Frenchy's Rant

During the off-season – that is, the off-motorcycle-season – the days endlessly,monotonously, painfully drag by. Cars, or ‘cages,’ replace bikes though solely as a means of transportation. Everything turns gray. But now that spring is here, it seems it was just a few short days ago I was covering the Yamaha for it’s long winter hibernation.

Those long winter months, while excruciating in their dull drudgery, didn’t go completely to waste. Abi and I have figured out some pretty ambitious riding plans for 2008, including a run to Nashville, riding in Scotland (!!!) and of course, the long awaited Nova Scotia expedition in June. Before that however, we though it would be a good idea to get in a little spring training, and since it was Bike Week in Daytona, we could easily kill a few birds with one stone.

Gearing Up For the ’08 Season

What is Bike Week?

For some, it is the semi-official start to riding season. For others, it’s this great American tradition where a bunch of fat, middle-aged, balding dentists throw their bikes on a trailer, drive that trailer down to Florida, unload the $30,000 Kustom Krome Kreation in a hotel parking lot under cover of darkness, then streeeeetch on the ol‘ leather chaps and ride around like a total badass for a week, before trailering the bike 50 miles back to the safety of the garage.

But that’s getting ahead of the story. First we had to get to Orlando.

Cleveland was iced in. I don’t know why, but the worst winter storms always seem to strike on Wednesday, the day we travel home from a WWE event. The only reason I can think of is Mother Nature hates me.

Though it was a sloppy start, we eventually left the crummy Cleveland weather behind, and migrated south for a warmer climate, and to start our pre-season training.

Before plunging headfirst into the wilds of Bike Week, our reunited riding group headed to the Kennedy Space Center – for two reasons. First, the space shuttle Endeavor was on the launch pad, which I thought would be a great photo op, and second, it’s another destination to cross off my list of ‘Places to Never Visit Again.’

Why? For starters, admission is pretty steep, at $38 a person. Then you get on a bus. Any tour that includes getting on a bus automatically sucks by default. At least we didn’t have to wear gay name tags while aboard the stupid bus. The stupid bus takes you to an ‘Observation Tower,’ which would be cool, IF, at that observation tower, you could actually OBSERVE the space shuttle! But no, they’ve hidden all but the very top part of that orange thing from the observers. It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that facing the entire shuttle towards the tower makes more sense.

You could spend even more money to take the longer and stupider bus tour and maybe get to see what trillions and trillions of our tax dollars have paid for, but of course that tour sells out by 8 AM every day, proving that suckers must get up pretty early.

Just for the record, Endeavor blasted off at 2:38 on Tuesday morning, and we weren’t there to see it.

But at least we got to see this crapulent balsa-wood-and-modeling glue replica of the real thing.

And they have movies. Really boring, really bad ones that were filmed long before my first visit, many years ago. The movies are the kind with the cheesy music, and are filled with lines like, “Yes, little future astronauts, dreams really can and DO come true.”

BARF!

The only good thing about the Kennedy Space Center was the astronaut is still there. When I was a kid, my family took a vacation to Florida, and one stop on that trip was the Space Center. My brother and I got our picture taken with two ‘astronauts’. Even now, thirty years later, I still remember that photo as being one of the highlights of that trip. Hmm… I guess maybe I haven’t always been this cynical.

What a handsome kid!

Well, one of the two astronauts was still there, and I managed to sneak a free picture with him.

Yes, I’m wearing the same socks in both pictures!

And though the Original Stormbringer was safely home in the shed, the skies darkened once again, indicating it was time for us to blast off for home. This is how I know for certain that Mother Nature hates me.

Stormbringer, 1200 miles away, under cover in the shed.

I would love to meet the marketing genius that came up with ‘The Sunshine State’ slogan for Florida. I bet they could also market heroin as ‘The Ultimate Weight Loss Program.’

Needless to say, we got soaked on the ride back to Abi’s.

Tomorrow, we brave the untamed wilds of Daytona Bike Week.

It’s been a few weeks since the dictators over at Goolge NonSense decided that my stupid little blog posed a ‘significant risk’ to their advertiser. Since I refused to change every single post where I urged the astoundingly overwhelming amount of visitors to this blog to click on a Google Ad, Hitler, Stalin and the rest of ‘The Team’ dropped me.

(By the way, the highest traffic day EVER was 62 people. 62!)

OK, honestly, all I wanted to do was get some extra cash to pay for a ferry to Nova Scotia. Seriously. Since I will most likely write some dumb posts on the blog about this trip, I liked the idea that the blog and it’s many fantastic readers could subsidize the trip, without actually contributing any of their own money. A win-win situation for all! I planned to take a picture of every beer payed for from those little clicks, as a tribute to the 62 visitors that have nothing better to do with their day than read my silly little page.

I appreciate each of those clicks, but GOOGLE doesn’t. Somehow it poses a risk to their advertisers if people click on the links after being prompted to click on them. You naughty risky Faithful Fifteen!!

So, I got that infamous email warning me to change the offensive post. I did as they asked. Then I got ANOTHER e mail closing my account. At this point, I figured that since I don’t really give a shit about Adsense, I’d let it go. I gave them a Go Fuck Yourself award, and figured that was that.

We’re talking about earnings of less than $100 for three months. Three MONTHS!! Dishwashers make more money. Who really cares? It’s over. Move on.

But evidently, the dicksneezes over at Adsense are like a jilted lover. They can’t let it go.

Just today, I received this email from them:

Hello,
 
Thanks for providing us with additional information. However, after
thoroughly reviewing your account data and taking your feedback into
consideration, we've re-confirmed that your account poses a significant
risk to our advertisers. For this reason, we're unable to reinstate your
account. Thank you for your understanding.
 
As a reminder, if you have any questions about your account or the actions
we've taken, please do not reply to this email. You can find more
information by visiting
https://www.google.com/adsense/support/bin/answer.py?answer=57153.
 
Sincerely,
 
The Google AdSense Team

The only problem is, I never contacted them again. The only ‘additional information’ I provided them was a Go Fuck Yourself award.

That’s because I. Don’t. Care. I don’t want my account reinstated.

But apparently, Google Adsense can’t let it go.

So, for the last time (I promise, after this I’ll drop it for good!) Google Adsense, since you like to reconfirm things so much, I’d like to reconfirm something too.

Dear ‘Team’

We’re through.

So let’s move on, mmm Kay?

Sincerely, Frenchy’s Rant

And when the Great Northeastern Expedition gears up and heads out in June, all sixty-two of the Faithful Fifteen are officially invited to join us.

Drinks are on me!

A briskly refreshing, ghost-free night led to a cloud and rain free morning. Things were looking good. As Fiona prepared for another long and hard day of adventuring, I took a stroll around the grounds.

Our Door to the Outside World.

While I was strolling, I ran into yet another member of the Costa Rican – British invasion. How many of these people could there be?

Turned out he was a member of an earlier British invasion, thirty-five years earlier to be exact. His name was Wilhbur, he was the owner of the hotel. He told me that way back in 1973 he and his wife were on a week long vacation similar to ours. However, they found this farm for sale on their last day, and fell in love with the place (admittedly, an easy thing to do.) They bought the land and farmhouse on the spot, moved to Costa Rica, and have lived there ever since. Wilhbur said that the grounds were also a working farm, with one hundred dairy cows, countless chickens, and a large garden. Breakfast consisted of all local produce, making me hungrier and hungrier as we spoke. The rest of the Brits we’d met previously were friends of his down from Old Blighty, visiting for a few weeks. They must have talked about us after last night’s dinner, because he knew Fiona and I were the drifters in off the street, and he said he was glad to have us.

The breakfast spread was delicious, and we shared it with guests Gladys and Rolf. She was from Cuba, he was Hungarian, and they both lived in New Orleans (naturally). Rolf said they wanted to see the volcanoes, and had so far been disappointed by the constant cloud cover. Gladys jumped in and said she thought all the talk of active volcanoes was a bunch of bullshit printed just for the tourists. “Oh yes, last week the volcano was so active, too bad you weren’t here then. Now – just clouds covering the top. Bullshit!” I liked Gladys immediately.

Bullshit or not, we decided to try our luck with Poas. More twisting mountain roads led to the volcano. In the daylight, I could see just how deep the drainage ditches lining the roads were, and what a mess it would have been had we drifted just a bit off the road into one last night. Yeah, the previous night’s drive had been an adventure all right!

We climbed to well over eight thousand feet, and finally came to a toll booth. The admission price was $20 per car plus $5 per occupant. I asked the ranger what the chances of seeing the mile-wide crater were.

“Eh, I’d say about twenty percent or so. The people that are leaving so far have been disappointed. It’s up to you.”

We came all that way, it would be silly to turn around now. So, stubbornly, we paid the fee and soldiered on. Our chances were more like zero percent. All we saw was murky gray fog.

Can’t say we weren’t warned. But at least we tried. And with that disappointment behind us, we turned around to start the long drive back to Flamingo Bay. On the way we stopped for an interesting lunch, as well as to take a few more pictures of churches and other interesting things.

¡MMmmm! Sopa de mariscos. ¡Muy delicioso!

Volcano Rice. Of course.

It was on the hunt for our last church photo of the day that disaster struck.

We saw the twin spires of a church in the distance, and decided to get closer for a picture. The town didn’t seem to even be on our map, and the roads were mostly one way. But in Costa Rica, they don’t really indicate one way streets very clearly. There are tiny arrows (sometimes) at stop signs telling you which way you can and can’t go. But often, those signs are missing, or pointing the wrong way. We were at one such stop sign, right beside the church. I thought it was a one way, but it wasn’t marked. As I turned down the street, an old man started wagging his finger in the universal, “Wrong way, dumbass.”

I stopped and tried to pull into the church parking lot. But the loud BANG! and the HISSSSssssss! of my right front tire losing air indicated that I’d misjudged. Yep, I’d managed to drive into one of those stupid open ditches, and gotten myself a flat tire, the one thing above all others the rental car company had warned about.

Like I said, sometimes adventures don’t seem like adventures when they are happening.

The little old finger wagging man looked at the car, shook his head, then shuffled off. Fiona got out to look at the damage (well, she really got out to laugh at me where I couldn’t see her) Then, ever helpful, she asked me, “Didn’t you see that ditch there?”

“Uhh, yes dear, of course I saw it. How else do you think I could possibly have driven into it so well if I hadn’t seen it?”

We had a problem. The tire was flat, and the Shitera was stuck. Costa Ricans apparently just keep paving over the top of old pavement, which builds up a nice ridge at the edge of the road. Our crapulent car was high sided on the asphalt ridge, one wheel deep in a ditch. And flat.

I tried to back out, to no avail. Thirty or so school children across the street in a park gathered to helpfully point and laugh at the dummy gringo. Then, just as we’d been warned, a man came up to ‘help’.

He spoke no English, and our paranoia went into overdrive. He kept saying, “Le ayudaré.” And I kept waving, “No thanks, I’ve got it under control.” He walked away, but returned a few minutes later in his grande SUV. Without a word, he took a rope, tied it to the Shitera bumper, then to his truck.

In two minutes he’d pulled me from the ditch. After that, he just drove off. Hmm, wasn’t he supposed to steal our stuff?

I found the Shitera jack, a flimsy looking thing that looked like it would hurt me if I tried to use it. But I had no other choice. I turned the screw several million times, and the Shitera rose a bit. I was able to take the flat tire off, but there wasn’t enough clearance to get the spare on.

A woman that happened to be walking by said, “Mi marido tiene un gato mejor. Él tendrá razón aquí.” I was sure that meant, “A gang of thieves is on the way. I hope there is something left for me when they are done.” But no, her husband appeared, with a jack – a REAL jack – in hand.

He proceeded to get on the ground with me to look for a point to raise the car higher. While we were under the car, another man came up. He spoke English. “I have some wood to put under your jack to raise the car more.” He set about trying to rig the old jack with the wood while the other man worked with his jack to raise my car.

While all this was happening, two motorcyclists stopped and asked if we needed help. After declining, (we had more than enough help already) a cab stopped to see if he could be of assistance. This was getting a bit unbelievable. If we were stuck like this in Los Angeles, it could be months before someone offered help. Here we were in this decidedly non-tourist town turning help down. Incredible! With the help of the two strangers, the spare tire was put in place. The two men actually started arguing with each other over who would tighten the lug nuts.

It was surreal, but also my best moment of the whole vacation in Costa Rica. All the warnings of being robbed, while probably partially true, had been proved emphatically wrong. These people were good people, helping a dumbass stranger who got into a spot of trouble. They didn’t want money or anything, other than to help. When they finished, the man retrieved his jack, wrapped his grubby hand around his wife and walked away. The other guy said he had some water in his truck to clean up. He left with a wave after letting me use his water to wash my hands.

The Church Next to the Ditch.

The rest of the ride home was much less eventful, though we didn’t bother to take any more pictures of churches that day.

After such draining adventures as we’d had the past two days, we spent our last day in Costa Rica sipping foofey drinks with umbrellas in them, watching iguanas play, and getting burned to a crisp in the hot tropical sun.

A perfect way to end a fantastic vacation.

Costa Rica is one of the few places that I’ve been that I would actually like to return. Most times in a new place, once is enough, because there are so many other places I want to experience before taking the eternal dirt nap. The seed has been planted, the little taste of this wonderful land has ignited a spark, and a lust to wander the entire area, but next time on two wheels. I can picture me and Fiona motorcycling through Central America sometime in the near future.

Until then, ¡Pura Vida!

I woke up early Monday morning to the sound of pouring rain. In the distance, howler monkeys were loudly voicing their displeasure at the inclement weather. All in all, a great way to wake up in a foreign country. Fiona had already been awake for some time, and seemed upset. I asked her what was wrong.

“I kept having this dream that a ghost was leaning over the bed, staring at me.”

Cool! Why can’t I ever have dreams like that?

“Well, did you talk to him?”

“No. I mean, he’d probably just tell me about some kids trapped in a burning barn in the eighteenth century, and there’s really nothing I could do about that. And besides, I’m sure the ghost would have spoken Spanish anyway. But it was still creepy.”

Looking back at the pictures, she may have actually been on to something in that cabin…

We sat outside under our little porch roof, watching the rain and listening to the monkeys. We debated what we’d do for a while, then settled on a plan. Since the clouds had ruined any chance of seeing the Arenal volcano cone, we’d drive further east, towards Volcán Poás – a destination that wasn’t really listed in any of our tour books.

After breakfast, the rain slowed, then finally stopped. Driving toward the town of La Fortuna, we saw a small, hand painted sign that said, “Rent Horseback – This Way”

Rent Horseback? ¡Sí! Let’s do it!

Is This the Right Way to ‘Rent Horseback’?

We followed a bumpy dirt road past many run down shacks and a small, open air school. Finally we pulled up the driveway where horsebacks were for rent.

With some gesturing and pantomime, we explained to the woman that met our car what we wanted. She went inside, then came back out a few minutes later with her young daughter. The girl collected three thin horses from the corral, and gestured to me to climb aboard.

I’m not really a fan of horses. The one time I’d tried horseback riding was a complete disaster, because unlike motorcycles, these beasts have a mind of their own. My previous horseback ride ended with the horse unleashing a HUGE firehose from his horse firehose storage area, then proceeding to water my shoes. It was then that the phrase ‘Piss like a race horse” finally became clear to me. It was also then that I decided to stick with vehicles with more than one horsepower.

But Fiona really wanted to try horseback renting, so I swallowed my fears and went with it. After all, she’s more than a good sport about all the stupid shit I put her through.

So I climbed aboard the horse, named ‘Colorado’ and waited. Fiona swung up in the saddle of her horse, named ‘Cielo’ with a whoop! Mariela, our sixteen year old guide, climbed aboard her own horse and motioned for us to follow. I kicked Colorado gently a few times, and he grudgingly started to plod after Mariela. When Colorado and Cielo caught up to Mariela, she leaned over to us and said “Habla Español?”

With a shrug, I replied, “Un poquito.”

She smiled, “OK, I will speak English then.” Her English, just like nearly everyone we’d met so far, was perfect.

We rode through her small town, many houses simply constructed of corrugated tin and old scraps of wood. Everyone in the tiny town waved at Mariela, it was clear that her bright face and huge smile made her the town sweetheart. It also became clear that every local boy had his eye on her, a fact that she didn’t seem aware of.

My horse, Colorado, seemed to have only one thing on his mind, and that was to bite Mariela’s horse. Cielo, Fiona’s trusty steed had the same thing in mind, passing Mariela’s horse then rearing up and trying to kick it. There was some serious horse hatred in our little posse. Pretty soon Frenchy and Colorado were in the lead, followed by Fiona and Cielo, with Mariela far behind us.

I found that if I kicked Colorado enough, he’d pick up some speed. I just kept tapping him with my heels, and pretty soon we were flat out galloping. It was all I could do to hold on to this wild stallion as it broke for the hills. I’m positive the damn animal knew I had no business being on his back, and was trying to throw me much like the bulls in Brasilito threw their riders. But I held on, eventually getting the horse to stop.

As soon as we stopped, my racehorse did what racehorses do best, but at least this time I was safely out of harm’s way on his back. Mariela rode safely behind our mean horses, and, being a sixteen year old, talked on her cell phone for almost the whole ride.

Our small group trotted up some dirt roads to a ‘Horse Parking Lot.’ Mariela tied our horses to a post, then led us down a small path to an entrance gate. At that gate she paid a small fee, then we crossed a bridge. In front of us was a huge waterfall.

We took a few pictures of the spectacular cascade from the observation deck, then Mariela gestured to a stairway. “It’s six hundred meters down,” was all she said. Well, if it’s six hundred meters down, that means its twelve thousand back up, right? Right. Fiona and I talked about it. Since this was a place that we doubt we’d ever return, we decided to take the stairs anyway. Mariela stoically led the way.

The view from the bottom was worth it. Not only for the scenery, but for the fact that some knuckleheads were swimming in the pool, trying to get close to the onslaught of falling water. I watched, hoping to see at least one of the idiots get drawn under the waterfall, but the current was too strong, and the knuckleheads weren’t able to drown in front of us.

We started climbing back up. I figured Mariela, being used to making this climb would just scamper to the top while Fiona and I were left far behind, regretting every meal and every beer we’d had in Costa Rica so far. Halfway up, we all stopped to take a break, and Mariela was just as winded as we were. It was a great victory for the old folks!

The return trip was just as much fun. I spurred Colorado to great speeds again, and nearly fell off about five times. It didn’t matter, since we were so far ahead nobody would have seen it. I think Colorado was glad for the exercise. Better him than me.

We trotted back to the ranch three hours later, and that was when I realized we had a problem.

We’d never discussed price.

Great. After dismounting, we just kind of stood there staring at each other. I braced for the worst, but nothing happened. Finally, Fiona asked Mariela how much our adventure cost.

“Well, my Mom said $30.”

“$30 each?”

Shyly, she replied, “No, just $30.”

Finally, a bargain in Costa Rica! We gave little Mariela, the sweetheart of La Fortuna, the biggest tip she’s ever received. I’m sure she’ll have to put the money towards her cell phone bill, but it was all worth it.

The horseback rental put us behind schedule, but we decided that since Arenal had never revealed itself to us, we’d still head for the other volcano anyway.

Arenal Stayed Hidden in the Clouds.

Two hours later, we were lost, low on gas, it was raining, getting dark, and the towns – the few little towns we passed looked… well… they looked dangerous. In one small town, we took a sharp left and began climbing. The road, a single rutted asphalt ribbon with no pained lines to mark the edges, twisted, curved and turned every which way. Deep, open drainage ditches carrying rainwater down the mountainside lined both sides of the tiny road. One wrong move and we’d either fall into a ditch and likely drown, or off a mountain. The rain and fog didn’t help, nor did the trailer trucks screaming down the mountain, taking up the whole road with each turn.

One of us enjoyed the drive much less than the other. This uneasiness contributed to the tension. It’s funny, but sometimes an adventure doesn’t seem to be an adventure when you are actually having it.

Halfway up this mountain road, we spied an oasis. The place was called The Peace Lodge, and it was a beautiful sight to behold for a couple of tense and tired travelers. The lobby had a gigantic fireplace, surrounded by stone and wood pillars. Though it looked extremely expensive, it didn’t matter, the place was magnificent.

It was also completely sold out.

The clerk recommended another place called the Hotel Poás Volcano Lodge, four miles up the road. I asked if he thought they’d have vacancy. He shrugged. “Eh. Maybe. Maybe not.”

Great

A few wrong turns later, we stumbled onto a gravel road that led to the Hotel Poás. It looked more like a stone farmhouse than a lodge. A small stone path led to a gigantic wooden door, which creaked open as we stepped inside this stone fortress. (Did I make the point that the place was made of stone?)

“Yes, we have one room…”

“We’ll take it!”

“… but it’s a shared bathroom….”

“We’ll take it!”

“… and dinner, the cut-off time for dinner…

“WE WILL TAKE IT!”

The clerk led us through a sitting room, filled with stuffy, older British people sitting around the coolest recessed fireplace I have ever seen. As we walked through, I swear I heard someone ask, “Pardon me, would you have any Grey Poupon?” followed by, “Why, yes, old chap. Dr. Livingstone, I presume.” As we walked through, all conversation stopped, and everyone just stared at us.

But still, even though something had happened to the cut off time for dinner, and we’d have to share a bathroom with a bunch of crusty old Limeys, it didn’t matter. We had a place to stay.

I asked where we could find dinner, and the clerk answered, “There are two restaurants in town, a Mexican one and a French one.” Wait a minute, what? This day couldn’t get any more surreal. We’d climbed a mountain road in the rain and fog, then found a hidden British stronghold in the middle of Costa Rica at night, and now we were told there was a French restaurant in town? It just couldn’t get any weirder.

Wrong again.

The French restaurant, Colbert’s, was a short drive from the hotel. Monsieur Colbert himself greeted us at the door. Twelve tables were set but empty in the large restaurant. It was freezing inside. Monsieur Colbert told us to pick any table we wanted, except for the one by the fire, because it was reserved. We sat as close to the fire as we could, freezing our asses off, and ordered delicious French food.

Monsieur Colbert attended one of the finest French culinary schools, then, for a reason known only to him, he fled France for Costa Rica, opening his namesake restaurant. Colbert’s was open seven days a week, and apparently staffed only by Monsieur Colbert alone.

Naturally, the crusty Brits from the hotel showed up a few minutes later to claim the reserved table. They openly stared at us until finally one of the women asked our story. We told them about driving up the mountain road at night, not packing jackets or nice clothes, and missing out on seeing Arenal thanks to the clouds. We sat shivering in the cold restaurant as we recounted our day’s travels.

The table visibly softened at our sad tale, and one of the women let Fiona borrow her jacket, and we toasted each other before our meals ended. For a bunch of crusty English old farts, they weren’t half bad.

We piled on the bed every blanket we could beg, borrow or steal, and, ghosts or not, we soon were sound asleep, content with the knowledge that there was just ONE MORE POST to write about this trip

¡Hasta mañana mis amigos!

The final installment of the Costa Rican Adventure can be found here.