Frenchy's Rant

After a little too much study of the subtle art of Scottish relaxation techniques the night before, Day Two started out a bit hazy for me. I’ve always said that a true adventure begins with a hangover, and I wanted this Expedition to be the truest, most realist, and bestest adventure yet.

I was off to a good start.

We stopped for breakfast in a little town, and Fiona, the Expedition’s unofficial photographer, ran across the street to snap a quick picture. Amazingly, what little traffic there was actually stopped and waited so she could take the shot. This was our first real indication that we were in unfamiliar territory. At home, drivers would’ve gotten in the way then stopped to ruin the picture by flipping off the camera. Hmm… what is this strange new place we’ve discovered?

Our waitress wasn’t that surprised the cars stopped. “That’s the Maine way. Things here are probably a bit slower than you are used to.” She wasn’t kidding, after ordering, breakfast took a half hour to arrive.

After breakfast, we rode north some more. As we rolled past antique shop after antique shop, I couldn’t help but wonder how all these places, hundreds, no, make that thousands of them, stay in business. It’s not as if they’re making new antiques, so the supply has to run out eventually. And, is there really such a high demand for antiques anyway? Keith put it best, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I want in my house. A bunch of old crap that is outdated, unused and dangerous.” After a pleasant jaunt up Cadillac Mountain and through Acadia National Park, it was lunchtime (Thus far on our Expedition, we may not have found the greatest roads, but we certainly didn’t go hungry.) For lunch we decided to sample Maine’s state bird, the lobstah. A small place simply called ‘Lobsters’ won our business with their no-nonsense name.

Thank you Dave for your contribution to the Expedition. We appreciated it much more than the lobsters did!

Besides stuffing our faces and making our pants tighter, our Expedition had a few mandates. First was visiting Lubec, Maine for a picture in the Easternmost Town in the Continental United States, satisfying part two of the Four Corners Mandate. Not many people put visiting Lubec on their agenda, as evidenced by the tiny town’s nearly complete indifference to being the easternmost point in the US.

Last fall, Fiona, Abi and I rode to Key West, a place extremely proud of being the southernmost point in the US. Every business in Key West is the ‘Southernmost’ whatever it is, from hotel to liquor store. Not one place in Lubec advertised its geographical superiority over other, less easterly businesses.

After our picture at the sign, and few more quick snapshots in town, Lubec was officially added to my list of ‘Places to Never Visit Again.’ Even still, the visit was a success. All that’s left for the Four Corners Mandate to be complete is visiting Northwest Angle, Minnesota for the northernmost point, and Ozette, Washington for the westernmost, and another silly collection of meaningless pictures will be complete.

Day Two nearly ended in disaster as Keith, trying too hard to make the turn into the motel, learned the natural resting position of a motorcycle is on its side. Nothing more than his pride was hurt, though I was kind of pissed off. Not because he dropped Stormbringer, I mean, I like the bike and all, but it’s just a hunk of metal, certainly not worth getting mad about. I was pissed because NOBODY GOT A PICTURE OF IT!!

Once that little drama played itself out, Day Two ended once again with a ‘Best Day Ever’ toast, this time in front of the easternmost motel with vacant rooms, a nice, unsterilized, un-vacuumed, generic motel outside Lubec.

The next day, I had a nasty surprise planned for Abi, an avowed lighthouse hater.

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

After months of waiting, planning and more waiting, the countdown clocks all reached zero, and June 10^th, the official Expedition kickoff day, finally arrived. Everybody flew from their respective homes and assembled in the Kingdom of Rhode Island, and the Expedition was finally underway. Mother Nature, whose hatred of motorcycles inspired me to name Stormbringer and Rain Cloud Follows, was once again showing her contempt for the Expedition. Bright blue skies and warm sunshine mocked me as I loaded my gear up for the ten day ride, as if to say, “ Wouldn’t weather this nice be lovely for your whole trip? Too bad for you!”

With a very ambitious plan, a lot of ground to cover, and only ten days available, the Expedition was forced to start off on the highway. Highways are useful for one thing, getting from place A to place B as quickly and scenery free as possible. Boring, but necessary. We slogged our way north on Route 95. The most interesting thing to happen on that first day was lunch.

Finally in Maine, we turned off the superslab for coastal Route One. We meandered through some of Vacationland’s more picturesque scenery. In Rockport, we started looking for a place to stay for our first night of the Expedition. I passed up motel after motel, looking for that perfect spot. Finally, I saw the sign I was looking for, ‘Oakland Seashore Motel and Cabins’ and turned down the dirt path to see what we’d found.

What we’d found at the end of the dirt road was described by the girl at the front desk as a ‘Diamond in the Rough.’

The cabins

The View

This little diamond in the rough, a bargain at $100 a night, really raised the bar for the rest of the trip. After looking around a while, Abi commented, “This place sucks. I hope I don’t have to hear that noise (the ocean waves crashing on the rocks) all night.” I took that to mean he was happy with our first night’s find.

When traveling on my own itinerary, I try hard to not stay in chain hotels, or eat in chain restaurants. Working for the WWE, we spend approximately 120 nights a year in a Hyatt, Marriot or other sterile, soulless, vacuum-packed mega-chain. So, for a change, I look for little, soulful Mom and Pop places where I can park right out front and carry all my girlfriend’s many bags right in the front door, no parking garages, valets, stairs or elevators involved. That, or an incredible cliffside cabin overlooking the ocean will do in a pinch.

The first night of the Expedition ended with our traditional toast, a shot of The Macallan raised to the ‘Best Day Ever!’

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

A little queasy from a rough night at sea, the group sleepily gears up, unstrap the damp motorcycles from the deck, then roll down the slippery ferry ramp, headed off into what appears to be another cold, damp day. I smile weakly at Fiona and say, “Most people go to an island for vacation, right dear? And this is an island, so we must be on vacation, right dear? It’s not my fault that this island’s daily high temperature is forecast to be in the low fifties…”

Her beautiful blue eyes icily stare straight ahead, while she adjusts the layers of gear, including my electric vest, that will hopefully keep her warm during what promises to be a very cold and wet 400 miles ahead.

But the truth is, it IS my fault. All of it. It’s my affliction. I don’t know where these ideas come from, but my head is almost always bursting at the seams with them. And once they’re in there, they don’t go away. Ride to Alaska on a dirt bike? Why not? Cross the country on a back-breaking hyper sportbike? Sounds great! I can’t do what ‘normal’ people do and go sit on a beach for a vacation. Oh no. I need a challenge. However, coming to Newfoundland on a motorcycle with my girlfriend and two riding buddies in early June on a quest to see icebergs was more than just a challenge, it is probably one of the stupider ideas I’ve had in my long, storied career of stupid ideas. But, to me at least, that’s OK. The most important thing I’ve learned from that career is, the stupider the idea, the more memorable it’ll be when I’m sitting at the old folks home, wrapped in a blanket and wearing a diaper, waiting to be fed and watered. Provided the old head-mounted hard drive doesn’t get erased.

For this expedition, quite an interesting group was assembled. First off, my friend and long time riding buddy Abi (aka DMS One) was invited. Abi and I work for World Wrestling Entertainment as part of the TV crew. Yes, Hulk Hogan and all that. This most unique of occupations keeps us pretty busy, taping two to three live events in two to three days a week. Every. Single. Week. The Upside? Those work weeks are generally two days long. The Downside? Travel. Lots of it.

If you need something done, Abi is the perfect guy to sit there and watch you do it. His love of motorcycling is dwarfed by his love of all things baseball, and if Red Sox game is on, he’s at his most content.Initially hesitant about the amount of effort required for one of my hair-brained undertakings, he’s usually able to be talked into whatever my current ‘good’ ride idea is after a few rounds of pushing, bugging and pestering. We’d talked a lot about riding to Nova Scotia over the past two years, but never seemed to find the time to fit the trip in. Other rides, like Baja California, Deal’s Gap, two cross country journeys, as well as a blast from London in to the Highlands of Scotland, not to mention the constant specter of having to work to pay for gas and beer all seemed to occupy too much time.

But the idea of riding Nova Scotia always rattled around in the back of my tiny brain, and I knew that one day, sooner or later, I’d be able to cross Nova Scotia off my list of places to claim for the Kingdom of Rhode Island. Claiming islands for my homeland by affixing a Rhode Island state flag to their “Welcome to…” sign was a tradition I started in Scotland earlier this year; a tradition I was eager to continue. When the WWE scheduled a rare week off in early June, I knew the long dreamed about Expedition could finally become a reality.

My girlfriend Fiona (aka Sleeping Beauty) is not only the love of my life, she’s also become a veteran of these excursions. Here she is showing off her… err… new sunglasses.

Two years ago, she rode on the back of my Hayabusa from Colorado to California.

The passenger ‘seat’ on that bike is little more than a vinyl covered phone book, designed by a team of Guantanamo Bay interrogators to get information out of people quickly. Fiona, having never been on a motorcycle before, laughed about it the whole way to California. On these rides, Fiona has never once complained, enjoys riding in the rain, shoots pictures like a pro off the back of a bike at 90 MPH, and best of all suffers my insufferable stubbornness with an ever present smile. Really, the only downside to having her as a passenger is she doesn’t realize that despite my earplugs, I can still hear her back there singing away at the top of her lungs.
She’s also a registered nurse, a definite bonus considering this cast of characters.

To make the Excursion even more interesting, I decided to invite my friend Keith (aka Unleaded) along too. Abi and I met Keith, a Technical Sergeant in the Air Force, during one of the WWE’s annual ‘Tribute to the Troops’ shows in Afghanistan.

Keith is a rabid WWE fan as well as a motorcycling nut. He and I became instant friends, and remained in touch over the years, often talking of one day taking a nice, long ride together. Safely back in the US and with enough available leave, Keith jumped at the offer to ride my Harley and join in the festivities.

That leaves me to round out the merry band of misfits assembled for the Great Unsponsored Nova Scotia Expedition. Hailing from the Kingdom of Rhode Island, I’m the so-called ‘brains’ of the operation.

With such an ‘expert’ in charge, it’s no wonder we often end up cold, wet and hungry.

Our motorcycles are also well traveled. After riding from the Kingdom of Rhode Island to California on it, I reluctantly traded in the Hayabusa for a more sensible motorcycle. Yamaha makes a sport touring bike called the FJR, and as soon as I saw it in the showroom, I knew it was the right bike for long distance riding. I bought the FJR (aka Rain Cloud Follows) last December, and logged over 20,000 miles on it. Most of those miles were just in front of or directly under angry black rain clouds.

Abi has ridden his (mostly) faithful orange BMW Rockster (aka Fireball) for every single of our rides. One time we were crawling through inner city traffic in New York City, and smoke started wafting up from under the tank. A faulty starter wire had decided that the Bronx was the perfect place to burst into flames. The small fire was doused by an energetic water-spitting show, a spectacle that didn’t even raise one single jaded New Yorker eye. The result? The mostly faithful bike continued running, and earned a nickname that stuck to this day.

I’ve always had the motorcycle bug bad, so bad in fact that years ago I nearly went bankrupt buying a Harley Davidson Heritage Softail Classic (aka Stormbringer).

Stormbringer then. The old paint made me look thin.

I bought this bike at the height of the so-called ‘Chopper Craze’ and would spend whatever remaining nickels I had customizing everything I could on this bike. Yeah, somewhere in my mind I knew I had to eat and stuff, but that always took second place to chrome. And, with a Harley, there are plenty of shiny accessories to help drain the old bank account.

Because times change and fads fade, I don’t ride Stormbringer as much as I used to, but it is still my favorite motorcycle of all time. That fact didn’t stop me from offering it to Keith to flog, drop and otherwise abuse on the Expedition.

During planning phases, the Expedition was supposed to be sponsored. I signed up for Google AdSense, and allowed their retarded little ads to be displayed on the Rant. Then I begged and begged for clicks. Every time one of the Faithful Fifteen blog readers clicked on an ad, I got a few cents in my AdSense account. The ads were annoying, but the idea of free, AdSense sponsored beer on the trip was too good to pass up.

But the asswipes at AdSense soon caught on. When your account reaches $100, you are eligible for a check. Well, at $93, they decided that I was violating policy, and closed my account. What did I do that was so evil? I asked people to click on their ads, which, for some reason only known to the Google Goofballs, is forbidden.

Ridiculous. And even worse, they don’t even let you appeal their decision, they just close the account, and keep the money. That prickish behavior earned them this:

For that reason, I call the Expedition Unsponsored, but truth be told, Dave, one of the Faithful Fifteen, slipped me a twenty to cover ‘expenses.’ Thanks, Dave!

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

The Expedition write up is almost finished and will post very soon, but this video is too good not to share.

Here’s what really happens backstage at a WWE show, at least after all the work is done and there’s no baseball game on. This new musical sensation, on tour this summer, called The Cardboard Warriors featuring Brian on cardboard guitar and Abi on cardboard Pan flute will be coming soon to a town near you!

… and the writing.

For some godawful reason, lately they’ve been forcing me to EARN my money at work, with live phone calls, extra shows, and all manner of work-related tedium that keeps me away from doing what I really like to do at work… write blogs!

Never fear, Faithful Fifteen, we managed to nearly kill the boss once again on the show last night, so maybe things will slow down a bit, and I will finally have the time necessary to write up another yawn-inspiring report for last week’s all-too short Great Unsponsored Nova Scotia Expedition.