly, that was that. Before Jessica left, Fiona and I invited her to join us on a little Death Valley run next week, and she readily agreed. That will be a fun two-day jaunt for sure.

Then the house was quiet. Everyone was gone. It was sad. I always feel a twinge of depression when a great trip comes to an end, because I want them all to go on forever.

Trying to cheer myself up, I checked my email. I had one from my friend Dan, the guy that took me up to Highway 33 my first time, so many years ago. Dan has since moved to Sydney, Australia, but we keep in sporadic touch. Here is the email he sent:

And with that simple email, a new ride, a new quest to claim another island for the Kingdom of Rhode Island was instantly in the planning stages.

To Be Continued… In May!