Frenchy's Rant

Pardon the interruption from regularly scheduled ranting, but it’s vacation time for yours truly.

Yes, in my humble opinion, there are probably a few good posts that need to be written, but they can wait until next week. In the meantime, here’s some useless rambling, in Frenchy’s Reader’s Digest form.

The surprise 30th birthday party I threw for Sleeping Beauty in the Kingdom of Rhode Island can only be called a success, though it had more than one chance to be a complete disaster.

A Mass of Californians (and New Jersey-ites) invade the Kingdom of Rhode Island to celebrate with Fiona as she officially goes Over the Hill!

The best thing about pulling off a surprise party is that feeling of satisfaction when it all comes together, and you see the look on the surprise party victim’s face at the moment they notice familiar faces in an unexpected place. The worst thing about pulling off a surprise party is your significant other figures out that you have the ability to hide things from them, and do it well.

As they say, no good deed goes unpunished. The full story should appear here next week if I can remember how I used to string my incoherent thoughts together into some semblance of a yawn-inspiring tale…

Now that the big party is over, I can finally shift all my planning energy to another motorcycling Expedition, this time to British Columbia. I already have the rough draft Map-kin prepared, sent invitations out to the original Great Unsponsored Nova Scotia Expedition Team, and, thanks to a cryptic email I received today, I learned there is some real yet preliminary interest from a real French television channel about including this ride in a French documentary being shot about ‘Bikers in America.’

While I give it about a .001% chance of happening, if it does, the joke will be on them when they find out that Frenchy doesn’t actually speak French. Hopefully they realize this small yet important fact after they pick up the bar tab!

To complete my pointless brain dump, a revamped website for the Rant is in the early planning stages. Not that I need more room for my pitiful posts, I just hate writing on Blogger.com more and more every day (might even be time to dust off the ol’ GFY award.) More information to come as I figure out the best way to not lose any of the Faithful Fifteen in the migration.

And that will all happen, I am sure. For now I am trying to get my fill of doing nothing much at all, and so far it’s working out quite well. Full-on ranting will probably resume next week.

Chassis Description
Custom built 48′ Rack Ready Expando by Medical Coaches, Inc. 28′ Electric expanding side Completed in 1995 GVRW: 60,000 lbs. Dual Staco Automatic Voltage Regulators Hydraulic Levelers HVAC needs repair Very good condition
Photos Click any photo above for a larger view
Click any photo above for a larger view
$59,000 Financing Available

The shitty formatting of this post is frustrating.

Blogger is frustrating, which is part of the reason for my sporadic posting of late. It takes too much time to format posts, and the pictures all come out too small to see, or are so large they fall off the screen. Yes, I could change blog templates, and that might help, but overall, I don’t thing that is the change that needs to be made. In short, Blogger sucks, but there is a solution, a solution that I’ve been working very hard on for the past few weeks.

Never fear, Faithful Fifteen – The Rant will be moving soon!

In a rare but welcome change, Sleeping Beauty and I spent the past week in seclusion, hidden away on a beautiful lake deep in the heart of the Kingdom of Rhode Island. We shut off our phones, unplugged the computer and TV, and, for once, didn’t get on a motorcycle at all.

We had a great time sitting around, recharging our batteries from all the running around we’ve done in the past, oh, I dunno, three years or so. Almost felt like we were on vacation. Maybe we’ll even do it again sometime in the next three years, who knows?

My friend John has a small party barge docked at my house. In exchange for this berth, I have a key and permission to sail anytime. I’ve a somewhat checkered history with John’s boat, nicknamed the S.S. Crapshoot. A safe voyage in this scow is at best, a 50-50 proposition. But, the lake is fairly small, and after sitting around for two days, I felt the need for a little adventure.

S.S. Crapshoot

“Hey, Fiona! I have an idea! Wanna take the boat out for a nice sunset cruise?”

“That piece of shit?” she replied, somewhat incredulously. “Are you kidding? That’s the same boat that stranded us last year, remember?”

“Yeah, but that was last year.” Along with a thick stubborn streak, selective memory is one of my better qualities. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

She rolled her eyes, knowing by now it’s much easier and quicker to agree with me and get it over with.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

While I did a quick check to make sure we had the essentials; life jackets, some fuel and cold beer, Sleeping Beauty disappeared. On the fourth or fifth try, the S.S. Crapshoot sputtered and coughed to life, not bad by this barge’s admittedly low standards. Minutes later, Fiona was ready to set sail, armed with her cell phone and two oars, as she put it, “Just in case.”

Our yacht motored out into the lake, where, it seemed, everyone else had the same ‘sunset cruise’ idea. Idly, we waved at other boaters as we traced a lazy circle around the two mile perimeter of the lake. What few clouds there were barely dotted the horizon. In the game of sailing, it seemed we’d rolled a seven, as the S.S. Crapshoot ran strong on our peaceful voyage. Ah yes, this is the life, and, at that moment, feet up and smiling, my girlfriend by my side, life was indeed very good.

An hour later, with the dock nearly in sight, the boat shuddered once, and the motor abruptly died. Our peaceful cruise just got a bit more peaceful, but not in a good way.

Fiona shot me that look, the one that says, “I told you so,” without actually saying it. The clouds that barely dotted the horizon now blotted it out entirely. Out of nowhere, the wind suddenly picked up, and started blowing our tiny, dead ship away from our dock.

Waving her phone at me, Sleeping Beauty said, “Let’s call the Coast Guard.”

“Don’t over react. It’s nothing, dear.” I said with more conviction than I felt. I turned the key, trying in vain to get the Crapshoot restarted. Snake eyes. I checked the fuel level; plenty of gas in there. Twist the key again. Nothing. Frustrated, I let loose a nice string of curses, swearing like the sailor I was pretending to be. What the fuck do I know about boating? Not enough, that’s for sure.

Looking around for help, we realized we were alone. All the other people we’d waved to earlier had wisely brought their perfectly running boats back to their dock ahead of the impending storm. The dark clouds thickened. I fiddled around, trying in vain to restart the engine. Without seeing any other options, I said, “Well… I think we’re going to have to row.”

Fiona’s string of curses would’ve made a real sailor blush.

Half an hour later, all we’d managed to do is paddle the heavy boat around in circles, and drift even further from the dock. Soaked with sweat, Fiona snapped, “You did check the battery, right?”

“Yes, dear, of course I did!” I snapped back. But, of course I hadn’t. Dropping my paddle on the deck, I said, “Let me go check it again!”

Right there in the battery compartment was the source of our trouble. Somehow, a thick red wire had worked itself loose from the battery terminal. After Macgyvering a temporary repair using a bottle cap and a small stick, I said, “Try starting it now.”

Miracle of miracles, the S.S. Crapshoot roared back to life, just as the first fat drops of rain started to fall. I jammed the throttle forward, and minutes later we were safe and sound on dry land.

Shaking her head at my folly, Fiona said, “You know, maybe we should stick to something safer, like motorcycles!”

I have to agree.

The next morning, refreshed and ready, clearer heads ruled the day, and we decided that Hell’s Canyon was indeed the right way to go.

The road didn’t disappoint, and, as an added bonus was paved the whole way through! Rough and potholed, sure, but at the very least – no gravel. Running out of ways to describe the awesomeness that is riding these secluded back country roads, I’ll just say the rest of the day, all the way from Enterprise to that night’s home in Bend, Oregon was a series of blissful and almost endless lefts and rights in succession that was as close to perfect as I’ll probably ever get.

That night, we enjoyed a few cocktails, ate mightily, laughed loud and long, and toasted the Best Day Ever one more time.

The next day we planned to visit Crater Lake National Park, but the needs of the motorcycles overruled the desires of the riders. On the way down to Crater Lake, Abi raced past me, and I noticed an ominous white stripe flashing on his rear tire.

Tire? Toast.

We quickly pulled over to assess the tire. It was obvious that Crater Lake was out, and a visit to Tread and Tracks Motorsports in Klamath Falls for some new rubber was in order.

Thanks Treads and Tracks!

Dodging more rain, we dove into our final state, my adopted home of California.

In the shadow of Mt. Shasta, we turned west into the mountains, following even more incredible roads, heading for a suitable mountain town.

Around six PM, mule deer started appearing on the sides of the road, making me wish I’d brought Steve from Enterprise along to clear the path. Thankfully, we navigated the deer-strewn minefield, and arrived safe and sound in that night’s home of Weaverville.

Oh yeah, the end is in sight now! The only thing separating us from parking for the final time in the garage was about eight hundred miles of Pacific Coast Highway. Life sure is tough!

The next morning, we swirled through more of the same ol’ magnificent curves and scenery, and that afternoon, swirled through something completely different.

With the end now firmly in sight, and, at this point, rapidly running out of ride report steam, I’ll take the lazy way out. After all, even in this economy, a picture is still worth, oh, I dunno, three hundred or so words. So, here is about fifteen hundred words worth of random sights from the rest of the ride:

The last day of the ride, we decided to veer off the PCH in favor of blasting down the interstate, in the interest of just getting home, finally getting off the bikes, and enjoying a healthy cocktail or three before flying to work the very next day.

Whittling away the dull interstate miles, I reflected on all we’d done on this trip; the sights, the roads, the miles, the laughs and even the petty disagreements. As far as ambitious motorcycle tours go, with 4650 miles (not counting the Los Angeles flights) through eight states in eighteen days, I came to the conclusion that this ride was without a doubt, the Best Tour Ever.

The 4650 Mile Road Home

Fifteen miles from the end, that Best Ever status almost changed. Three exits away from the end, I was thinking to myself, “Keep concentrating… you aren’t there yet. Just a few more miles to go. This is the most dangerous part of the ride.”

And it is, because when the road is familiar, concentration levels drop. A huge rock, one that I didn’t notice, got my complete attention as I hit it, nearly flying off Rain Could Follows. Abi said he was amazed I didn’t wreck, because I flew about a foot in the air.

The result?

All things considered, it could’ve been worse. Much worse.

Home safe and sound, Sleeping Beauty, Dark Meat Snack and I hoisted a healthy toast to our good friends Dean and Pam, Denise and Luciano, Pat and Vicki, Dave and Betty, Keith and Denise and Mike and Ingrid, all of whom opened their homes to us and provided laughs, fun, and free places to stay, without whom this trip wouldn’t have been nearly as awesome. Cheers to the lot of you, Best Friends Ever!!

The Entire 7790 Mile Road To Wrestlemania and Back

Rain Cloud Follows and Snowball, now parked safely in California will sit and rest a while until the next ‘great’ ride idea comes along.

Of course, that great idea may already have come along, because I hear the Icefields Parkway in Canada, from Lake Louise, up through Banff National Park to the friendly and picturesque community of Jasper is absolutely lovely this time of year.

All I need is a napkin…..

The time zone may have changed, but the curves just kept coming as we followed Route 12 across Idaho. Route 12 snakes alongside the Clearwater River, a raging, boiling river that Louis and Clark Expedition traversed in dugout canoes to the Pacific.

Dark Meat and I set off that morning much like Meriwether and William did back in 1805, except our expedition packed iPhones and iPods, GPS, a SPOT satellite tracker, and, of course, high horsepower motorcycles, making our voyage through Idaho last a few pleasant hours instead of several starvation filled months.

We stopped to watch some brave souls white water rafting the Clearwater.

There’s a fine line between brave and foolish. In white water rafting, that line is pretty much the boat. Inside, you’re brave, but get thrown out of the boat into the rapids, and… well…

Safe on shore, we spectated as some real life white water drama unfolded.

Up Shit Creek, But With A Paddle

The guy in the kayak came up the bank of the Clearwater, soaking wet, cold and tired looking. “You guys see another one in the water? We had two swimmers go over back there. One’s still missing.”

With Abi documenting the unfolding mini-drama, I jumped on Rain Cloud Follows to ride upriver and help look for their missing swimmer.

I didn’t get very far when the second swimmer crawled up the bank.

With the excitement quota for the day met, we stopped for lunch in the tiny town of Lowell. Evidently the tiny town recently became even tinier, as one of the residents must have moved away, or fell out of a white water raft, never to be seen again.

The remainder of Route 12 did not disappoint. And, by following this road to the border, we were able to sneak into Washington for a few miles, adding one more picture to the completely meaningless collection of Bikes ‘n Border Signs snapshots.

The Evergreen State’s Highway 129 also did not disappoint; in fact, it was kind of a shock. This road, which quickly led to the border of Oregon, was yet another series of fast sweeping curves snaking up and down through some very sparsely populated, very scenic Pacific Northwest evergreens.

The road led more-or-less directly to 1.5 square mile city of Enterprise, Oregon.

At dinner, we debated the next day’s route. According to the map, the road through Hells Canyon include some unpaved roads. On this trip, unpaved roads equal dissent. The alternate route, adding several hundred additional paved miles was briefly discussed. Yeah, the long days in close proximity, both at work and on the road, obviously were starting to take a toll on both of us. Discord ruled.

WWLCD? (What Would Lewis and Clark Do?)

I imagine Lewis would kick Clark’s ass for being a pussy then take the dirt road. Instead, before resolving anything, we ended up poisoning ourselves with some home made Mexican hot sauce. Dark Meat went back to the motel to suffer mightily, while I walked to a local bar in search of some hot sauce quenching, and some valuable local information.

I sat down next to an alcohol-soaked patron named Steve. Steve, a lifelong resident of Enterprise had never even heard of Hells Canyon. Great.

Steve clearly had his own agenda. “So, Rhode Island,” he slurred, “Do you hunt?” he asked me.

“Err, no.”

“Shame on you!” A three-beer long lecture followed about Steve’s hunting prowess. I have nothing against hunting, but I wanted to know about dirt roads, not mule deer. It was clear that I wasn’t going to get any information about the route, so, still uncertain about the next day’s route, I suddenly toasted the Best Day Ever with a confused Steve, then, with the end of the ride only one more post away, wisely called it a night.

For The Love Of God, Wrap It Up Already! Click Here For the Conclusion!