Frenchy's Rant

I wrote and mailed this letter today.

Honestly.

If I get a response, I will be sure and post it.

August 26, 2008

His Highness Governor Donald L. Carcieri
Office of the Governor
State House, Room 115
Providence, RI 02903

Your Excellency,

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Frenchy, intrepid motorcycling adventurer, lifelong loyal subject of the Kingdom of Rhode Island and, most recently, self-appointed Rhode Island Ambassador of Goodwill. Since April of this year I have been leading a small band of adventurers on a mission to spread Rhode Island’s message of ‘Hope’ to other islands, claiming them for our non-island Kingdom in the process.

As you know, our state is not only the smallest in the entire United States, but it is sort of a laughingstock among all the other, bigger states. Our dirty little secret; the fact that we are not, technically speaking, an island, is out. By claiming real islands for our Kingdom, I hope to earn the respect and credibility our tiny state deserves.

My method of island claiming is completely non-violent; in most cases inhabitants of these islands don’t even know they’ve been claimed. I claim these places by simply placing a Rhode Island flag sticker on the ‘Welcome to…’ sign of the territories I am visiting. While I haven’t checked the exact legal ramifications of this, I am pretty sure affixing the seal of the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations to a Welcome sign makes them ours. Thus far, I have claimed Scotland (now Rhode Scotland); Nova Scotia (now Rhode Scotia); Newfoundland (now Rhodefoundland) and, in a somewhat misguided move, Tennessee, which, it turns out, isn’t an island either.

Rhode Scotland – Claimed April, 2008

Rhode Scotia – Claimed June, 2008

Rhodefoundland – Claimed June, 2008

Tennessee – Claimed July, 2008.
Unclaimed July 2008

Besides informing you of these recent acquisitions to our Great State, I am writing to ask a favor. Self appointed ambassadors don’t seem to get the same respect that real, honest to goodness ambassadors would. Due to limited funds, our small group is usually forced to stay in, to put it delicately, very low-priced, very sanitationally questionable, unambassadorial accommodations.

However, with official papers proclaiming me an official Goodwill Ambassador of the Kingdom of Rhode Island, I think I could probably score better hotel rooms, maybe even some free ones. Ambassadors also have legal immunity, don’t they? If you deem my humble request worthy, please make my ambassadorship retroactive to May of this year, so I can have immunity from that large bar tab I may (or may not) have left behind in Rhode Scotia. I am still hazy on whether that got settled or not.

As you are no doubt aware, a sound fiscal policy is the key to running any good operation, whether it is a household, a motorcycle trip or even a state as great as Rhode Island. Therefore, a grant or state funded subsidy to help defray costs of mounting new expeditions to other islands – Japan, Trinidad, Australia, and New Zealand to name a few – would ensure our ongoing Goodwill Ambassador work will continue uninterrupted.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Frenchy
Future Ambassador
Kingdom of Rhode Island

PS: As Exalted Ruler of the Kingdom of Rhode Island, I am sure your time is very valuable, and free time is scarce, but if you ever should find you have some unused sick days or even some vacation time, and you would like to come along on one of our Goodwill missions, please know that you will always have a seat in my sidecar.

Over some frothy pints of Guinness a few weeks ago, my riding buddy Abi and I sketched out an epic cross country route on a cocktail napkin. The enthusiastic ride plan we concocted will take us from Pittsburgh (which was marked by some spilled Guinness) out to South Dakota (delineated by a knotted cherry stem) then angling southwest through Salt Lake (represented by a pepper shaker, because there was no salt shaker handy) and finally to California (which was actually slightly off the napkin, if I remember correctly.)

According to Google Maps, our planned route should be about 3500 miles, give or take a few. Fiona, aka Sleeping Beauty will be meeting us in Salt Lake City to sleep her way southwest on the back of my bike.

Of course there was the small matter of getting the motorcycles out to Pittsburgh. After a long and circuitous route, our motorcycles took a week off in Norfolk, VA, the home of the world’s largest naval base, and coincidentally, the home of my brother as well.

On Saturday, Abi and I flew into Norfolk, loaded up the motorcycles, and started heading towards da ‘Burgh.

My nephew wanted to come along. I told him when he’s a little older he’s more than welcome, if his Mom will allow it.

The fourth picture in my growing ‘Start of the Epic Ride‘ photo series.

We got on the road around three, and hammered our way across Virginia. Our plan was to end up in the City of Many Bridges around 6 on Sunday, plenty of time to catch our 8:45 PM flight to work. The WWE shows this week are in Wilkes-Barre and Pittsburgh, which is why we parked the motorcycles in Steeler City. This way, if we decide we want to quit on Tuesday, (or get fired) we’ll have a ride home. And if not, we can make a quick escape on Wednesday morning.

Nothing truly exceptional at all happened on the ride, though we had some fun and a few laughs on the way.

I tried out my new ‘Point and Pray’ camera, a Canon A590. I liked the specs of the camera (it uses AA batteries, has Image Stabilization, 4x Optical Zoom, 8 MP resolution) and I got a good deal on it, so I gave it a shot. The jury is still out on whether the A590 camera is better than my old disposable one, a really cheap HP Photosmart POC (Piece of Crap) The best thing about that camera was I didn’t care if I dropped it. In fact one time I did drop it, or more correctly I threw it because I needed to grab the clutch. The picture it took when it hit the ground was one of my favorite snapshots ever, too bad I can’t find it now.

For a change, Abi managed to keep up all day on his new Concours. Honestly, in the hands of a competent rider, that bike would absolutely SMOKE Rain Cloud Follows. Good thing Abi is incompetent.

Around 8 PM we spotted a lone deer grazing on the side of the highway. Five hundred feet further we saw the rest of the herd, all twelve of them on the side of the road. As we rode by, the entire herd stopped munching and stared at us with that dumb deer in the headlights look. I know what they were thinking, ‘Err, hey! Wow! Shiny motorcycle! Ooooh! Should I run away? Or run out there into the highway to say hello? Away? Highway? Away? Decisions, decisions…’

While Bambi contemplated her potentially fatal decision, we zoomed past. Rather than become the latest Deerslayer, we decided it was time to get off the road for the night.

Abi’s future profile pic for Match.com. (or maybe Massmurderer.com) That’s right ladies, this fabulous Dark Meat Snack is 100% available!!!

The next morning, we left East Virginia for the Western variety. As soon as possible, we got off the highway, and followed the very twisty and fun Route 250 as it meandered through the state.

We stopped for gas, and had one of those fun miscommunication moments that are only possible on a motorcycle trip.

I was inside a gas station trying to pay for my fuel, when the nice, older lady behind the counter asked me if I’d like anything else, like cawfee or maybe some bald penis.

Err… what? Did I hear that correctly? I asked her to clarify for me.

“Bald penis. Y’all know,” she said, and handed me a plastic baggie from behind the counter.

Oh God, all the stories about the things that happen in West Virginia were true! I was scared to look at what she’d given me. To my relief I found the bag to be filled with harmless peanuts, which I assume were boiled.

I still passed on them.

Route 250 continued to please all day.

While it has potential, I definitely need to work on my the new ‘point and pray’ camera technique:

It’s good to see that West Virginians carry on the time honored tradition of using street signs for target practice:

And there were a few entertaining signs to brighten my day:

At lunch that day, Abi had a brainstorm.

“You know how there’s really nothing between Pittsburgh and South Dakota? Well, why don’t we do a SaddleSore 1000 on Thursday, and just get out there?”

This coming from the guy that is too lazy to get up off the couch to go pee during a four hour baseball game.

“Ok, but let’s not tell anyone until after we do it, so in case we fail, nobody will know.”

This coming from the guy that is writing this report, three days before we attempt the 1000-in-1 ride. Nothing like a little bit of added pressure to assure a good outcome.

My longest ride to date was about 740 miles in a day, and I was much younger then. Abi’s longest was his ride up from Orlando to Knoxville, clocking in at 660 miles. Should be interesting.

After rolling through the Squirrel Hill Tunnel, we arrived in Downtown Pittsburgh, the sign for which can almost be seen in this picture:

Our two day, five-hundred thirty-nine mile pre-ride came to a close with a hearty Macallan toast to the Best Day Ever.

The pre-ride route – Garmin Version

The pre-ride route – SPOT Version

On Wednesday, the real fun begins. Dark Meat Snack and I will leave Pittsburgh and stop somewhere about 1001 miles from the Badlands. For those that are interested (all two of you) I will have my SPOT tracker on. The tracking web page for the trip can be found here.

Sometime after, I plan to write up a detailed journal of Thursday’s SaddleSore attempt. Whether we make a thousand miles in one day or not, I’m sure there’ll be a good story to tell.

Off again, to begin the conclusion of the Epic Ride. Today we head from Norfolk, Va to Pittsburgh. Then a few day intermission known as work, then, on Wednesday, off to ride across the US to California.

For those in need of sleeping aid, the Epic Ride SPOT tracking web page, can be found here

.

Fog.

It could’ve been something exotic, like escaped snakes, or exciting, like an exploded engine, or at least something interesting, like, say, a tornado. But it wasn’t. It was fog. Tiny droplets of water suspended in the early morning sky conspiring to make my first air travel in nearly a month as hellish as possible. As a reminder of Frenchy’s Fifth Rule of Freelancing: All travel pay must be earned.

The long week finally ground to an end, and mercifully, Wednesday arrived. Wednesday is my Friday, the end of my work week; the day I get to go home. For the past month, on Wednesday, instead of going home, I’ve gotten on my motorcycle, Rain Cloud Follows, and taken a little ride. So far that little ride has covered over 3500 miles, and it’s been great. But this particular Wednesday/Friday meant a little more to me, since I am taking a break from riding to return and see if my house has had anything exotic, exciting or at least interesting happen to it in my absence. While enjoying my month of airplane-free fun, I’d almost forgotten the pain of air travel.

After a very refreshing two hours of sleep, I dragged my sorry carcass from the comfort of the hotel bed and into the discomfort of the hotel airport shuttle. Shock absorbers evidently were invented long after this shuttle was, as each bump, lurch and jolt sent passengers flying out of their seats. Forget seat belts, the driver should’ve issued kidney belts for this evil early morning wake up call.

I probably would have noticed the fog, had the sun been up. But, under cover of darkness, everything seemed like it would be fine. Moline, Indiana is a very small town, with a very small airport, the most dangerous kind of airport if something unpredictable; fog, for instance, happens. These tiny airports don’t have many flights, and with all five thousand World Wrestling Employees taking up every available seat on every flight, having some sort of cancellation could easily mean my Friday at home won’t start until Thursday.

Security was the usual pathetic cattle call, with the usual, pathetic braying and bleating of the Transportation Security Administration agents. “Have your ticket and ID out for inspection!” they shout, over and over until the command becomes meaningless. “Shoes off! Laptops out!” It never ends, and I realize as I stand there being yelled at for my safety exactly how much I despise air travel.

This realization makes me angry, which is probably not a good thing, because things weren’t going to get any better, at least not on this Wednesday/Friday. Another hard earned travel lesson is anger is almost never the best policy. The gate agent herds all forty-five of us into the plane, a small regional jet equipped with two seats on each side designed for maximum discomfort and torture. So far, I am winning the seat lottery. I wait, I hold my breath, hoping above hope that nobody sits down next to me. And as the cattle call winds down, it seems I may be in luck. The steady flow of travelers dwindles into a trickle, and the seat next to me remains empty. Hitting the jackpot in the seat lottery would be having a 23 year old nymphomaniac on her way to rehab sit down next to me. The next best thing would be having nobody at all in the other seat.

For the record, I have yet to hit the seat lottery jackpot.

Today, I rolled snakeyes. Crapped out. I saw him coming down the aisle, all three-hundred forty sweaty, limping pounds of him, shirt stained with perspiration from the exertion of walking from the gate into the plane, seat belt extension in hand, and I knew. I knew that no matter how hard I tried, how tightly I squeezed my eyes shut and willed this fat bastard to keep on walking, he was it. My dreaded seatmate.

It could’ve been worse I suppose. I mean, granted he was so fat that even flattening myself against the window he still encroached well into my seat. Hell, I could’ve used his copious blubber roll as an armrest, if I wasn’t concerned about some of his greasy, fishy smelling sweat sticking to me and being impossible to ever wash off. Yes, it could’ve been worse I suppose; at least he wasn’t flatulent.

Yet.

The plane taxied toward the runway, then the engines spooled down. The pale orange glow of the early morning light illuminating our little problem.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, as you can see out your window, we are surrounded by a bank of fog. We need a half mile PBR before we’re cleared for takeoff, and right now it’s only at 800 feet. Sorry for the delay, hopefully the fog will lift soon.”

Great. Well, it could’ve been worse. Half an hour later, it was worse, as the pale orange glow of dawn turned into the hot sun of morning. Without the engines running the plane’s air conditioning didn’t work, basically leaving all forty-five of us trapped in an enclosed metal tube. The enclosed metal tube warmed up. And got warmer. As the plane warmed up, so did my seatmate, as evidenced by the growing patterns of sweat soaking through his shirt. To pass the time, I had fantasies of the plane getting so hot he actually melted into a tiny, fishy smelling blob of sweat.

I must have fallen asleep, only to be awakened by the most noxious, most foul smell I’ve ever encountered. The New Jersey Shore at low tide has nothing on the horrifying odor the seat lottery loser next to me had just inflicted on the already fetid airplane. Someone needs a doctor, though it might already be too late. It was now officially worse. He offered a weak smile and a half shrug.

Though the hot, humid interior of the plane didn’t allow for the stench to lift, the fog outside eventually did. The plane finally took off for the twenty-five minute flight to Chicago, but due to the long, sweaty, fart-enhanced wait in Moline, I, along with about half the sweaty, fart-covered passengers missed my connecting flight. Of course there was one self-centered lady that didn’t realize the plane was filled with people that missed flights, she kept nervously repeating, “I only have ten minutes until my next flight takes off. Hurry up!” Over and over she said this until someone – it might have been me – told her aloud what everyone else was thinking privately about our shared dilema.

Most of us missed our flights. Shouldn’t be a problem though, Chicago is one of the busiest airports in the world, right? Plenty of planes should be going wherever everybody needs to get. Just head on over to the helpful folks at Special Services and get rebooked. No problemo!

I head over to Special Services, and who is in front of me? Fishy le Farter, my ex-seatmate. I know how noxious this guy is, and I realize he’s probably reloaded by now, so I get out of line and hang around far away until he is finished. Then it’s my turn. Going into this, I know that the people that work in Special Services don’t really want to help me, they just want to get rid of me and make me an SEP (Somebody Else’s Problem)

“Oh, yes sir, we’ve already rebooked you,” the S.S. agent said with what could almost be considered a smile. “You are now on the 6:30 flight, getting you home at 9:43.”

9:43? PM? Lady, right now it’s eight thirty. IN THE MORNING!

“Well,” she said, smile morphing into a sneer, “that’s the best I can do for you. Next!”

It is situations like this that make me understand why people flip out and do something drastic, like, for example, dropping their pants and shitting on a drink cart. As Chris Rock once said about OJ Simpson and his wife Nicole, ‘I don’t agree with it, but I understand.’ I quelled the urge to strangle the sneer off her face, and just stood there. We looked at each other, two veteran prize fighters sizing each other up for another round. Finally, I asked as diplomatically as I could through clenched teeth if maybe, just maybe, there might be some other option, like through another city or something. Anything to get me home before 9:43 PM. Anything to keep me from shitting on the drink cart.

She banged away at her computer some more. “Well, I could send you through Charlotte. You’ll get home around four.”

Awesome! Why don’t you route me through Pittsburgh, Cleveland and Salt Lake too? That way I could earn enough frequent flyer miles for a free ticket all in one day, and do this to myself again for free!! And with your airline’s stellar track record of leaving on time, I’m sure I won’t have any problem at all!! Thanks!

Being a veteran of this abuse, I knew that was as good as it was going to get. It was time to cut my losses and run.

So, off I ran, to the next terminal over and the awaiting Charlotte flight. I ran through subterranean tunnels decorated with garish neon lightning bolts. Up stairs two at a time, around baffled looking travel rookies and past those jabbering business idiots on Bluetooth headsets, I ran. Panting, I smashed my way through a long line at Starbucks, parting it like the Red Sea, all in an effort to catch the flight that might shorten my already lengthened travel day. My running was pointless, this I should have known. The Charlotte flight was delayed, naturally. I got my ticket at the gate, and saw my seat number. 14E. An optimist would probably think of this middle seat assignment as not one but two opportunities to win the seat lottery. Me, being a pessimist, I knew I’d probably end up being the meat in a human blubber sandwich.

The flight boarded, and I am sure people sat next to me, but I was too busy being unconscious to know, or care. Sometimes the best way to deal with air travel is simply by blacking out. At the very least, it keeps the drink carts cleaner. I’m sure we sat on the runway for a long time before taking off, because the plane landed at Charlotte exactly fifteen minutes before my third flight of the day boarded. The pessimist inside me knew this flight would be the one and only flight of the day that would be on time.

It was. I ran to the gate again, dodging and ducking, bobbing and weaving, and made it with literally one minute to spare. I staggered down the aisle; a sweaty, wild-eyed mess, to the dismay of my seatmate, who instantly realized he was the world’s most recent seat lottery loser. I knew the look he gave me all too well. I shrugged, and promptly fell asleep.

And when I woke up, I was in Providence, the nightmare of this Wednesday/Friday travel day safely behind me.

Of course my luggage never made it, but that’s another story for another day.