Frenchy's Rant

It’s always a treat to meet a fellow Frenchy. I got my hair cut once at Frenchy’s Barber shop in Memphis, had ice cream at Frenchy’s Ice Cream Parlor in New Hampshire, and am still trying to get to Clearwater for some Rockfish at Frenchy’s Seafood Company. A few weeks ago, another Frenchy, Jay Jay French from Twisted Sister, came to the WWE show, and was kind enough to sign an autograph for me.

I’m not exactly sure which sister Mr. French is in this picture, but I think he’s the masculine looking one.

For Thanksgiving this year, the whole clan assembled at my brother Eric’s house in Virginia for some good, clean, down-home, redneck Thanksgiving fun.

I’d never heard of fried turkey until I made some Southern redneck friends. One of those Southern friend actually managed to burn down his house frying a turkey, which tells me that even redneck cooking has to include an element of danger. I’m also sure that Virginia is part of the South, because Virginians like my brother fry turkey too, usually after hunting it down and killing it.

I expected something on the order of Kentucky Fried, but it was tender and juicy – and delicious! Turns out, Virginia Fried Turkey, when done properly (which means not burning the house down) is probably the best way to cook a turkey. Who knows, maybe the rednecks are on to something?

The Entire Clan, celebrating the holiday together for the first time in a decade.

Dad, Mom, Christopher, Janna, Eric and Fiona give thanks for the copious redneck feast.

What redneck Thanksgiving would be complete without shooting something? Not ours! As a perfect digestion aid, my brother broke out the ol’ crossbow, and we took aim at a poor, defenseless foam deer in the backyard.

Eric demonstrates proper Redneck crossbow-firing technique.

And proper arrow grouping. This deer would’ve been dispatched quickly.

The peanut gallery watches in stunned silence as I take my turn.

With a grouping like that, venison would be on the dinner menu for certain.

Fiona was up next.

I protect Christopher as Fiona takes her turn.

Fiona demonstrates how to paralyze, but not kill Bambi. Shot this way, you’d have to finish the deer off with the ol’ pickup truck.

Up Next – Frenchy Senior (sorry Dad!)

Somehow, Frenchy Senior manages to miss the deer entirely, sinking the arrow halfway into a nearby tree.

And also manages to give himself a nice head wound in the process.

Fortunately for Dad, we have a nurse standing by.

All patched up, Frenchy Senior seeks revenge. One thing Dad taught us is, bloody head wound or not, never, ever give up.

Mom protects the young ‘un – and has 911 already dialed on the phone, just waiting to press send.

This time, Dad the Deer Slayer bags his trophy.

Before leaving the Conch Republic, we had to get the obligatory ‘Southernmost Point’ pictures. We weaseled our way to the front of the long line of other tourists by telling people we’d ridden all the way from California – which was technically true, though we had a month off in between that we neglected to mention.

Southernmost Bikes in the Continental U.S.A.

In any case, we got the shot, then rolled for one more obligatory picture before starting the long, dull, straight, boring slog back to Miami.

Route One ends in Key West, but for some strange reason, the official ‘Mile Zero’ sign is at an intersection in the middle of the city, instead of at the true end of the road. We almost rode past the sign, expecting the end of the road to be at, well, the end of the road. On the ride to the sign, I jinxed myself by thinking how dependable my Yamaha has been since I bought it a year ago. Almost 12,000 miles and zero problems – until, fittingly, we got to the end of the road.

Right after this shot, I tried to start the bike, and heard a muffled ‘dit‘. What the? I hit the starter again. ‘Dit.’ The instruments went dark, and nothing happened. ‘Dit.’ I pushed the bike off the sidewalk, and started removing body panels to get to the battery.

‘Dit.’ Battery terminals were tight, no fuses were blown. Nothing should have been wrong. ‘Dit.’ But yet, the battery was -‘Dit dit dit‘- dead. Abi and Fiona had to push me down past the end of the road so I could dump the clutch and get the bike running.

For the remainder of the trip, the ‘dit‘ problem never reoccurred.

Miami came up quickly and uneventfully, Fiona made her flight quickly and uneventfully, and the work week quickly and uneventfully began once again.

The rest of the trip consisted of working, riding, paying tolls to ride on straight roads, working more, riding more, paying more tolls, and finally, at 2 AM Tuesday night, returning the bikes to Orlando, where they’ll wait for Daytona Bike Week – the first week of March, and of course Wrestlemaina 24 at the Citrus Bowl on March 31st.

Then it’s off to the Northernmost, Easternmost and Westernmost points in the Continental U.S.A. – as well as Nova Scotai (finally) and Scotland.

Six Days – 1104 miles – A Great End to a Great Year of Riding