Frenchy's Rant

Now that the Great Unsponsored Nova Scotia Expedition is over, it’s back to reality. Sad, really.

The WWE’s new, state-of-the art High Definition trucks have most of the bugs worked out now, so the work day ambles along at a slow, predictable pace nowadays. It seems like only yesterday we were struggling to figure out these monstrous new beasts called Red and Black. The only baffling device left to conquer is the air conditioner. Every day it seems to get colder and colder in this damn truck, to the point that, even in the middle of July, a jacket, scarf and mittens are a requirement to fend off High Definition hypothermia here in Blogger Central.

Welcome to the Ice Box

It’s almost sad, but the daily, weekly and monthly grind seems to have pulled a film of saran wrap over my brain. Paradoxically, while the actual 18 hours we spend each day preparing for the show drag by, the days between leaving for work and returning from work blur away so quickly that suddenly, in the blink of an eye, I’m in my tenth year (!) of working on this show. How the hell did THAT happen??

This is the longest relationship I’ve ever managed to have.

I’m sure there has been stuff to blog about at work, but my recent mental disconnect from this job is so strange, so surreal that it’s almost as if I’m just watching all this shit happen to someone else, from somewhere else, far, far away. I guess sleep deprivation, mundane repetition and deep freeze air conditioning does that to a person. It could be worse, this I know, and while it may not sound it, I am grateful for this job and all the many opportunities it’s afforded me to see the world and genuinely fuck around. Seriously, I’m fortunate. Bored, sure, but fortunate.

Another day may have slipped away, another fluff blog may have oozed out, another show may have happened, another ride may have been planned, and honestly, that’s about it. I’m hoping this is just the intermission between acts of the play, and not some deep rut. As I lose feeling in my fingers while writing this thanks to the lowering temperatures in Blogger Central, life’s going on – in fact it’s speeding by out there. Sad, really.

Ah well, I may be one day closer to the eternal dirt nap, but at least I got my per deim.

The Great Unsponsored Nova Scotia Expedition covered nearly 3000 miles in ten days, through two countries, claiming two islands for the Kingdom in the process.

In that time, we rode seven ships – five were ferries and two were tour boats. We stayed in three ocean front cabins, ranging in price from $85 to $140. We didn’t have a bad meal the entire time, and everyone gained a few pounds, always a measure of success on a motorcycle trip.

The SPOT Satellite Personal Tracker worked nearly flawlessly. Some of the Faithful Fifteen tracked portions of the trip, and a few tracked the whole, entire Expedition. The SPOT will be part of the standard gear from now on, so any of the interested Faithful Fifteen can enjoy tracking the journey’s progress.

Abi’s rear tire was repaired in the Portland BMW shop the next day, along with his rear brake. Those repairs cost more than all our oceanfront cabins combined!

Other than the flat tire on Fireball, a few minor pilot errors with Stormbringer, and a few minor electrical gremlins plaguing Rain Cloud Follows, the bikes were flawless. The worst thing that happened? They came home dirty as hell.

In other, more exciting news, Fiona’s little sit-down on Stormbringer must have pushed her over the edge, making her do something she’d talked about for a year.

Last summer, Fiona and her cousin took the Motorcycle Safety Foundation’s rider course. That’s the first step to becoming a motorcyclist. The next step, which was always put off for one reason or another was taking the written test. The week following the Expedition, she went down to the California DMV, took and passed the written motorcycle test! It’s true! Sleeping Beauty is now an officially licensed motorcyclist! I am so proud of her, and now we get to do my second favorite thing, go motorcycle shopping!

Speaking of motorcycle shopping, Dark Meat Snack’s head has been spinning ever since he rented the Honda ST in California. Visions of a more comfortable, more powerful sport touring motorcycle have been dancing in his head constantly, and recently, he answered those incessant voices.

As of yesterday, he is the proud new owner of a 2008 Kawasaki Concours 14, the ultimate sport touring machine. I’d considered trading Rain Cloud Follows in for one of these awesome machines, but now I won’t have to.

A few days after we returned, I sent Unleaded a copy of The Long Way Round, a DVD adventure featuring Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman riding BMW GS’s around the world. This DVD, along with Neil Peart’s Ghost Rider book, were very inspirational in my Expedition formative years. Neil, Ewan and Charlie all ride BMW’s, but thankfully, not one of them sport a ‘BMW Rider Loyalty Mustache.’ Neither does Keith, and not only because it’s against Air Force regulations.

Unleaded was a great addition to the Expedition, bringing comic relief and his own unbeliveable excitement towards what we were doing. I know I can count on Keith to be on all future Expeditions, or at least the ones he has enough leave for. Planning has already begun for using up all next year’s leave time.

As for me, the end of a long trip is always depressing. I go into a funk for a while after I park Rain Cloud Follows for the last time. Writing ride reports helps, but nothing helps more than planning the next one. August will find us back in Tennessee, then Dark Meat Snack and I will most likely be heading to California, and hopefully bagging the Northernmost Point of the Four Corners Mandate on the way, setting ourselves up for another Baja assault in October. I’ve also got a few more grand ideas – like the Dollar Dollar Tour – kicking around in my head.

For the terminally bored insomniacs out there, some previous yawn-inspiring motorcycling misadventures can be found here, here, and here.

Life is short! Happy Riding!

My morning started out badly, because my wallet was missing. Fiona and I tossed the entire hotel room, but couldn’t find it anywhere. I started to panic a bit, thinking of all the things in there I’d have to replace if it didn’t turn up. My Von’s card! My National Parks Pass! All those frequent flier cards! Oh, the horror!! Oh, the aggravation!! Oh, what the fuck!?!

Let’s just say I didn’t win the Mr. Sunshine award when I showed up for breakfast.

The waitress, sensing something was wrong, asked what was going on. I told her I must have left my wallet in the restaurant we ate dinner in the night before. I’d checked, and that restaurant didn’t open until eleven, pushing our departure back a few precious hours. She walked away without saying a word.

In the meantime, Abi asked me how I was going to pick up the tab.

The waitress returned a few minutes later. “I called the owner of the restaurant at home, sorry to say but they didn’t find a wallet last night. But, hun, leave me your address. If they do find it, I’ll make sure and mail it to you.”

The kindness of the people of Rhode Scotia is truly astounding.

Of course, my wallet eventually turned up. It was stuck in the magnetic flap of my tankbag, exactly like my keys were in Death Valley last year.

I wasn’t the only one missing something that morning. Abi apparently lost his mind during the night, showing up to breakfast that morning sporting his odd new ‘BMW Rider Loyalty Mustache,’ a not-so-subtle jab at a BMW rider we’d met a few days prior. That rider’s only interest in us was to point at the stickers on Abi’s bags and say, “Oh, I’ve been there. And I’ve been there. Yup, I’ve been there, too.” The rest of us, riding ‘inferior’ motorcycles may as well have not existed. That man loved himself, and loved talking about himself. For whatever reason, either boredom or temporary insanity, Dark Meat Snack decided he needed to ingratiate himself further with this very annoying breed of BMW rider.

At least he still rode with us ‘inferior’ riders. Mother Nature was back on the warpath, as we loaded up for the last time, the thunder rumbled, the lightning put on a spectacular show, and the rains came.

Naturally.

With one full day left of the Expedition, what else could be expected? Rain Cloud Follows and Stormbringer, as always, lived up to their names.

Fortunately, Fireball didn’t live up to its flammable monicker, though even still, this day wouldn’t fare well for the BWM.

A few hours later, just outside Halifax, on the way to the Peggy’s Cove and the Lighthouse Trail, Mr. BMW Mustachio, DMS One flew past me, and I could see and hear that something was very wrong.

Oh yeah. That’s flat. Really flat. In over 25,000 miles of riding, this flat tire was our first. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Dark Meat Snack put a nail in his own tire just to avoid seeing any more lighthouses. Now what?

In a twist too bizarre to make up, we limped to… a tire store!

What luck! But wait, what’s that sign in the window?

Did I say luck? That’s our luck. The tire store had been closed for months due to the owner’s bad health. Of course.

So, it was time to find out if tire patch kits really work.

After some head scratching and wild guessing, we managed to stick a plug in the tire and get the wounded bike to a gas station to fully inflate it. The patch seemed to work, though the repair cost us about an hour. Now it was getting late, and we were not in a heavily populated area. Finding a room became our main concern. We followed the foggy road towards Peggy’s Cove, and stumbled into a miracle, a restaurant open past 8 PM! I asked the owner if there was a motel or cabins nearby that we might be able to rent. He picked up his phone and called someone. “Hello, Martha? I’ve got four people looking to rent cabins for tonight. Do you have any available? Yes? Ok. They’ll be down after they eat. Thanks.”

The kindness of strangers on this trip was the most amazing part of all.

After a huge meal, we limped through the thick fog over to Martha’s cabins. Martha herself appeared like an apparition walking through the fog. Though it was very late by this time, she’d been waiting for us to show up, cabin keys in hand. Thanks to the late hour, she let us in, saying, “Don’t worry. We can just settle up in the morning. I also brought you some rags to clean your seats off in the morning. Nothing worse than starting the day with a wet bum now, is there? Have a good night now.” Though it could’ve been worse, this day turned out well. To close out our last night of the Expedition, we half-heartedly toasted the ‘Sorta-But-Not-Really Best Day Ever’, and quickly were fast asleep.

The next morning was our last full day of the Expedition, and we had a problem. Though Abi’s tire held air overnight, we had misgivings about riding any further than we needed to. I’ve heard stories about riders, most likely the BMW Loyalty type, that plug their tire five or six times then ride all the way from Prudhoe Bay at the top of Alaska to Tierra del Fuego at the end of South America and back, but that’s them. Abi, a poser with his mustache but not the attitude that it represents, decided to split off from the group once the ferry reached Portland, and get a new rear tire the next morning.

While the Expedition was fast coming to a close, our spirits remained high.We compromised on the Lighthouse Trail, stopping only at the very picturesque Peggy’s Cove for a quick peek, and skipping the rest of the trail in favor of staying on the highway so we could all make it to the ferry safely.

The Expedition was quickly winding down. Ten days had sped by in a flash. Once we were back in the good old US of A, the trip would essentially be over. Our little group of ten days would unceremoniously separate; Abi to get a new tire, Unleaded, Sleeping Beauty and Frenchy all with early flights the next morning, would speed through the night back to the Kingdom of Rhode Island.

The rest of our time on Rhode Scotia was spent hammering down the highway to the CAT ferry. Abi’s tire plug held, and we made it to the CAT ferry dock with time to spare. We waited in a line with about seven other motorcycles. On the CAT, motorcycles load up last, and come off last too.

We met Dave, riding his immaculately clean, bright yellow BMW R1150 GS. Dave didn’t sport a BMW Loyalty mustache, he had the full on beard going instead. And he wasn’t one of ‘those’ guys at all, because he was interested in our story, and would only tell his after some coaxing. And what a story it was. Dave had ridden solo from South Carolina to Nova Scotia, without a GPS, iPod or cell phone, and was heading a considerable distance – from Portland to Ohio- the very next day. There’s always someone to make your massive feats feel puny in comparison, but Dave was still a very cool guy.

As the CAT fired up its massive engines to propel us back home, we gave a hearty one finger salute to celebrate the end of what was – to this point – the Best Expedition Ever!

Final Post of the G.U.N.S.E. is here.

Aboard the mv Leif Ericson, returning the Expedition from Port-aux Basques, Rhodefoundland to North Sydney, Rhode Scotia, we went through the now familiar bike tie down routine…

…checked into our spacious, bunk bed lined cabin…

…then saluted what really was the ‘Best Day Ever’ with the traditional toast.

Sitting in the lounge waiting for the ferry to leave, we heard a page. “Would the rider of the Harley Davidson with Rhode Island plates please return to your vehicle?”

Uh oh.

Unleaded jumped up and took off running, with Dark Meat Snack close in tow. Sleeping Beauty asked me if I was going to go too.

“Naah. Whatever happened, I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to know. They’ll handle it.” I sounded calm, but the pit in my stomach grew.

While they were gone, I imagined the worst – that somehow Stormbringer fell into the ocean, or got crushed by a bus. They came back smiling, so I was instantly relieved.

“What happened?”

“The deck hand didn’t like the way I tied the bike down, because the tie down hooks were touching the chrome. He gave me some rope and helped me secure it better so the bike wouldn’t get scratched.”

We toasted the cautious and courteous deckhand, then retired to our bunks for some rest.

Morning came too early, as morning always seems to. Bleary eyed, we went through the now familiar bike untying routine, rolled down another wet and slippery deck back out into the cold fog. Wasn’t this supposed to be summer?

Stopping for breakfast at a donut shop, who else but a policeman rolls up. “Hello. Just checking out the bikes and the riders, seeing who’s riding what.”

After chatting for a while, Keith Buddha-ed the officer. He covered his face, afraid to show up on Facebook.

This response was typical of everyone in Canada. Nobody refused to take a Buddha picture, but nearly every single one would say something like, “This isn’t going to be on Facebook, is it? I don’t want that.”

Keith told him, “Don’t worry. Facebook doesn’t steal your soul. What is the big deal with it, anyway?”

“Well,” he replied, “a lot of times we’ll pick up a drunk and give them a ride home, rather than arresting then and filling the jail with a bunch of drunks. There’s really no sense in that. But lately, those drunks will take out their cell phones, snap a picture of themselves in a police car, then put it of Facebook. If the Captain sees our picture there, he yells at us for not arresting the drunks. It’s bad.”

Cops that bring drunks home? Kudos to you, sir. I could definitely live here. The officer left us with some great tips about riding the Cabot Trail.

The Cabot Trail is supposed to be one of the top motorcycling destinations in the world, and as a reward for hammering yesterday, we planned to take a leisurely ramble through this marvel of scenery and engineering. But, as she always does, Mother Nature ruined those plans. Fog. More cold and damp fog covered everything, making riding an exercise in blind faith, since the road ahead could barely be seen.

We stopped again at a little convenience store to dry off and warm up a bit.

At the stop, Keith Buddha-ed a girl bicyclist that was Gnoming people. This girl was interesting for two reasons. First, she was doing the gnome thing, but secondly, and more interestingly, she had a half full bottle of wine in her water bottle holder. I’m sure she was enjoying her own personal ‘Best Day Ever.’ You just never know who you’ll meet on the road.

Her resolve broken by ours, Mother Nature relented, the fog lifted like a curtain rising, and suddenly we had the best weather we’d had since Maine, which seemed like a year ago.

I decided to take one of my famous detours to see something long, hard and cylindrical sticking up out of the ground.

Things don’t always work out like they should, much to Dark Meat Snack’s delight. On the wrong bikes for the muddy trail to the lighthouse, we decided on the spur of the moment to take a whale watch boat tour, signs for which we’d been passing for miles.

We arrived at three, the next tour didn’t leave until four, so we competed in the first ever ‘Cabot Trail Ocean Stickball’ competition. Just like elementary school, I wasn’t allowed to play for fear that I’d hurt myself.

After that game, people drifted off to enjoy a few minutes of solitude. I thought it was amazing that eight days in we hadn’t had any major or even minor meltdowns, and that the bikes held up so well.

Finally 4 PM arrived, but before we could go out on the small rubber Zodiac fast boat, we had to suit up in the latest fashion craze, a snazzy red Gore Tex with a comfy, snug and well worn wetsuit underneath.

This guy’s job is to go out in a really fast boat and chase down whales. Great work if you can find it.

And, he was very good at his job. On our hour long tour we saw countless minke whales, two seventy ton fin whales spouting twenty feet in the air, and a pod (school? gaggle? mess?) of white-beaked dolphins.

Cheticamp would be our home for this, the penultimate – say it with me now – ‘Best Day Ever!’

The next installment of the Great Unsponsored Nova Scotia Expedition can be found here.

I woke up early, excited by the prospect of seeing the medium pinnacle iceberg we knew was out there, what we’d come so far to see. And today, if everything went right, we’d see it up close and personal. Yes, an iceberg is just a hunk of floating frozen water, but Iceberg Fever had hit me, and hit me hard.

The fog still blanketed everything, but I had hope. And some time to kill, so I killed it my favorite way, coffee in hand, scanning the front pages of the small town newspapers I’d picked up along the way. It’s always fun to see what constitutes front page news in these smaller, more remote areas.

The hour arrived, and we were pleasantly greeted by Captain Cecil Stockley, the Iceberg Man himself, while his boat, the mv Iceberg Alley idled at the dock, it’s engine chug-chugging away. We were good to go!

Before departure, Unleaded and Sleeping Beauty feel the need to properly gear up for this tour.

A simple rain hat wasn’t enough for Fiona.

All on board, the Iceberg Man revved the engines, and the tiny ship eased out of its slip into the foggy harbor.

Unleaded and Abi (nickname coming soon…) settled in for the voyage.

I struck up a conversation with an older lady on the way out. Her husband decided that for his… get this… eightieth birthday he wanted to see an iceberg. He planned their travel for half a year, and when the time came, they drove from Maine to the ferry, then all the way up to Twillinage, where they’d holed up for a week, waiting for weather good enough to allow tours to go out. A week! Mother Nature might not like me much, but I think she is a fan of stubborn determination. It also makes me happy to think that we’re not putting these things off until we’re too old. Life’s too short to wait until eighty, and there’s still too much to do.

Half an hour later, our stubborn determination was rewarded. We found what we’d been looking for, our medium pinnacle iceberg, floating majestically in a small cove.

The Iceberg Man told us this particular berg had been floating back and forth between two coves for the last five weeks. In that time he estimated it’s lost half it’s size. Little chunks of iceberg, called ‘Bergy Bits’ or ‘Growlers’ depending on their size, had melted and broken away, surrounding the iceberg like little lost children.

With that little mission accomplished, Keith and Abi did their best Sleeping Beauty imitation. I’d say they both fell a bit short.

The inevitable had been avoided and put off as long as possible. It was time. Time to slog 400 miles back to the ferry. But, I have to admit, the extra wait and the upcoming long, high speed ride were worth the views and the experience.

On the way out of Twillingate, we passed this place. I have been absolutely forbidden from making *any* comment about it whatsoever. I will leave the caption up to you, dear reader.

The first half of the ride back to Port-aux-Basques was as cold and miserable as the ride out.

And the roads were just as torn up, wet and bumpy as they were on the way in. The winter took its toll on the roads, and I imagine the road construction season in Newfoundland must be pretty short.

About halfway back to Port-aux -Basques, Mother Nature called another temporary truce, and it went from late fall fog to early spring to the middle of summer, all within fifty miles.

Though we’d been warned numerous times, these were the only moose we saw in Newfoundland.

What’s the big deal anyway? For all the warnings, we were sure we’d see something. We looked and looked and looked for Bullwinkle, to no avail.

By dropping the hammer, the Expedition made the Port-aux-Basques ferry with time to spare, so, as a reward for our 400 mile sprint, we stopped in a small restaurant offering a delicious sounding treat.

And thus, Abi will be forever known as Dark Meat Snack.

Killing time in the ferry line, Fiona surprised me. Not only was she awake, but she jumped on Stormbringer, and she had that *look* in her eye. I could see the wheels were turning in her head. Perhaps the next Expedition, to claim more non-islands for my non-island Kingdom will include a forth bike?

The next installment of the Great Unsponsored Nova Scotia Expedition can be found here.