Frenchy's Rant

Waking up to a bright but windy day, we set sail for the Conch Republic. I noticed that Biscayne National Park was close by, so we made a quick detour so I could collect one more National Parks Passport Stamp. Our route took us right past the Homestead Racetrack, holding the final round of the NASCAR Nextel Cup championship. We sped by row after row of motor homes sporting madly flapping flags of their favorite race car drivers.

I’m not exactly sure why, but seeing the NASCAR circus once again brought back a long forgotten memory. Maybe it was the smell of race fuel, or the sound, that wonderful roar of a racecar at full throttle. In a past life, about a hundred years ago I when was an eager, young, wet-behind-the-ears television production tadpole, my dream was to work on racing broadcasts. Through luck, lies and plain old stubbornness, I managed to finagle my way on to a NASCAR TV crew, in a position called field A2. My job was to run cable for miles through sewers to connect a series of microphones set up around the track, then spend the rest of the work week driving my golf cart back and forth from the TV truck to those microphones, trying to figure out why they didn’t work. Sounds worse than it was, in fact, it was one of the best times of my life. Someday I’ll have to write a blog about those good old days. Ahh… memories. Anyway, the specific memory triggered by the site of those huge flags anchored to the large land yachts involved Pocono International Raceway in Pennsylvania.

Typically, the TNN TV crew traveled to the track on Thursday to start setting up for Sunday’s big race. The hardcore tail gaiters in their gigantic land yachts usually arrived in force later that day. One particularly brilliant individual arrived extremely late, probably around one AM, and probably not extremely sober. Instead of doing the sensible thing and waiting until morning to erect his giant flagpole, the guy decided he had to pledge allegiance to Jeff Gordon’s 24 car before he blacked out from all the Coors Lights he drained on his drive to the track. So, he got out his pole, attached it to the back of his camper, and proudly hoisted the flag fifty feet in the air, directly into the high voltage lines overhead. Needless to say, Jeff Gordon lost a fan that day.

To celebrate the Ford 400 race at Homestead, the track we drove right past without stopping to work, I proudly flew a Dale Earnhardt flag for the rest of the day, making sure to keep it away from power lines.

It felt good to motor past the track. Biscayne National Park consists of a few islands accessible only by a boat that runs on Sundays. There is also snorkeling available, as well as a light house tour, also running on Sunday. I quickly stamped my book and we were on our way.

Route 1, the only road leading Key West is just like every other road in Florida, a mostly straight line. The Overseas Highway consists of a series of bridges linking the chain of islands together. It is listed as one of the top five scenic drives in the country, and has the added distinction of being one of the end (or beginning) points of Route 1.

It’s also pretty slow going, and while the lower half of the highway was quite scenic, we all found the ride to be dull, almost sleep inducing.

One of the two most interesting things to me on the road is the bridge where the famous chase scene from the movie True Lies was filmed. The original Seven Mile Bridge, damaged by a hurricane in 1935 sits unused next to the current bridge. The old, abandoned bridge became a perfect movie set for the climactic ‘escape from Key West scene in the movie. A very young looking Governor Ahhhnold Schwarzenegger swoops down in a helicopter and heroically saves Jamie Lee Curtis just moments before a fighter jet fires missiles at the limo she’s held captive in, destroying a section of the bridge. At least that’s how I remember the scene, it’s been a while since I’ve seen the movie. But the old bridge, with the center section still missing, is unmistakable.

Also unmistakable, just a few miles further on that same bridge, was a full-sized tree somehow magically growing from the sidewalk. It’s amazing because there is no dirt anywhere to be seen on the bridge, just ocean in all directions.

The only other thing on Route 1 that alleviated the road’s monotony, at least for a few minutes, is Perky’s bat tower. In 1912, Richter Perky, a developer with more money than sense, decided that Lower Sugarloaf Key would be a perfect place for an exclusive resort, except for the mosquito problem. He decided the best thing to do about the problem would to be to import bats to eat all the mosquitoes. Perky ordered a thousand bats from New Jersey and built a tower to house them in. The bats spent exactly one day in Percy’s tower, and never returned. Perky’s resort opened in 1939 and due to the unchecked mosquito infestation closed for good in 1940.

Shadows growing longer, we hit the road for the final seventeen mile slog to the end of the road.

Finally arriving on Key West, we asked at the front desk what was best to see. The Sunset celebration at Mallory Square was the unanimous answer. We quickly parked our bikes and rushed to the party. From 4:30 to sun set, Mallory Square was alive with a carnival-like atmosphere. Street performers and music, and something called a ‘Bladder Buster Beer’ which I can attest is an accurate name. We stood with a crowd and watched as the sun transformed from bright white to golden orange.

Behind me a guy was talking to his friend, saying, “It’s so great to see all these people out here, all gathered to watch an event that has happened millions and millions of times in this planet’s history. It’s so ordinary, the sun setting, yet look at all the people standing here to celebrate it.”

We all applauded as the last sliver of bright red sun sank beneath the horizon.

Then the guy said to his friend. “Wow. That was great. Now let’s go get drunk.”

Didn’t sound like such a bad idea to me either, so we made our way to a Duval Street landmark, the Hog’s Breath Saloon for another bladder buster.

Two guys were on the tiny stage playing all manner of stringed instruments. The guy on the right played mostly acoustic guitar, while the other guy alternated between an electric violin, a mandolin, and his own acoustic guitar. He was so talented I bet he could pick up a tennis racquet and hammer out a tune.

We sat at the bar and enjoyed the band while debating how to spend our evening in Key West. The guy sitting next to Fiona started chatting with her, and pretty soon he was acting as our unofficial Key West tour guide. “At ten, the Sauce Boss is playing at Margaritaville. He’s a chef by trade, and a great blues guitarist. Twice a year he plays down here, and I never miss it. During his show, he makes a huge pot of gumbo on stage, then at the end of the show, he passes it out to everybody.”

Gumbo and blues? That and a few more Bladder Busters sounded like the recipe for a perfect evening.

The Sauce Boss experience lived up to our expectations, mixing good cooking with great blues music. The guy was a complete maniac, playing his steel guitar in the audience, chasing women around, and of course cooking a huge pot of gumbo too.

The Sauce Boss wailed on the guitar.

He jammed on the washboard.

He hammered on the gumbo pot.

He and the drummer did a duet on the booze bottles behind the bar.

During one of his many dramatic guitar flourishes, the Sauce Boss borke his wireless microphone. Abi, who deals with exactly this type of problem weekly with the WWE, jumped up, figured out what went wrong, and saved the show.

The gumbo was excellent, the Sauce Boss was a complete madman and excellent showman. The night was highly entertaining. Best of all, no bladders were officially busted, though a few got a workout during the night. By the end of our night, the freaks of Key West were out in force, and we enjoyed their strangeness as we headed back to the hotel.

To quote Dr Seuss’ excellent book One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, “Today is gone, today was fun. Tomorrow is another one. Every day from here to there, funny things are everywhere.”

On to The End

With only one page remaining in the 2007 calendar, this year’s riding season is rapidly drawing to a close. Fiona, Abi and I figured we could squeeze one more ride in, by combining fun with work. The WWE Pay Per View ‘Survivor Series’ being held in Miami presented the perfect opportunity for the final ride of the year, even if Florida’s flat and straight roads are somewhat less than stellar for motorcycling.

On Wednesday, Abi and I flew from… err… flew from…. well, we flew from a WWE show someplace to Abi’s home in Orlando, where my beautiful blue Yamaha FJR 1300 has been patiently waiting for the next ride.

Since our cross country excursion, Abi has decided to join the twenty first century and install a GPS system on his BMW Rockster, affectionately known as Fireball. Most people would do this project a few weeks before a ride, to make sure that:

a) the ordered unit arrived in time
b) all the necessary parts were included in the shipment, and
c) the unit worked as advertised.

But of course, we don’t do things that way. It’s too easy. Abi placed an order on Monday for a Garmin Zumo GPS, and rushed shipment so it would be at the house on Wednesday morning. When we got there – big shock – there was no GPS. DHL had tried to deliver the package, but needed a signature before leaving it. While he was on the phone to the DHL offices trying to figure out where his package was, I realized something. Something bad, yet so typical for me, especially before a motorcycle ride.

My damn cell phone was still in the taxi that dropped us off.

Great.

I called my missing phone and the taxi driver answered with a thick Jamaican accent.

“Hallo mon! Yah, I got de phone right ‘ere. You wanna me delivah it back ‘choo, mon?”

“Yes, that would be great!”

While waiting for my Jamaican deliverymon, another deliveryman arrived. The bright yellow DHL van appeared at the top of the street. We cheered as he turned into the driveway.

“You guys were waiting for me? Aww gee,” said the driver, “People don’t usually applaud me like that. I hope I can find your package now!”

He did, and Abi immediately set out to mount his new toy, right in the middle of the street.

My taxi driving deliverymon returned soon after, and handed me the phone with a quizzical look on his face. “De phone rang, and I answered it, mon. Some creeezy lady was talkin‘ an’ laughin‘ to me. I tink it be you, mon, dat why I answer da ting. But no, it be a lady, an’ she be sayin‘ creeezy tings! Anyway, here be your phone back, mon.”

Crazy lady? It could only be one person. Sure enough, Fiona had called me to let me know she’d be landing in Miami on time that night. She thought Abi had answered my phone and was fooling around. She said she told the driver stuff like, “Oooh, I LOOOVE your accent, baby! Keep it going!”

It probably made his day.

Though the GPS install slowed us down, we were still determined to try and find some good roads to ride to meet Fiona in Miami. Florida’s roadways were definitely designed with blue haired old biddies in mind, which means lots and lots of straight and flat roads. Deal’s Gap, the most famous motorcycling road in the US bills itself as having ‘318 turns in 11 miles.’ Florida’s slogan could easily be: ‘11 turns in 318 miles.” It’s that flat.

Route 98 looked fairly promising, however, wrapping around the shoreline of Lake Okeechobee. Firing up our bikes for this final ride, we took the first of Florida’s eleven turns – out of Abi’s driveway.

It wasn’t long before that famous Florida liquid sunshine started to fall, making the straight roads slick and wet. Grimy spray covered our face shields as speeding trucks roared by in the opposite lane.

As the sun set, the rain stopped. As the rain stopped, the bugs woke up. As the bugs woke up they flew across the road, doing whatever it is that bugs do when they aren’t sleeping. As they flew across the road, my helmet slaughtered millions of them.

Yum.

The road around Lake Okeechobee probably would have been scenic, if my face shield wasn’t almost completely opaque from massacred insects and grime, and if there wasn’t a ten foot levee around the lake, completely blocking it from view. But on the bright side, the road had about five curves, and one of them was almost exciting. As darkness fell, we bailed for the interstate, and made it to Miami in the straightest line possible, which is easy in this state.

The Continental South Beach – Oceanfront hotel sounded great when we booked it. I had visions of a grand old-style hotel with chandeliers and a tuxedo clad doorman. Yeah right! The baseball hat clad doorman brusquely told us that motorcycles weren’t allowed to park in front of the hotel, for insurance reasons. Never mind the $70,000 Porsche 911 or the equally expensive Corvette Z06 parked in the lot, lopsided insurance rules absolutely forbid our much smaller and less expensive bikes from parking, no questions about it.

I went inside the Continental and tried to use the old ‘get-me-the-manager’ trick that worked so well in New Orleans, only to be met with a scratchy laugh from the gruff, cigarette smoking old hag at the front desk. “You want the managah? Hah!” she wheezed, “She’ll be heah tomorrah. Try back then, hun.” With a deep wheeze that sounded like a death rattle, she turned away from me. The Continental might have been a nice hotel in it’s heyday, but that heyday was most likely during the Great Depression, back when the phlegmy front desk clerk was forty or so.

We picked up Fiona at the Miami airport, making sure to stop at every crosswalk at the terminal. A sign warned that failure to yield to pedestrians would result in a fine of – get this – $115.50. Fiona still thought it was cool to be picked up by motorcycle at the airport, but nothing extraordinary happened this time. No sexy stranger ran out to take our picture this time, nobody tried to include us in their dinner plans, we just returned to South Beach to try and find parking for our bikes.

The first garage attendant told us that the city of Miami Beach didn’t allow motorcycle to park in garages. This made Abi mad, so he asked where the sign for this rule was. The guy said, “There is no sign, pal,” then switched to rapid fire Spanish until we left.

The second garage we found welcomed us with open arms, provided we paid them $30 a night to park there. We did.

The next day we turned once to get out of the parking garage, then it was a straight shot down Route 41 to our planned destination of the day, an airboat ride in the Everglades.

Gus, our friendly airboat captain, gave us the usual ‘this is my first time out here’ spiel, but with an added twist. “Please remember, alligators are wild animals and should be treated with respect. I forgot that rule once, and got my elbow shattered by an alligator tail.” He held up his crooked left arm as proof.

With that warning in mind, we were off to shoot some alligators (with the camera of course.)

It took about thirty seconds for Gus to locate our first alligator, sunning itself next to the airboat dock.
Gus was easily as excited as we were about the sighting. “It’s going to be a good day today, I can feel it! We’ve seen one, but there are a bunch more out there, so hang on!” Gus then slammed the throttle wide open on the small block Chevy 350 equipped airboat, and the world suddenly became a blur as the 400 HP engine roared to life.

Gus stopped a few times so we could take pictures, and to give his prepared lecture about the Everglades. When he finished with the speech, Gus pointed out a white flower in the water, saying, “See that white flower? It’s called a white pond lilly, which is a funny name, because it’s not a lilly at all. And now you know as much as I do about Everglades plant life.” He sat back down in the captain’s chair, fired up the boat and turned us around. The fan noise startled all kinds of birds hiding in the tall grass.

Gus took us to an alligator nest he knew of. He claimed the nest had three eggs in it last time he checked. The eggs were nowhere to be found, and Gus was ecstatic. “They hatched! Excellent! Look at that! Right there! A hatchling! Look at him! Thats amazing for November, but ever since the hurricane, the cycle has definitely been off.”

And there in the swamp grass was a newborn (hatched?) baby alligator. It was exciting to see, especially because Gus was genuinely thrilled about it. He expertly angled the airboat closer for a better look.

Leaning out of the boat to get the shot, Gus warned me, “Be careful! When there are baby alligators, there’s usually a pretty angry and protective mommy alligator nearby.”

Sure enough, the angry mommy was nearby, and she was intently watching us. When we started drifting away from the nest, she swam in front of the boat just to let us know she was there. Leaving the angry alligator to tend to her new babies, we slowly motored away.

Gus, an expert, managed to find a few more alligators on our hour long trip.

We searched for the seven hundred pound thirteen foot long alligator called ‘The Monster” for the remainder of our trip. Unfortunately, The Monster was the only gator that eluded our relentless guide. However, we did find one more gator happily sunning itself as our airboat pulled back into the dock area. Gus was overjoyed at the amount of alligators we’d seen on our tour.

Rounding the final corner before we docked, Gus nearly jumped out of his skin. “Wooo! Look! Look! Right there!” Lying on the shore was the biggest alligator we’d seen all day. “The Monster! Look at it! Wow!”

Then a bit less enthusiastic, he continued, “Great. Now my boss is going to make me chase him off, and he’s mean.” I wasn’t completely sure, but I think Gus was talking about the Monster.

After our tour we stayed for the short informational alligator show, on the off chance that the ranger giving the lecture got eaten by an angry gator. Of course that didn’t happen. But as we walked back to the bikes, we almost witnessed a German tourist become the Monster’s next meal.

Gus must have conveniently forgotten to tell his boss about the Monster being on park property, because as we were leaving, we saw a woman posing for a picture not three feet away from the fourteen foot long wild alligator. I waited patiently, hoping to see the woman become gator food.

And it almost happened. The giant gator slowly stood and started lumbering toward the naive woman. That thing was HUGE! She saw it start moving ran screaming to her tour bus. This was the only picture I managed to snap of the beast before I also ran screaming to my bike.

The plan for the next two days included a visit to Key West, and the southernmost point in the Continental United States – and of course drinking as many of the southernmost beers as possible on Duval Street.

On to Part Two

Here is an extremely brave and well thought out comment to my last post about flying business douches, posted exactly as I received it. The poster was so brave, he even posted it anonymously!

Standing around waiting at baggage claim, Jason – one of the original Faithful Fifteen said, “Damn, Frenchy, being on the same flight as you, I thought I was going to witness firsthand one of your travel rants.”

“Oh? You must’ve missed it then, because I’ve got one. The guy behind me…”

Before I could even launch into the story, some other guy waiting for his luggage cut me off. “I saw that! The guy that tapped you on the shoulder! What the hell was that about anyway?”

“As we took off, I was just about asleep, so I put my seat back. All of a sudden, the asshat business-douche in the seat behind me, you know, the kind of self-important twat that keeps his Bluetooth earpiece in his ear at all times in case ‘the office’ needs his extremely valuable input on something vital like should we serve chocolate covered or powdered donuts at the meeting, reaches up and taps me on the shoulder.”

“Excuse me, sir?” the little shit whined, waking me up. “Could you put your seat back up until they give us all permission to put our seats back?”

“Give us permission to what?” Hearing this, the guy next to me rolled his eyes and immediately put his seat all the way back too. Mind you, at this point nearly every seat around me is reclined. The Bluettoothed fool tapped me again. Now fully awake and fully pissed off, I turned around to the douchebag and said the first thing that came to my mind.

“Blow me!”

And so, to all the self-important Black and Blueberry toting frequent-flying business-douches on airplanes all over the world, I give you ALL this heartfelt G-F-Y award:

After almost three years of blogging, it’s finally happened!

Someone from another blog, a REAL one, (or at least a real LOOKING one) has linked to my little rant!

Hey Kelly, thanks for the link… but did you click on my AdNonSense Ads?