Frenchy's Rant

Wow, look at this! Two posts in one day! How prolific! Below this little piece of fluffernutter is another installment to the Epic Ride, where our heroes find themselves deeper in the white, fluffy stuff than they planned. Don’t miss it!

While writing the latest installment to my War and Peace-like ride report, I used Google to look for a synonym online. Not only did I find the synonym I wanted, but, as a bonus, I was given options to buy things related to my word as well:

Thanks but no thanks, Google!

The report for the Epic Ride, which is once again talking longer to write than it did to ride, should conclude sometime this week. Then, with plenty of it coming up, and none of it seeming too pleasant, it’s back to the usual, mundane bitching about work and travel for a while.

Though it was getting late and cold and rainy, that’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before, and usually we’ll stubbornly soldier on a few hundred more miles. Deciding to stop for the night in Cooke City was an unusually smart choice in a long career of un-smart ones. (It must’ve been Abi’s idea) Not only was the food in this little town excellent, the flow of beverages plentiful and the scenery varied and fascinating, but as it turned out, Cooke City was the only place with vacancies within a hundred miles when we went through. Two hours later, that changed as every room in town was taken.

While enjoying a fine, postprandial Montecristo Number Two, and sipping some fine single malt digestion aid, we watched as a poor guy, with a poor girlfriend on the pillion, slowly rode past. By then, it was dark, late, raining and cold. Half an hour later, we watched as they slowly rode by the other way. I empathized with his predicament; to one side of Cooke City lies forty-five barren miles of the Beartooth Pass Highway, no fun in the dark, and by then no doubt below freezing and snowy at the top, and to the other, Yellowstone. Being Labor Day weekend, the National Park accommodations were no doubt full. Feeling bad, I said to Abi, “You know, we’ve got plenty of extra room. If that poor bastard passes by again, we should try and help save his relationship…”

But, the poor souls never passed again, so we didn’t rack up any Karma points. Those Karma points would have come in handy the next morning, because we woke up to this sight:

It was cold, so we did this:

When Tired Eyes Aren’t Smiling…

Then we headed out toward Yellowstone National Park through this soupy excuse for a road:

At this point, I have to say that, for next year’s Epic Ride, Edelweiss in someplace warm was sounding better and better. Then I remembered – An adventure doesn’t seem like an adventure when you’re actually having it.

And what an adventure the rest of the day would be.

Yellowstone was stunning. Chilly, sure. Cloudy, definitely. But stunning.

Then it was time for yet another first, this time witnessing Old Faithful do its thing.

Obviously, I was thrilled.

We sat on the cold metal bleachers surrounding Old Faithful with a few hundred other shivering but interested folks, as the little, unimpressive mound smoked and belched steam in little, unimpressive spurts.

Then, exactly on time, Old Faithful got excited, and spouted steaming hot beer all over the crowd.

Funny thing about it was people sat there waiting half an hour in the cold for the show, but got up and walked away before the five minute spectacle was over.

Part of the reason everyone left early was no doubt the very dark, ominous cloud that came in over the mountain. The line of rain falling could clearly be seen, and by the time Dark Meat and I made it back to the bikes, the shower began.

But the shower wasn’t from the normal rain clouds that constantly follow me, it was much different, much worse.

Hail.

Now we were in a similar predicament as that poor guy the night before. Stuck in a National Park, miles from the exit, more miles from a town with hotels, rapidly running out of daylight, and, just for good measure, now the rain is freezing.

Awesome!

Using the most scientifically advanced decisional-based method available (flipping a coin) we decided to chance leaving the park. Jackson was less than 100 miles south, and there would be 100% more available rooms in Jackson than in Yellowstone, no doubt about it. We got on the road, hoping the hail would pass, but that hope was futile.

Visors steamed up, gloves, jackets, pants and boots got wet and then froze as the altitude rose to over 8400 feet and the temperature plummeted to 32 degrees.

And it got better. When the hail stopped, the snow – YES! SNOW ON THE FIRST DAY OF SEPTEMBER! – started.

The ride was every bit as much fun as it looked. Leaving the park, we chanced on the Flagg Ranch, which, surprisingly, had available cabins. The reason for the availability? The price was so unbelievably high.

But still, any port in a storm, even a really overpriced one. Happy to be alive and thrilled to have a room, we gladly got off our bikes and parked them for the night.

The heat was turned up high as it would go, and the room looked as if a clothing bomb just exploded as we walked down to the Flagg Ranch bar to overpay for a wee bit o’ the single malt. It was only then that we could sit and reflect on what an adventure our day had been. We started laughing uncontrollably, a mixture of tension release and reaction to our blind luck and stupidity as we hoisted a toast to the ‘Coldest Day Ever.’

The next installment of The Epic Ride can be found here.

Weathermen.

I’ve often thought being a weatherman would be a perfect occupation, because you only have to get about half the news right about half the time to keep your job. If I was a weatherman, I would go on TV with my perfect hair (which would most likely be a perfect wig) and say, every single day, without laughing, there was, “a fifty percent chance of rain.” I’d never be wrong.

The talking TV weather-head in Sheridan, WY was one of the funny, jocular, comedian types. The worst kind. He ended his forecast with, “Tomorrow there’s a 100% chance of rain over the entire area. It’s good for us, because we need rain badly. But, if you’re planning a motorcycle ride for the next few days…” He then drew his hand across his throat in the most menacing gesture a weatherman can make.

What else can you do but laugh?

I checked a much more reliable weather source, and found, that while Yahoo Weather didn’t exactly agreed with Mr. FunnyWeather’s forecast, things still weren’t looking good.

Wow. 39 degrees in Yellowstone? On Monday, the very day we plan to head through? Can’t be! It was 101 degrees yesterday! Helpfully, my riding buddy reminded me that it was only one day ago that I was saying I’d much rather ride in the cold than the heat, and now I’d get my chance.

We discussed changing plans for a minute, but decided since we didn’t want to turn around and not get to enjoy Bighorn and the Beartooth Pass, which, via US 14A, looked like an incredibly fun squiggled line on the map, or miss what could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see Yellowstone National Park and Old Faithful; we’d roll the dice and keep moving west.

Oh Yeah!

On this fun road, we fulfilled another mandate.

State Number 50 – Finally Defiled.

Though it seemed (and felt) like the weatherman’s wild guesses would turn out to be right, the rain never materialized. The summit of the Beartooth Pass, at 10,974 feet was cold, and looked threatening, but luck prevailed, and Rain Cloud Follows outran the impending storm.

On the other side of the pass, the weather broke, if only for a while.

Knowing from experience that Rain Cloud Follows luck would only hold out so long, we stopped for the night in Cooke City, a remote little place that turned out to be the only real town with motels between Red Lodge, Montana and Yellowstone. Stopping early turned out to be a good, lucky call.

Cooke City, MN – Home For the Night

Almost immediately, the rain caught us, and engulfed Cooke City. After a quick toast to the ‘Best Day Ever’, we covered the bikes for the night, with no idea how much worse it would get the next day. I slept fitfully, with visions of Mr. Funnyweather’s throat-slashing motion dancing in my head.

The next installment of The Epic Ride can be found here.

Trying and failing to break the law of gravity wasn’t the worst thing that has ever happened to me, absentmindedly parking my motorcycle on an incline wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to me, it was watching Rain Cloud Follows topple over in slow motion, the resultant feeling of helplessness and stupidity for not paying attention to the inclined nature of the shoulder I parked on; the kick in the nuts my pride took that afternoon. That was the worst thing that ever happened.

And if that is the worst thing that ever happens to me on a motorcycle……..

When I put the kickstand down and got off, the bike simply fell over. Fortunately, with my incredible, cat-like reflexes, I jumped out of the way and wasn’t trapped underneath as Rain Cloud Follows took a little nap. The problem was, Abi was about two miles down the road (While he was heading a few miles down the road to turn around, I was parking to try and get some exciting ‘action’ pictures, such as they are.) and when a motorcycle assumes it’s natural resting position on a gravelly incline, it’s impossible to pick up, especially if your muscles have atrophied into marshmallow from too much saddle time, too much Guinness time and not enough ‘activity’ time.

A total of three cars had passed in the four hours we were on these straight, flat, deserted roads. But, as always seems to happen, when you really need help, it arrives. My saving angel was a guy in a pickup truck attached to a gigantic horse trailer that just happened to pull up less than five minutes after the motorcycle fell over. As he got out of his truck, I noticed with a chuckle that my saving angel, a rail thin fellow with a shock of bright red hair and a dimpled chin that looked almost surgically enhanced was a dead ringer for Howdy Doody.

Seeing Rain Cloud Down, he asked with some concern, “You OK?”

Am I OK? Well, let’s see. I’ve dropped my fucking bike for the first time ever, it’s much heavier than I thought, and gas is leaking on the ground from somewhere; the fairings are going to be all scratched to hell and cost a ton to repair or replace, and I can’t pick the damn thing up before Abi, rapidly approaching, sees the bike on the ground.

All things considered, yeah, I’m fine, and indicated so to Howdy. Then, looking down at my crumpled ride I asked, “Feeling strong today? This thing’s heavy.”

Abi, expecting to have his picture taken, raced by with a look of “HAHAHAHA!” on his face as Mr. Doody and I worked to right the fallen bike. After a few grunts and a few re-drops, we managed to get the bike upright and out of the gravel. I shook Howdy’s hand, thanked him profusely and waved as he drove away.

That little gravelly, gently inclined shoulder out there in the middle of Nowhere, Wyoming will, at least for me, be forever known as Wounded Cloud.

Well, when you fall off your horse (or let it fall over on its own) the best thing to do is get back on it. Dark Meat Snack, the consummate riding buddy, laughing too hard at my misfortune to immediately stop when he raced by, finally pulled up, barely able to contain his snickering. “Well, are you going to take the picture or what?”

A single upraised finger was all the reply me and my nut-kicked pride could muster.

Rain Cloud Down – Bruised, Scuffed and Scratched But Unbroken

Along with my internal temperature, which was almost at the boiling point, the external temperature continued to rise, until the thermometer read 101. I yelled over to Abi, “You know what? I’d much rather ride in the cold, like Newfoundland, than this heat.” He just shook his head.

The rest of the ride I sort of limped along, mentally kicking myself for being such a dumbass, and for having witnesses to my dumbassedness. I was so absorbed in this internal flogging that it took me a while to register the frequent POP! POP! POP! feeling on my boots and lower legs.

“Idiot!” POP! “You should’ve checked the angle…” POP! “You really need to be more careful, dumbass…” POP! “Uhh. What the hell IS that anyway?”

POP!

I looked down, and to my horror, saw that my boots and pant legs were covered with what looked like mustard stains. With legs.

We’d ridden through a swarm of crickets or locusts that were probably used to low amounts of slow-moving traffic on these back roads and were innocently warming themselves on the blacktop until we roared by, scaring them into reflexively jumping straight into our boots, and straight to their deaths.

For whatever sick reason, this insect massacre made me feel a whole lot better about my day. I started to enjoy each POP! and was almost smiling as we wound our way into a nondescript town to spend another nondescript night, the last ‘good’ night before Mother Nature had her way with us.

The next installment of The Epic Ride can be found here.

Having safely concluded the SaddleSore 1000 from Elkhart, IN to Rapid City, SD, Dark Meat and I decided we deserved (and wanted… or make that needed) a day off. When working, our call time is usually fairly early, which means setting an alarm even earlier. When on a motorcycle trip, because we don’t want to waste daylight, we set an early call time for ourselves. So, allowing ourselves the luxury of sleeping in late was, we felt, a well deserved reward. Plus, it gave me time to hack out the ride report of the SaddleSore 1000.

Of course, when your body is accustomed to the rhythm of getting up early, you usually do get up early, especially when there is no reason to. Our hotel was located less than twenty-five miles from Mount Rushmore, so, since the weather was nice and various sitting-related anatomical parts weren’t too tender, we got up early and decided to use our day off to go for a little ride.

Four Impressive Heads in Back, Two Less Impressive Ones in Front

Mount Rushmore was sort of impressive, and sort of frustrating at the same time. To explain my frustration; I am a National Parks Annual Pass holder, and have been for years. This is an excerpt from the National Parks website about the Annual Pass: