Frenchy's Rant

What would you do if Vince McMahon pulled up next to you in his $250,000 (or more) Bentley, nodded, smiled his trademark madman smile and said, “You wanna take it for a ride?”

Realizing that this car costs more than a house, the arena he pulled into is in the middle of Long Island where the roads are terrible and the drivers are worse, not to mention the man that owns the car, while a madman, is also the boss – realizing all this, most people would politely decline. Those people have what is called common sense. Me? I’ve never been accused of having any sense at all. Besides, how many opportunities come up in life to drive a car worth more than a house?

“Sure, Boss, I’ll take it for a spin. Love to! It’s insured, right?”

Wow.

What else can be said about driving something so close to perfection?? Smooth, responsive and f-a-s-t, with a deep twelve cylinder engine purr that rapidly turns into a throaty roar, this thing was awesome, by far the most incredible machine I’ve even driven. Once I slid the seat all the way forward so my short legs could reach the pedals that is. That, and figured out how to shift using the shifter paddles located right behind the steering wheel. And start it using the gold trimmed starter button. Once all that stuff was figured out, it truly was exciting. Even better than my Jeep!

Needless to say my heart was thumping through my chest the entire drive, but man, what a blast! I made sure to chirp the tires as I peeled out onto the mean streets of Long Island. (Actually, that’s not true at all, I barely touched the accelerator, and the car peeled out all on it’s own.) I cruised around the arena, enjoying the looks I got from other people as I passed them in ‘my’ quarter million dollar vehicle, and enjoying the way this machine handled, accelerated and stopped on a dime. I want one!

Vince said he’d been stopped on the way to the Nassau Coliseum doing 94 MPH. I can see how, because as I found out, just touching the accelerator ever so gently makes the car rocket forward like a missile. And the cockpit, decked out in mahogany and plush leather is so smooth and quiet, it really doesn’t feel like you are speeding at all, even at 95 MPH. Not that I know that for a fact or anything…

Of course, Vince McMahon probably gets out of trouble with an autograph and a picture. Me, I’d probably go to jail for grand theft auto. Either that, or I’ll get fired for not remembering to push the seat back for him.

It starts off innocently enough. Maybe you get it from a friend, maybe it’s a ‘free trial’, or maybe you just go out and buy it yourself. However it happens, you get it. Then you try it once and think to yourself, ‘Hey, self, that’s not too bad. It’s fun, and there’s no harm in having a little fun now is there? What’s the big deal?’ That’s how it starts.

It continues, but still, it’s no big deal. You find yourself doing it a little bit more than before, needing a little more and a little more to get that same feeling. But still you think, ‘It’s OK, self. Just one more time. I can quit anytime I want.’ But you don’t want to quit, so you don’t. It feels good, and it’s still harmless fun. Besides, quitting is… well… quitting is for quitters, and you’re no quitter.

The hook is set, and though you can’t see it happening, the inevitable downward spiral has started. You find yourself putting off things, important things like work, paying bills, eating and even updating your silly little blog. You tell yourself these things; work, the bills, food, the Faithful Fifteen, can all wait – you’ll get around to them. But you don’t. It takes up more and more of your day, as it slowly takes over your mind. When the phone rings, you ignore it. Every time. You block out any and all interruptions, and the scary thing is, blocking out those interruptions is surprisingly easy. It’s in control now. Though you don’t realize it, you’re already a slave to it, even though you still manage to deny it has you in its grasp. You think to yourself, ‘This may be a bit out of control now, but it’s still OK. Just one more time. I can still stop if I really want to.’ You lie to yourself to keep your sanity.

But even your sanity is slipping away. Every though revolves around it. During the day, you find yourself sneaking off for one more quick hit. At night you have dreams about it. You’re becoming more and more antisocial, and are rapidly tuning out reality. It’s constantly on your mind. It has become your new reality. Just one more time, though it’s not even fun anymore. You continue to tell yourself you can quit at any time, but even you know that’s no longer true. You can’t stop, you just need your next fix. This demon has taken over your life.

Let this serve as a warning. Don’t let it happen to you.

Thankfully I realized what was happening to me before it was too late. And with that realization there is one horrible truth I have to face. There’s only one person I can blame for this ugly mess I’ve gotten myself in.

Steve Jobs.

For making the game Bejewled available on the iPhone.

I just hope Bejeweled isn’t a gateway to even worse things, like the Wii.

Now that the Great Unsponsored Nova Scotia Expedition is over, it’s back to reality. Sad, really.

The WWE’s new, state-of-the art High Definition trucks have most of the bugs worked out now, so the work day ambles along at a slow, predictable pace nowadays. It seems like only yesterday we were struggling to figure out these monstrous new beasts called Red and Black. The only baffling device left to conquer is the air conditioner. Every day it seems to get colder and colder in this damn truck, to the point that, even in the middle of July, a jacket, scarf and mittens are a requirement to fend off High Definition hypothermia here in Blogger Central.

Welcome to the Ice Box

It’s almost sad, but the daily, weekly and monthly grind seems to have pulled a film of saran wrap over my brain. Paradoxically, while the actual 18 hours we spend each day preparing for the show drag by, the days between leaving for work and returning from work blur away so quickly that suddenly, in the blink of an eye, I’m in my tenth year (!) of working on this show. How the hell did THAT happen??

This is the longest relationship I’ve ever managed to have.

I’m sure there has been stuff to blog about at work, but my recent mental disconnect from this job is so strange, so surreal that it’s almost as if I’m just watching all this shit happen to someone else, from somewhere else, far, far away. I guess sleep deprivation, mundane repetition and deep freeze air conditioning does that to a person. It could be worse, this I know, and while it may not sound it, I am grateful for this job and all the many opportunities it’s afforded me to see the world and genuinely fuck around. Seriously, I’m fortunate. Bored, sure, but fortunate.

Another day may have slipped away, another fluff blog may have oozed out, another show may have happened, another ride may have been planned, and honestly, that’s about it. I’m hoping this is just the intermission between acts of the play, and not some deep rut. As I lose feeling in my fingers while writing this thanks to the lowering temperatures in Blogger Central, life’s going on – in fact it’s speeding by out there. Sad, really.

Ah well, I may be one day closer to the eternal dirt nap, but at least I got my per deim.

The Great Unsponsored Nova Scotia Expedition covered nearly 3000 miles in ten days, through two countries, claiming two islands for the Kingdom in the process.

In that time, we rode seven ships – five were ferries and two were tour boats. We stayed in three ocean front cabins, ranging in price from $85 to $140. We didn’t have a bad meal the entire time, and everyone gained a few pounds, always a measure of success on a motorcycle trip.

The SPOT Satellite Personal Tracker worked nearly flawlessly. Some of the Faithful Fifteen tracked portions of the trip, and a few tracked the whole, entire Expedition. The SPOT will be part of the standard gear from now on, so any of the interested Faithful Fifteen can enjoy tracking the journey’s progress.

Abi’s rear tire was repaired in the Portland BMW shop the next day, along with his rear brake. Those repairs cost more than all our oceanfront cabins combined!

Other than the flat tire on Fireball, a few minor pilot errors with Stormbringer, and a few minor electrical gremlins plaguing Rain Cloud Follows, the bikes were flawless. The worst thing that happened? They came home dirty as hell.

In other, more exciting news, Fiona’s little sit-down on Stormbringer must have pushed her over the edge, making her do something she’d talked about for a year.

Last summer, Fiona and her cousin took the Motorcycle Safety Foundation’s rider course. That’s the first step to becoming a motorcyclist. The next step, which was always put off for one reason or another was taking the written test. The week following the Expedition, she went down to the California DMV, took and passed the written motorcycle test! It’s true! Sleeping Beauty is now an officially licensed motorcyclist! I am so proud of her, and now we get to do my second favorite thing, go motorcycle shopping!

Speaking of motorcycle shopping, Dark Meat Snack’s head has been spinning ever since he rented the Honda ST in California. Visions of a more comfortable, more powerful sport touring motorcycle have been dancing in his head constantly, and recently, he answered those incessant voices.

As of yesterday, he is the proud new owner of a 2008 Kawasaki Concours 14, the ultimate sport touring machine. I’d considered trading Rain Cloud Follows in for one of these awesome machines, but now I won’t have to.

A few days after we returned, I sent Unleaded a copy of The Long Way Round, a DVD adventure featuring Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman riding BMW GS’s around the world. This DVD, along with Neil Peart’s Ghost Rider book, were very inspirational in my Expedition formative years. Neil, Ewan and Charlie all ride BMW’s, but thankfully, not one of them sport a ‘BMW Rider Loyalty Mustache.’ Neither does Keith, and not only because it’s against Air Force regulations.

Unleaded was a great addition to the Expedition, bringing comic relief and his own unbeliveable excitement towards what we were doing. I know I can count on Keith to be on all future Expeditions, or at least the ones he has enough leave for. Planning has already begun for using up all next year’s leave time.

As for me, the end of a long trip is always depressing. I go into a funk for a while after I park Rain Cloud Follows for the last time. Writing ride reports helps, but nothing helps more than planning the next one. August will find us back in Tennessee, then Dark Meat Snack and I will most likely be heading to California, and hopefully bagging the Northernmost Point of the Four Corners Mandate on the way, setting ourselves up for another Baja assault in October. I’ve also got a few more grand ideas – like the Dollar Dollar Tour – kicking around in my head.

For the terminally bored insomniacs out there, some previous yawn-inspiring motorcycling misadventures can be found here, here, and here.

Life is short! Happy Riding!

My morning started out badly, because my wallet was missing. Fiona and I tossed the entire hotel room, but couldn’t find it anywhere. I started to panic a bit, thinking of all the things in there I’d have to replace if it didn’t turn up. My Von’s card! My National Parks Pass! All those frequent flier cards! Oh, the horror!! Oh, the aggravation!! Oh, what the fuck!?!

Let’s just say I didn’t win the Mr. Sunshine award when I showed up for breakfast.

The waitress, sensing something was wrong, asked what was going on. I told her I must have left my wallet in the restaurant we ate dinner in the night before. I’d checked, and that restaurant didn’t open until eleven, pushing our departure back a few precious hours. She walked away without saying a word.

In the meantime, Abi asked me how I was going to pick up the tab.

The waitress returned a few minutes later. “I called the owner of the restaurant at home, sorry to say but they didn’t find a wallet last night. But, hun, leave me your address. If they do find it, I’ll make sure and mail it to you.”

The kindness of the people of Rhode Scotia is truly astounding.

Of course, my wallet eventually turned up. It was stuck in the magnetic flap of my tankbag, exactly like my keys were in Death Valley last year.

I wasn’t the only one missing something that morning. Abi apparently lost his mind during the night, showing up to breakfast that morning sporting his odd new ‘BMW Rider Loyalty Mustache,’ a not-so-subtle jab at a BMW rider we’d met a few days prior. That rider’s only interest in us was to point at the stickers on Abi’s bags and say, “Oh, I’ve been there. And I’ve been there. Yup, I’ve been there, too.” The rest of us, riding ‘inferior’ motorcycles may as well have not existed. That man loved himself, and loved talking about himself. For whatever reason, either boredom or temporary insanity, Dark Meat Snack decided he needed to ingratiate himself further with this very annoying breed of BMW rider.

At least he still rode with us ‘inferior’ riders. Mother Nature was back on the warpath, as we loaded up for the last time, the thunder rumbled, the lightning put on a spectacular show, and the rains came.

Naturally.

With one full day left of the Expedition, what else could be expected? Rain Cloud Follows and Stormbringer, as always, lived up to their names.

Fortunately, Fireball didn’t live up to its flammable monicker, though even still, this day wouldn’t fare well for the BWM.

A few hours later, just outside Halifax, on the way to the Peggy’s Cove and the Lighthouse Trail, Mr. BMW Mustachio, DMS One flew past me, and I could see and hear that something was very wrong.

Oh yeah. That’s flat. Really flat. In over 25,000 miles of riding, this flat tire was our first. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Dark Meat Snack put a nail in his own tire just to avoid seeing any more lighthouses. Now what?

In a twist too bizarre to make up, we limped to… a tire store!

What luck! But wait, what’s that sign in the window?

Did I say luck? That’s our luck. The tire store had been closed for months due to the owner’s bad health. Of course.

So, it was time to find out if tire patch kits really work.

After some head scratching and wild guessing, we managed to stick a plug in the tire and get the wounded bike to a gas station to fully inflate it. The patch seemed to work, though the repair cost us about an hour. Now it was getting late, and we were not in a heavily populated area. Finding a room became our main concern. We followed the foggy road towards Peggy’s Cove, and stumbled into a miracle, a restaurant open past 8 PM! I asked the owner if there was a motel or cabins nearby that we might be able to rent. He picked up his phone and called someone. “Hello, Martha? I’ve got four people looking to rent cabins for tonight. Do you have any available? Yes? Ok. They’ll be down after they eat. Thanks.”

The kindness of strangers on this trip was the most amazing part of all.

After a huge meal, we limped through the thick fog over to Martha’s cabins. Martha herself appeared like an apparition walking through the fog. Though it was very late by this time, she’d been waiting for us to show up, cabin keys in hand. Thanks to the late hour, she let us in, saying, “Don’t worry. We can just settle up in the morning. I also brought you some rags to clean your seats off in the morning. Nothing worse than starting the day with a wet bum now, is there? Have a good night now.” Though it could’ve been worse, this day turned out well. To close out our last night of the Expedition, we half-heartedly toasted the ‘Sorta-But-Not-Really Best Day Ever’, and quickly were fast asleep.

The next morning was our last full day of the Expedition, and we had a problem. Though Abi’s tire held air overnight, we had misgivings about riding any further than we needed to. I’ve heard stories about riders, most likely the BMW Loyalty type, that plug their tire five or six times then ride all the way from Prudhoe Bay at the top of Alaska to Tierra del Fuego at the end of South America and back, but that’s them. Abi, a poser with his mustache but not the attitude that it represents, decided to split off from the group once the ferry reached Portland, and get a new rear tire the next morning.

While the Expedition was fast coming to a close, our spirits remained high.We compromised on the Lighthouse Trail, stopping only at the very picturesque Peggy’s Cove for a quick peek, and skipping the rest of the trail in favor of staying on the highway so we could all make it to the ferry safely.

The Expedition was quickly winding down. Ten days had sped by in a flash. Once we were back in the good old US of A, the trip would essentially be over. Our little group of ten days would unceremoniously separate; Abi to get a new tire, Unleaded, Sleeping Beauty and Frenchy all with early flights the next morning, would speed through the night back to the Kingdom of Rhode Island.

The rest of our time on Rhode Scotia was spent hammering down the highway to the CAT ferry. Abi’s tire plug held, and we made it to the CAT ferry dock with time to spare. We waited in a line with about seven other motorcycles. On the CAT, motorcycles load up last, and come off last too.

We met Dave, riding his immaculately clean, bright yellow BMW R1150 GS. Dave didn’t sport a BMW Loyalty mustache, he had the full on beard going instead. And he wasn’t one of ‘those’ guys at all, because he was interested in our story, and would only tell his after some coaxing. And what a story it was. Dave had ridden solo from South Carolina to Nova Scotia, without a GPS, iPod or cell phone, and was heading a considerable distance – from Portland to Ohio- the very next day. There’s always someone to make your massive feats feel puny in comparison, but Dave was still a very cool guy.

As the CAT fired up its massive engines to propel us back home, we gave a hearty one finger salute to celebrate the end of what was – to this point – the Best Expedition Ever!

Final Post of the G.U.N.S.E. is here.