Frenchy's Rant

I got away with a ‘Last Ride’ once, and it was a good thing for a number of reasons. But anyone can get away with anything once, blind squirrel and all that. Pulling off yet another ‘Last Ride’ would be a real accomplishment.

I started dropping hints early. It didn’t take Fiona long to figure me out, but then again, it never does. “OK, OK! One more ride. Fine! What do you have in mind?”

“San Francisco?” It’s just a scant four-hundred fifty or so miles away. While I failed to mention that fact, I’m sure she knows the layout of the land, and exactly how far away San Fran is.

“We’ll see.” That’s as good as a yes in my book.

“Cool. Let’s leave early tomorrow, around seven or so.”

Like I said, Fiona has me figured out, and knows when I say seven, I’m shooting for nine, which in reality means we’ll hopefully be almost ready to go sometime after ten.

I was up at seven, looking at various websites to plan the best route. Sleeping Beauty lived up to her name that morning. By eleven it was obvious we weren’t going to have enough time to get all the way to San Francisco, and an alternate plan – just get out there and see what happens – quickly developed.

Our improvised route took us east down the crowded 210 Freeway, and almost immediately, we were immersed in my favorite of adrenaline inducing activities – lane splitting.

This possibly suicidal activity is questionably legal, but definitely allowed in California. Surprisingly enough, most of the people stuck in traffic actually move aside to make a little extra room for a lane splitter, which is contrary to their normal behavior of not paying attention to anything at all when driving. I’m not a huge fan of riding in between rows of slow moving cars, but I am less of a fan of being a sitting duck, so when in California, I do like all good Californian riders do; I keep moving.

The lane splitting paid off, as we weren’t killed, and as an added bonus, we made it to my first fun route, Little Tujunga Canyon Road, affectionately known as ‘Little T’ without wasting the rest of the day stuck in never ending traffic.

It’s not a very long road, but it sure packs a wallop. This little bundle of joy twists and climbs, twists and winds, twists and turns up and down all through the San Gabriel Mountains. There aren’t many houses out there, in fact there isn’t much of anything at all, but people must live around this road somewhere, unless they built it just for me and Fiona to ride on.

This road, so close to my adopted home, is dangerous. Not dangerous to life and limb, dangerous to my bank account, because a nice, new Ducati 1098 would be perfect on this road. Not sure how or even if I could talk my way into that one…

‘Little T’ ended far too soon, dumping us off on The Five, an overly congested superhighway. My plan was to take that highway to another highway, which would eventually lead us to Ojai, and another fun road, Route 33. Feeling like a hotshot after discovering Little T, I decided to try to find another shortcut to Ojai.

What can I say? Some things look better on paper.

One thing that always looks good to me, on paper or in person, is Route 33. My friend Dan introduced me to this excellent road way back in 2003.

A Rented Harley and a Younger Dan, Back in 2003.

Way back then, I had a few days off between jobs on the West Coast, and rather than fly all the way back to the Kingdom of Rhode Island and back, I opted to stay out in California, rent a Harley and ride for a few days. I didn’t know much about the area, just that there were supposed to be some good roads out there. I met Dan at a stop sign in a rainstorm (naturally), and he led me over to one of the best roads, Route 33, where the sun was shining brightly. That evening at his house, we made a plan to ride to Alaska, which we did one year to the day we met. We’ve been friends ever since, though Dan has since moved to Australia – an island that I plan to claim for the Kingdom someday soon.

Route 33. As Close As I’ll Get To Heaven.

The sun shone brightly on Route 33. I smiled broadly as Rain Cloud Follows dipped deep into the curves. I love this road.

At the town of Maricopa, we had a decision to make. Continue north and go home the next day, or turn west towards The Five and suffer through the pain of that clogged artery all the way home. It really wasn’t a tough decision at all. We continued north.

The sign a few miles past Maricopa read, ‘Welcome to Taft – The Best of Places.’ It couldn’t be more wrong. Being in Taft is like being backstage at Disneyland, there’s a bunch of stuff that you know is there, and know is probably necessary, but would rather not see. Taft is the Best of Places if you have stock in Nodding Donkeys, more commonly known as pump jacks.

These devices litter the countryside, sucking crude oil out of the ground, forcing it through pipes that further litter the countryside to nearby refineries. Taft is also the home of a federal prison, as well as a gigantic Waste Management garbage dump. According to Wikipedia, the town of Taft is also known as a huge methamphetamine consumer (i.e. “They’re All Fucking Tweaking“). The Best of Places, indeed. We stopped for some cheap gas, and were bombarded by weird signs offering free things. Here is a small sample of what we saw:

Beautiful. We couldn’t get away fast enough.

Fortunately, there was light at the end of the meth lab, and it wasn’t a fire. It was Route 58, another of the Golden State’s great roller coaster roads.

Route 58 is a desolate road. There’s not much out there except farms and more farms. Miles and miles of fences. A few hills. It’s the perfect road to twist the wrist a bit and blow the carbon out of the motor. Not that I would ever do such a thing, as it would be illegal, but it would be the perfect place, should one be so inclined.

After our little high speed stretch, we slowed down to take in the scenery, and made a few new friends.

It’s a good thing we slowed when we did, because there, in the middle of absolutely nothing, was a California Highway Patrol car, sitting and waiting for someone to race by ‘blowing the carbon out of the motor’. As we approached, a few things went through my head.

One: What the hell was the point of this police officer sitting out there on the shoulder of a completely deserted road?

Two: Am I going to get a ticket?

Three: Did I get all the carbon out? Because if I didn’t, the ticket would be pointless.

I must’ve woke the cop up, because just before I passed him, he jammed on the gas, spun the car around and took off at top speed – in the other direction! Score one for the good guys!

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

We wound our way west until we ran out of daylight, and picked the little town of Morro Bay to be our home for the night.

And oh, what a night it was…

Welcome to the first installment of What They Don’t Teach In TV School, an occasional series I’m starting to teach the new crop of TV tadpoles a few of the hard won lessons from a life on the road. Please enjoy the first of Frenchy’s Weapons of Mass Instruction.

Today’s lesson? Tour Buses.

One thing that all television freelancers quickly learn, though TV school doesn’t teach it, is the hard facts of travel. The simple act of getting from here to there and then back home again can often be more time consuming, more soul draining, and more burnout inducing than the actual production of a television show is.

Case in point: The WWE tour often covers three hundred miles or more between shows, which means moving tons of gear and hundreds of humans through the night. This massive feat of logistics is necessary to pull off a one day set-shoot-strike show of this proportion.

And it usually goes off without a hitch. Usually. When something goes wrong, say, a tour bus getting lost in southern Texas on the way to another show many miles distant, in the middle of the night, things can get ugly in a hurry.

And get ugly things did last night as my bus did exactly that, somehow wandering off course on the way from Monday’s show in Corpus Christi to Tuesday’s show in Laredo, which only got worse as the remaining awake TV crew whipped out their iPhones and tried to help, Google Mapping our lost bus deeper and deeper into the heart of Texas.

Here is a line that, when lost deep in the heart of Texas at 1 AM, being guided by iDiots with iPhones, you never want to hear your bus driver say; a line which they also don’t seem to warn you about in TV School: “Shee-it! The San Diego Highway? We’re really screwed up now.”

Worse is when the iDiots start arguing which left is the ‘right left’ to get us off the dreaded San Diego Highway, all the while mystical stop signs suddenly appear in the middle of the unlit, deserted two lane road as if from thin air, forcing the bus air brakes to be tested to their limits, slamming sleeping freelancers around in the bunks on the deserted back roads deep in the heart of Texas, lost on the way to the next show in Laredo.

Best of all is coming to the hundredth unmarked intersection, after seeing nothing but darkness, tumbleweeds, mystical stop signs and check cashing places, suddenly stumbling into one of the many WWE support trucks, possibly as lost as us, and finally making a impromptu convoy to the right highway in the middle of the night while most of the crew on the bus sleep right through the late night adventure.

The one thing they DO teach in TV school is the show must go on, they just don’t teach you how much unglamorous work is involved in ensuring that show does in fact go on.

“C’mon honey, just one more time. Please? I promise it’ll be quick.”

Sleeping Beauty knows me too well to believe it will be quick, but, being the good sport she is, she nonetheless agreed.

It’s really her fault anyway. At the conclusion of The Epic Ride, I parked Rain Cloud Follows, with a promise that we were done with long distance riding for the season. We covered some ground this year, and to tell the truth, towards the end, I was a bit burned out. And if I was a bit burned out from driving all those miles, I can only imagine how Fiona felt, sitting on the back and staring at my big, dumb ol‘ head day after day.

I was OK with the decision, figuring I’d use the down time to repair the damage suffered at Wounded Cloud, Wyoming when I stupidly let Rain Cloud take a nap. Motorcycles are notorious for wanting to rest, and the natural resting position of any two wheeled vehicle is on it’s side.

Rain Cloud Down at Wounded Cloud

I ordered some replacement parts to fix the damaged ones, and life slowly returned to a somewhat normal pace.

Normal, until her cousin Colleen called. Colleen’s boyfriend owns a beautiful yellow Ducati 998, and we’ve always said one day we’d go for a ride. That day came Wednesday, as they were out riding, and wanted us to meet them. Never one to turn down an offer like that, we were off in an instant. We met at a gas station, and headed for one of my favorite California roads, the excellent Angeles Crest.

I’d never ridden with Ivan and Colleen before, and to be honest, I wondered if my sport tourer would be able to keep up with the Number 34 Ducati. Graciously, I let Ivan take the lead.

I didn’t have much to worry about. Ivan took it easy on me, as we stayed pretty close to the legal speed limit. The road twists and curves and turns and weaves through the Angeles Forest in an almost unending squiggle that causes that little gland in my brain that oozes and spurts happy juice to kick into overdrive.

Back in 2004, Mother Nature decided to put an abrupt end to the happy juice oozing by wiping away part of the road in a huge mudslide. Crews did their best to fix the damaged roller coaster, but, as I know all too well, Mother Nature always wins. In 2006 she outdid herself, wiping away huge sections of the road in an early spring deluge.

I think I could get through.

The road closes about ten miles past Newcomb’s Ranch, which is just as well. Newcomb’s is a fantastic place to hang out and bullshit with fellow motorcycle enthusiasts. Every time I’ve been to Newcomb’s Ranch, it’s taken hours to leave. Bikers check out each other’s rides, talk about other favorite roads, and generally pass time telling lies and stories. Oh yeah, and the chili is pretty good too.

I met Bob, a local rider on a KTM 640 who said CalTrans is building a bridge over the washed away part, and that bridge should be open sometime next year. He said the gobs of money being spent on the improved road will be well worth it when it finally reopens. I agree.

After lunch, Ivan graciously let me take the lead. I flogged Rain Cloud as hard as humanly possible as we railed back down off the crest, in a misguided attempt to impress Ivan. That beautiful yellow Ducati was so close it seemed like I was towing him down the road.

All too soon, our ride ended. We parted ways with a promise to do it again soon. Yes, this promise would break that other promise, but what can I do? An addiction is an addiction.

On the way home, we stopped off to visit with Fiona’s sister. Her niece Áine ran out to meet us, and excitedly jumped on the motorcycle as soon as she could.

We talked about our ride, and it occurred to me how much I love motorcycling, how much it is a part of me and who I am. To be honest, at the end of the Epic Ride, I wasn’t so sure if that was the case anymore. It was a relief to realize that the riding burnout was just a temporary thing. It was a great day. In fact, it was the Best Day Ever.

The motorcycle wheels may have stopped turning, but the wheels in my head were spinning full speed with one thought, how can I convince Sleeping Beauty that we should take one last ride, even just a quick one, before the motorcycling season truly ends?

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, which, for me usually means nothing more exciting than losing lots of my semi-hard earned money, which, true to the saying, always seems to stay in Sin City. This week was no exception. The WWE circus tour rolled from our show in Anaheim onto The Strip very late Monday night, but not late enough to stop me from sitting in front of a One Armed Bandit and helping the Hard Rock Hotel pay the electric bill.

And it never got any better. After the show ended on Tuesday, I returned to the Hard Rock to once again prove Phineus Taylor Barnum’s ‘Sucker Born Every Minute‘ theory correct. Thanks to my extremely crappy luck, I pretty much worked for free this week. After paying for the cab to the airport, I didn’t even have enough scratch left for a cup of coffee. Then, to further hammer home how bad my luck was, I walked past the newest and most novel way for Vegas to fleece tourists:

Unfortunately, after my staggering losses at the slots; losses that rivaled the past few weeks on Wall Street, I realized I couldn’t even afford oxygen!

Time for this sucker to leave town.

Bitter? Me? Naah… not at all…

Well, maybe just a teeny bit, but who can blame me? Look at this picture of me in nursery school, up there in the back row. It all makes sense now.

Just look at those pants. Who wouldn’t be bitter??

Thanks to alert reader and fellow plaid wearer Bill Dennen for reminding me of the ‘good’ old days.