Frenchy's Rant

day 2

Quartzsite to Sedona, AZ – 211 Miles

Warm air and sunny skies greeted us on the first full day of our trip. Abi was just attaching the last strap of his giant yellow duffel bag to his bike as we carried our bags out to my waiting Yamaha. Clearly he’d gotten up earlier than Fiona and I did.

Before heading away from Quartzsite, we made a quick stop at the Love’s convenience store for some gas, and saw the most incredible raffle. For $5 a ticket, you could buy a chance to win a fantastic 1976 Dodge van complete with working engine, working AC but in need of ‘a little TLC.’ With my luck I’d probably win the thing, so I chose to pass on buying a ticket.

This day shaped up to be excellent. By making it to Quartzsite the night before, we would have very little highway for the next two days, taking back roads the rest of the way into Sedona. My uncanny ability to pass exits came into play again, as I sailed right past the exit for Route 60. The fourteen mile detour proved worth it, because we stumbled on to the nearly deserted but excellent Kofa Café.

Places like this fascinate me. Out in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but farmland for miles in every direction is an empty café with seating for seventy five. How does a place like this manage to keep running if the only customers present that morning were three semi-lost bikers? Certainly their excellent food isn’t enough. As she served our enormous breakfast, I asked Lucy, our distinguished grandmotherly waitress how the Kofa Café remained in business.

“Well, it’s because of the snowbirds.”

“Snowbirds?”

“Yes. You know, retired folk. The snowbirds will start coming in around Thanksgiving, and they’ll stay all winter. Some of them come from as far away as Canada or the East Coast, and they fill up all the nearby RV parks. This place will be packed with snowbirds from Thanksgiving to about Memorial Day. That’s our busiest time. Believe me, we like to see ’em come, but it’s better to see ’em go!”

Finishing our enormous breakfast we said goodbye to Lucy and the Kofe Café. I never heard it pull up, but parked outside was one of my dream bikes. Not a Ducati 1098, this machine is probably the finest creation to ever come out of Orange County Choppers.

The bike owner appeared, and after pulling the starter cord a few hundred times, roared off into the distance.

Finally on the right road, with a belly full to bursting, I felt very happy to be alive. Route 60 proved a straight, flat and mostly featureless two lane road with a speed limit of 65. In the desolate stretches between towns like Desert Wells, Salome and Hope, we would crank it up to about 80. Coming into these small towns the speed limit dropped to around 45, and so did we. Not only does slowing down save riders from local revenue gathering speed traps, but it also gave us a glimpse of these sad little towns. Passing through we saw boarded up hotels, houses made of plywood, and in one fenced off yard, a yard sale that looked as if it had been set up for years, just waiting for a carload of buyers to pull up.

Leaving the town of Hope a sign read, “You are now beyond Hope.” A hundred miles down the Road Beyond Hope our route improved somewhat. Route 89 from the town of Congress on to Sedona was without a doubt one of the best roads I have ever had the pleasure of riding on.

We stopped for a little break and some pictures at a scenic rest stop. While trying unsuccessfully to get a shot with all three of us in it, a car pulled up. Three men got out, and the one in the Harley T Shirt immediately came over. Fiona asked him to take our picture. As he stepped back to snap the shot, I noticed he wore an empty holster on his belt. I dubbed him Pistol Pete. After taking the shot, he said to Abi, “Well, if ya can’t ride an American bike, at least you’re riding a German one.” Not really sure what he meant by that, but before I could ask, he launched into a long and rambling one-sided story that included the best place in southern California to get a classic car repaired, straight edge hardcore music, his church and old time mining techniques. Heading back to his car, Pistol Pete ended his soliloquy with, “This is Arizona guys, anything can happen here.”

Pistol Pete’s Best Shot

The road snaked through the mountain town of Jerome, AZ; also known as America’s Most Vertical City. Almost four hundred people call the one square mile town of Jerome their home. Located between Prescott and Flagstaff at the top of Cleopatra Hill, this little town looked like what I would expect a town in the Alps to look. Of course, I’ll have to wait until next spring to find out for sure what those towns look like.

Just outside Sedona, we stopped to get my first National Parks Passport stamp of this trip. How could we not stop at a place with a great name like Tuzigoot National Monument? The best thing going for the place was definitely its great name, because the monument wasn’t authentic ruins, just a recreation. We decided that it was pretty shitty to call a replica an actual National Historic Site, and from then on we substituted the word Tuzigoot for anything that was shitty.

We checked into the Sedona Super 8 about 4 PM. The guy at the desk warmly welcomed us smelly bug-crusted bikers, even allowing us to park in a ‘No Parking’ spot right by the office, so he could personally keep an eye on the bikes all night. We asked him if there were any worthwhile sunset tours in Sedona. He recommended Pink Jeep tours, and while Abi and I felt this might be a bit feminine for our manly tastes, Fiona got right on the phone to them. They said if we could get there in half an hour, we could take their last tour of the day, ominously named Broken Arrow, an aggressive 4×4 sunset tour.

Can’t Get Much Gayer Than This!

 We walked into RavenHeart coffee, next door to the Pink Jeep office. The kid behind the counter looked remarkably like Butt-head. If they ever make a live action version of Bevis and Buthead, I know where to find one lead character. On a bulletin board behind the counter he had written, “Beauty is in the Behind of the Beholder.” As soon as I walked in, this cartoon character clone told me a weird sort-of joke, “You know, I’m so tired that when I hit the road I squeal.” He then laughed, “Huh-huh hu-huh-huh,” similar to his cartoon counterpart. I didn’t get the joke, and got out of the store before he told any more.

The driver of our real life Barbie Jeep gathered us up and started off with a typical introduction speech. “Hi I’m Chip, and I just want everyone to know that this is my first official tour. But that’s OK, because by law I’m only required to bring back 80% of you. I’m a little nervous, but I think most of you will be just fine.” I’m sure that all tour drivers are required to make such mandatory jokes, and everyone had a laugh.

When I shook Chip’s hand, I realized he was missing the tips of the fingers on his right hand. I briefly wondered if maybe he hadn’t been joking a minute ago. Instead of inquiring about his missing digits, I asked him how he got this job. “About a year ago, I realized I was turning yellow under the fluorescent lights in my cubicle. It finally got to be too disgusting for me. So, I left the thrilling world of accounting, moved to Sedona and got this job.” Smiling he went on, “Now, I drive four wheel tours for a living, and in my time off I ride my new dirtbike, a KTM 640 Adventure.” I’m not too sure how you could lose your fingers in an accounting accident, but the missing digits didn’t slow Chip down at all.

Chip pointed out various desert plant life on the tour as we bumped over and around rocks. The only thing girly about this bright pink Jeep is the color; Chip did his best to destroy the vehicle on the rugged paths, bouncing us all over the back seats in the process.

We parked at one point to watch as another Pink Jeep climbed up a particularly large boulder, then bounced and skidded down the other side. Chip said, “Sorry, but I’m not yet certified to do that one.” Our disappointment didn’t even have time to register before Chip mashed the accelerator. “But I’ve always wanted to try it, so let’s go!”

A guy in his personal 4×4 pickup truck followed us down a particularly steep and tricky descent. We parked to watch him possibly roll his truck down the hill. The driver showed considerable skill, as he managed to get past the hardest parts without getting stuck or pirouetting his way to the bottom, much to the surprise of Chip and the rest of us. “Wow. We usually end up pulling the wreckage out of the ravine when locals try that hill.”

Even in a bright pink Jeep, the entire tour was incredible, culminating at an expansive and breathtaking landscape called ‘The Two Nuns.’ While most of the trip had been a little grey and cloudy, the sun burst through the clouds as we were at the most scenic of vistas, making our pictures that much better.

I asked Abi and Fiona for one word to describe the tour:

Fiona: Exhilarating
Frenchy: Incredible
Abi: Rocks

The temperature dropped considerably when the sun set, and the ride back to the hotel, sans helmet or jacket, was cold and miserable. It didn’t matter. I was so tired, when I hit the road, I squealed, whatever that is supposed to mean.

On to Day Three

Day 3

Sedona to Grand Canyon, AZ – 152 miles

With Abi’s bike already packed and him patiently watching SportsCenter in his room, I started loading my bike. As I secured my duffel bag, I noticed an antique truck in the parking lot. Rob, the owner of the truck saw me loading the motorcycle and came over to say hello. I asked him where he was going with that old truck, and he said he was living out his lifelong dream.

“My wife and I are just about finished with our fourteen thousand mile trans-continental trip in this old truck. It’s a 1931 Packer Model A. We left home in Oregon two months ago, drove across Canada to Nova Scotia, then down the East Coast, through Texas, and now we’re heading for home. We figured we’d add a few miles to stop off at the Grand Canyon. Why not?”

“That’s great!” I answered. “So, have you had any problems with the old Packer, and what do you do for spare parts if you break down? It’s not like you can go into the local NAPA for parts to a truck made in 1931.”

“Well, we really only had one major problem, and it was my fault too. The overdrive let go, because who knew you had to lube those things? Well I know it now. Anyway, we were up in Canada, and it was a holiday when it let go. So I took out the Model A owner’s list, and started making calls. Everyone I called was glad to help, and it didn’t take too long to locate the part, though it was in Ohio. So we rented a car, drove to Ohio to get the part, which the owner donated to us, drove back to Canada, and three days and 700 unplanned miles later, we got back on the road.”

Another hotel guest wandered up to the Packer while we were talking and asked Rob to take his picture next to it. Rob happily obliged the man. “Happens every day.”

Well, it’s not every day you meet someone living out their dream and driving a car older than they are across the country either. Then I asked him his best story of the trip.

“Well, I’d have to say all the great people we met. When we started out, we weren’t sure what to expect, you know? I mean, this thing is pretty old, so that was always a risk. There are some great people out there, like the Model A Owner’s on the list that were always willing to lend a hand or put us up for a night. We met more great people on this trip that we ever could have hoped to.” He paused a second then added, “Oh yeah, one other cool thing that happened, just a few days ago, we were driving through El Paso and it was just about to rain. Thousands of tarantulas were crossing the road heading for higher ground so they wouldn’t drown in their holes when the storm came. That was pretty cool.”

At that point his wife, a beautiful woman with a radiant smile came over and said, “C’mon Rob, let’s get going.” She turned to me and said, “He’ll stand here and talk all day if I don’t get him going. Nice bikes you guy have.” I guess we’re living out a dream too, but to be honest, my true riding dream involves a LOT more of the planet than we’d see on this ride.

We crossed the street to get some gas and Abi put some air in his tires. Filling my bike, I noticed something horribly wrong with Abi’s machine. As he was filling the rear tire, his bike decided to take a nap. Even though the natural resting position of a bike is on its side, it’s still a sickening feeling to see the underbelly of a motorcycle. Abi was fine, the bike suffered some minor damage. The bike just was tipped off balance because of the slight angle of the parking lot. I helped him lift the now battered and bruised Fireball, after first taking a few pictures. Nurse Fiona helped him tape up his broken turn signal, and we were on our way.

Route 89 continued to entertain, first following a meandering river through cliffs of towering red rocks, then through more great switchbacks as we climbed over 7000 feet to Flagstaff.

Fifty-six miles from the Grand Canyon, we stopped for more gas. An imposing looking figure sat astride his giant motorcycle in the parking lot. He had a walkie talkie attached to his handlebars, and a giant antenna on the back of the bike. A patch on his jacket read, ‘I am Captain Kurk Setz of the Starship Valkyrie. My mission is to explore strange new worlds. I come in peace.’ Another patch over his heart simply read ‘Vietnam Vet.’

Like dogs in a park, bikers will almost always go over and check each other out, though we don’t generally do the sniffing around part. I asked Captain Kirk what he was doing there. “I’m supposed to meet my friends in this lot.” The captain of Starship Valkyrie paused, as if listening to the wind for a second, “or at least I hope it’s this lot. Been here for a little while now. Maybe it was a different lot. Shit, I dunno.” Exchanging intergalactic peace salutes, we parted ways to seek out new life and new civilizations. Or at least some really good views.

Minutes later, we pulled into the Grand Canyon visitor center to get our first glimpse of the Grand Canyon.

Breathtaking.

We walked past thousands of Japanese and German tourists. This is common in every National Park I’ve visited. German and Japanese tourists outnumber Americans by at least ten to one. After climbing the observation tower for another spectacular view, and dodging busloads of peace-sign flashing Japanese tourists, cameras click-click-clicking away, we left.

Since the Grand Canyon is so amazing, instead of one word, I asked for a phrase to sum up everyone’s first impression.

Fiona: Holy Tuzigoot!
Abi: This place is getting Disneyified.
Me: Sushi, anyone?

Our most urgent problem was we needed lodging for the night. For some reason, Tusayan is the only town within fifty miles that has hotels. Strange to think of the difficulty of finding lodging so close to one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. We pulled into the Tusayan Quality Inn lot with high hopes. Fiona went in, because we’ve found a pretty girl always has a better chance of getting a room and/or good deal then a smelly, bug crusted biker. As she negotiated for a room, Abi and I were immediately surrounded.

Older, name tag wearing tourists were being herded from the hotel lobby onto a tour bus. Many of the men paused by the bikes. The wistful look in their eyes said it all to me. Bus tours suck. A few asked us questions as their wives yelled, “Hurry up and get on the bus already!”

The Quality Inn had three expensive suites left, by the time we discussed it, one of those three was booked. Knowing the dearth of hotels past Tusayan, we scoffed up one of the two remaining rooms. Throwing open the curtains, I was amazed at the view from our expensive suite. No, not a great view of the Grand Canyon, our room overlooked a cluttered junkyard behind the hotel.

 Our Lovely View. Is that the Brady Bunch Family Station Wagon?

Half an hour later, a very manly and masculine looking bright yellow Jeep picked us up at the hotel. Our driver, Larry was completely decked out in leather, including chaps, with an Indiana Jones hat on his head. This guy looked like quite a character in his cowboy costume. Thank God Chip, the Pink Jeep driver didn’t dress like Larry. That would have been too much.

We picked up two other women, and the tour started. Larry broke into his introduction speech as we turned onto a dirt road. “I wandered into the office one day and they asked if I could drive a Jeep. I said sure, how hard can it be? That’s how I got this job.” I don’t believe he was giving us the typical tour driver line, I think he was serious.

One of the woman that we’d picked up said, “I hope this isn’t one of those tours where we look at a bunch of plants. I’m a member of the American Horticultural Society, and I don’t care to see that stuff.” I guessed she was also a member of the National Blabbermouth Society, maybe its president.

Nevermind what anyone else wanted to see, Blabbermouth had spoken, and not for the last time. But that was OK, because poor Larry didn’t know much about the plants and trees he was showing us anyway. He would point out a pine tree and say, “There’s a good example of a pinion tree.” Blabbermouth would cut him off, “Uhh, no Larry, actually, that’s a juniper.” Larry replied, ‘Well, you might be right, that’s not really a good example of a pinion pine, but I’ll find ya one, I swear.” Not one to give up easily, he parked the Jeep, head swiveling and bobbling around, determined to find actual examples of the things he was talking about, but rarely was successful.

Sunset was fast approaching. Blabbermouth almost constantly talked and talked and talked and talked at us. If she wasn’t talking, she was bitching at Larry that we better not miss the sunset. Our poor driver finally gave up and said, “OK, I better step on it so we don’t miss the sunset.” Suddenly, Fiona spotted some elk. We had to scream at Larry to stop the Jeep, because Blabbermouth had commanded him to get moving. As we sat there admiring these giant animals, we heard one of the elk ‘bugling’ a haunting cry warning the other elk in the area that humans are nearby. This close encounter was something that all but one passenger enjoyed.

“Uhh, the sunset Larry, we better not miss it!”

Larry, now clearly frustrated by Blabbermouth said, “Seen enough? If we don’t get going, we’ll miss the sunset for sure.” Abi spotted something on this admittedly boring trip that actually interested him, so he asked Larry what some maroon plants were under some trees. Not wanting to get shut down by Blabbermouth once again, he just replied, “I dunno.”

Even with Blabermouth’s constant bitching, we still missed the best part of the sunset over the Grand Canyon, the so-called golden hour before sundown when the light on the canyon walls is most dramatic. When we’d booked the tour, it sounded like it would be four wheeling down into the canyon for a unique experience; instead we watched the end of the sunset from a public lookout area that we’d passed on the ride into to Tusayan.

The twilight ride back to the hotel was cold and windy and once again we didn’t have helmets on, though this time it was because we were in a Jeep. I wished for my helmet more in that Jeep than I had for the cold ride back the previous night in Sedona, because it would have muffled Blabbermouth’s nonstop drone. Under the seat we found an old ratty blanket to keep warm. Blabbermouth talked and talked some more, and we all nearly fell asleep from boredom. Everything the Pink Jeep tour was; exhilarating and incredible – this tour was not. In other words, it definitely didn’t rock.

 The Amazing Larry – A One-Of-A-Kind

Click Here For Day Four

Day 4

Grand Canyon to Globe, AZ – 432 miles (including 110 in a helicopter)

 As I trudged our gear down from the hotel room, Abi was once again loaded and ready to go. What the hell is it with him? While I loaded up, we made small talk. “Dude, that guy in the coffee shop the other day was really weird. He told me this dumb joke and I just didn’t get it.”

“Was it, ‘I’m so tired, when I hit the road I squeal?’ He told me that one too.”

“Yeah. What the hell does that mean?”

“You don’t get it? Tired – tires; like car tires squealing when they hit the road? Get it now?”

“Yeah. Now I get it. How stupid.” Just goes to prove that if you have to explain a joke, it isn’t funny.

The morning was windy; we had trouble keeping the bikes straight on the ride to the airport. The receptionist said that pilots were reporting the longer tour was very bumpy from the wind, and if we wanted to take the shorter ride, it would be less bumpy. She tried hard to convince us, but we’d paid for the hour tour, and that was what we were going to do, as long as the pilot would do it. The British couple we met in the lobby that were accompanying us on our flight also wanted to do the long trip.

While sitting in the waiting area, we watched a silly safety video, then donned our silly floatation belts and boarded the helicopter. As we strapped in, Kent, our pilot said with a gleam in his eye, “Oh this one’s gonna be a hell of a ride all right, but we’ll be OK. You don’t have to worry unless I stop smiling. The most important thing to know about this flight is the location of the little sacks in front of you in case you feel a little airsickness coming on. We call that a ‘Code Yankee.’ Don’t be afraid to use ’em if you need ’em. OK everybody strapped in tight? Let’s do this thing!”

With the cheesy song Highway To The Danger Zone playing in our headsets, the helicopter lurched, and suddenly, we were airborne. Kent flew us over the same pinion pines (or junipers, or whatever) we’d toured with Larry the day before, the helicopter already twitching and bouncing around. Our pilot turned around to make sure everyone in back was OK so far, saying, “Oh, don’t worry about those bumps you’re feeling, that’s just because I’m not really paying attention. It’s gonna get much worse, believe me.”

Kent nosed our helicopter down into a steep dive, and when it seemed we were going to crash into the trees, we crossed the lip of the canyon and the earth fell away. With a shudder and a bump, we were in the Grand Canyon. Goosebumps rose on my arms at the majestic sight. Like a river of chocolate milk, the Colorado River snaked through the canyon five thousand feet below us. As we crossed deeper into the canyon, the helicopter jostled some more. I noticed after one particularly violent bounce that Kent stopped smiling for a few seconds, but as soon as the helicopter was back under control, his grin returned.

Suddenly, the girl in the front seat had a Code Yankee, and it was a dandy. “Look at that, you get to take home your very own souvenir now!” said a still smiling Kent, pointing at her now full airsickness bag. Fiona looked a little green, and Abi looked a little less brown, as the smell of returned breakfast filling the cabin was almost enough to make us all sing Yankee Doodle.

The view was stunning, simply amazing, but the bumps were bad. Several times the chopper dropped alarmingly from the gusts. Kent knew even worse turbulence was coming, and warned us that as we left the canyon, we’d probably get hit pretty hard.

We did. The chopper bucked like a rodeo bull as we crossed the rim again. Then it was suddenly calm. Until we landed.

“Chopper 43 requesting permission to cross runway airspace and land,” Kent radioed the tower. The tower responded, “Chopper 43, you are cleared to land, due to high winds you are grounded for the rest of the day. Land, refuel, then shut her down.” “See how lucky you guys are? This was the last flight of the day!” Kent said, then he added, “I hate to say it, but with the friggin’ crosswind, this landing ain’t gonna be pretty at all. Hang on!” He stopped smiling as he fought with the helicopter, finally SLAMMING the chopper down on the concrete pad. Once on the ground, Kent’s grin instantly returned. “Whew! Cheated Death again! Thanks for flying Papillon, folks!”

While looking at the souvenir photo taken before the flight, Kent came over to talk to us. Abi asked, “If you weren’t working today, weren’t flying a tour, would you still have flown?” A devilish grin crossed his face, different from his professional pilot smile during the flight. “Shit yeah! Of course I would!”

“So how bad was the wind today?”

“There are four types of wind; calm, moderate, hard and extreme. Most of the wind today was moderate to hard. We only had three extreme blasts of turbulence, two of them I pretty much knew were coming.”Smiling he went on. “You see, the wind gets all curly when it drops from the rim into the canyon, so when we dropped in and came out, with these high winds, I knew it was gonna be bad. But, I didn’t want to upset the girl next to me any more than she already was, so I didn’t really say too much. I just kept smiling. Remember the one time the chopper suddenly dropped in the middle of the canyon?” He paused for a second, “I didn’t expect it. That was… fun. When that happens I have to keep an eye on the ground speed and air speed indicators to figure out which direction the wind is coming from, and how fast it’s going. It gets a little busy then, but it keeps it interesting. This helicopter can fly in winds up to forty miles an hour.” His grin grew. “A few of those gusts that hit us were over forty miles an hour. Yeah, flying here definitely keeps it interesting!”

“I’ve been flying things all my life really.” He continued, “I live on a ranch in Montana with my own runway, and I commute here every week. I work seven days then go home for seven days. You really can’t beat working fourteen days a month and flying a helicopter in the Grand Canyon. That’s my job and I love it!” He definitely has one of the best jobs of anyone I have ever met.

During the trip, I ‘accidentally’ left my GPS on in my jacket pocket, and it ‘accidentally’ recorded the whole helicopter route, an almost flower shaped pattern. Our top speed was 185 miles an hour!

The wind on the way to Phoenix continued to be moderate to hard, with a few extreme blasts that almost pushed the bikes off the road. Passing one truck I was sure my helmet was going to be ripped off my head, it was so bad. But with a flight to catch, stopping wasn’t an option, so we toughed it out.

We made it to Phoenix in time for Fiona to catch her flight. Unfortunately for her, she had to work the next three days, but would be rejoining us in New Orleans in five days. We said goodbye, then headed east on Route 60, marked as a scenic road on my map.

The sun set, and in the twilight the scenery was wasted on us. We rode in developing darkness on curvy mountain roads through tiny towns like Superior, Top-Of-The-World and Miami looking for a room. Finally in the town of Globe we found an Indian owned Travelodge, and another expensive, Indian owned room.

Though Abi is far from a good looking girl, he at least had something more in common with the hotel owners than I did, and hopefully would swindle a good deal. As Abi was checking in with his people, an older guy and a younger girl pulled up on fully decked out Harley Davidsons. The woman, her hair braided and covered with a long leather sheath went in to book a room, and the man, an older guy with a beard like Santa Claus and no bottom teeth stayed outside. As bikers do, we start sniffing around again, knowing that there is probably an interesting story or two to be had.

“What a great day! We came all the way from Bisbee and rode up onto this Indian reservation, some of the best roads around.” Pointing to a naked Barbie doll strapped on the back of his bike he continued, “I saw her lying on the ground, and she looked like she needed a ride, so I put her on straddling my headlight. Almost right away an Indian policeman pulled me over, I think when he saw this doll up front. He gave us a ticket for not buying a reservation pass, but I really think he was disturbed by Barbie over here. Doesn’t matter, the ridin’ was worth the sixty bucks for the ticket. After that I had to put this little lady on the back to keep her out of trouble.”

Santa asked where we were going. “Orlando, by next Friday.”

“Orlando? Sheee-it! Now that’s a ride! You wanna take Barbie with ya? I think she’d like to go to Florida.”

“Thanks, but I could never take another biker’s old lady.”

Like Quartzsite, the dinner options in Globe were limited. Gordon Scott’s BBQ and Bar across the street was closest, so they got our business. Their slogan could have read, “Gordon Scott’s – For the Finest in Average Dining.” One thing I’ve learned about eating in a small town dining, most times, if you’re fussy, you’re hungry. Five minutes after sitting at the bar we were introduced to Don and Denise, a happy couple from nearby Florence.

“You probably saw signs back when you passed Florence not to pick up hitchhikers.” I had. “Florence has seven thousand residents and eighteen thousand inmates. We’ve got nine prisons from minimum security all the way up to federal prisons.” Don continued, “I’m a caseworker, my job is to try to rehabilitate prisoners and get them integrated with society again.”

“How does that work out for you?”

“Honestly? Not very well. I see the same guys over and over again.” Then Don perked up a bit. “Pretty soon I’ll have one very interesting inmate though. Last week in Scottsdale, Mike Tyson pleaded guilty to drunk driving and cocaine possession, and guess who gets to be his caseworker? Oh, that should be interesting!”

I asked them what they were doing in Globe. “Ah, we wanted to go to the casino, but the casino food sucks ass, so we figured we’d eat here. The food here isn’t as good as we remember it used to be, but the company is much better than the old ladies at the casino!”

After a forgettable meal and a few perfect Coronas in good company, we turned in for the night.

On to Day Five

Day 5

Globe, AZ to Carlsbad, NM – 545 miles

Timewise this day marked the halfway point of the trip, but we were still pretty far away from the halfway point mapwise. We’d planned for longer runs while Fiona was at work, so we would be back on track in a day or so. At this point of the trip, the distance didn’t necessarily mean we’d have to jump on the highway just yet. There’d be plenty of highway in western Texas, so we decided to take a little detour off the beaten path. New Mexico’s Route 152, a squiggle on the map appeared to be the perfect detour, and added only about one hundred fifty miles to the trip. As Abi once again waited for me to finish packing the bike, we discussed it, and quickly decided that even though we’d pay for it later on, the extra mileage would be worth it.

We couldn’t have been more correct. The road, a challenging mountain run carved through stunning scenery, rewarded us as we leaned hard into perfectly banked curve after perfectly banked curve in succession over and over for miles. If dragging a foot was possible on Route 89 near Jerome, dragging a knee, or even a side case was a danger here. Some of the curves were that tight. The road wound through the Mimbres Mountains, culminating in the exciting Emory Pass at 8228 feet. Seriously, this road was the next best thing to a naked girl avalanche.

After flying thorough this mountainous racetrack, we were dangerously low on fuel. The GPS indicated that the closest station was a place called Jim and Bev’s RV Park. Sometimes a gas station is just a gas station, other times it can end up being a circus of the absurd.

Bev asked how our ride was as I paid for my fuel. Barely able to conceal my giddiness at the perfection that is Route 152, I exclaimed, “It was great! We FLEW down the mountain. I’m sure the scenery was great, but we were going a bit fast to tell.”

Bev’s cheerful demeanor changed instantly, as if I’d asked her to wash my ass or something. “Well, that was a pretty dumb thing to do you know! Motor-sickles are dangerous. One time I was on the back of my son-in-law’s motor-sickle and we went up 152. On the way up everything was fine, but going down he decided to race someone. I was hanging on for dear life, the whole time praying ‘Lord, let me get home in one piece and I’ll never get on another one of these damn things again.’ That was in 2001, and I never been on one again.”

I tried to smile and shrug off her semi-scolding as best I could. This was the first time on the trip that the ‘danger’ of motorcycling was mentioned. Usually when people find out we travel by motorcycle, they’ll instantly launch into a story about how old Uncle Jethro got mashed up or mangled by one of dem evil motor-sickles. When this happens, I tend to ignore it for the most part. Bev’s speech must have shaken me up a bit though, because I decided to call my parents to check in and let them know how well the trip was going thus far.

While talking to my father, I watched as a cowboy firmly planted in the saddle of his one horsepower vehicle trotted into the gas station, with a black dog in tow. This sight reminded me that we were pretty far off the beaten path. When I realized that the black dog that was following him was actually a billy goat, I was reminded just how far out we really were.

As this unlikely caravan pulled up to the RV park office, Bev came running out squealing, “Oh Look! Penelope is here! Let me see if she’ll put on a show!”

“Uhh, Dad? I have to call you back. There’s going to be a goat show.” I don’t think I have ever said a stranger sentence to my father, at least not while sober.

Bev chased Penelope a bit and the goat would rear up on its hind legs. Then she waved her arms, and Penelope jumped high in the air a few times. All too soon this amusing circus of the surreal was over, but now that she had an audience, Bev, clealy loving the spotlight wasn’t finished entertaining yet. As she ran past me back to her office, she said, “Stay here a minute.”

She came back with what I can only assume was a peace offering for her earlier lecture. That or it’s so boring at the old RV Park that over the years Bev has completely lost her mind. Either way, I wasn’t sure what to make of what she gave me.

In her hand was a picture of a monkey in a diaper holding an ice cream and baring a set of huge, sharp looking fangs. “This is Okie the Monkey from Oklahoma. He comes in here all the time! He’s my friend. Here, I want you to have this picture of him.” I don’t think I’ve ever received a stranger gift. Because it was such a bizarre place, part of me wanted to hang out at Bev and Jim’s all day to see what would happen next, but there’s only so much surrealism that can be handled in one day, and we were still a long way from Carlsbad.

The rest of the day was spent unraveling the best roads New Mexico had to offer, at a high rate of speed. Part of the reason for the high speeds was the roads were just perfect for it, more perfectly banked corners, all smooth and virtually car free – the other reason was we passed the White Sands Missile Test Range and didn’t want to get caught in a test gone wrong.

 Another Day, Another Passport Stamp

When ya gotta go…

Advertised as ‘American Owned’, the Driftwood Motel in Carlsbad, NM, became our home for the evening. I walked in this time to deal with ‘my people.’ At $49 a night, expectations weren’t all that high. The room was as good as could be expected. The food next door at Danny’s Place for BBQ was also as good as expected. What was unexpected was the conversation we overheard from the elderly couple sitting next to us.

We weren’t really paying much attention to them until the man, decked out in his Sunday best with his largest eyeglasses, dropped the first bomb. “You know, if it wasn’t for eHarmony, we might never have met.” The woman, who until that point we’d assumed was his wife nodded with a shy smile. They continued to make small talk; she talking about her garden, he about some other eHarmony dates hed been on. This chit-chat went on for a while. When their conversation died out, he dropped another bomb.

“I may be out of line here, but I have to ask. What do you think about sex?”

Being the nosy buggers we are, Abi and I couldn’t help but lean in a little closer.

“Well… I think sex is wonderful.”

He cut her off. “Me too!”

“But,” she continued, “I think sex just for the sake of sex, without caring and love, is meaningless.”

Crestfallen, he sighed, “Me too…”

Of course none of this was our business, but it made me feel good to think that some old guy, fast approaching the century mark was still in the game, fortified with Viagra or not. That was enough eavesdropping for one night, and with thoughts of spelunking in Carlsbad Caverns the next morning blocking out thoughts of elderly people spelunking each other in the middle of the night, day five drew to a close.

Click Here For Day Six

Day 6

Carlsbad, NM to San Antonio, TX – 479 Miles

 Carlsbad Caverns National Park
Winner – Most Unreadable National Park Sign Ever

Abi’s word to describe the caves: Damp
Mine: Batman!
Fiona (stuck at work a thousand miles away): Work sucks!

It had been put off as much as possible, but with our limited time draining away, we had to step it up and get some miles behind us. Today we’d have to face the inevitable long highway slog. The skies threatened rain, so we donned our rain gear, which usually assures that no rain will fall. Like most other times, this biker precaution worked, and no rain fell.

A bullet-riddled sign welcomed us to Texas, and cautioned us to ‘Drive Friendly – The Texas Way.’ In the middle of that desolate Texas road, a huge buzzard sat dining on some fresh road kill, until it noticed us speeding its way and flew off with some tasty entrails hanging out of its beak. Welcome to Texas indeed!

West Texas Report Card:

Curves – F
Road kill – A-
Scenery – C+ (That’s a bit generous)
Speed Limits – A+

One of the best things about my line of work is the friends I’ve made from all over the country. On a trip like this if at all possible we’ll try to stay at the house of one of those friends. Cheap hotels have their charms, but spending time at their homes with people you know only from work is infinitely better. My friend Lance and his wife Ramona live in San Antonio, and generously offered to put us up for the night. The New England Patriots were playing the Cincinnati Bengals on ESPN, so for Abi, a rabid sports fan, that was a bonus. To make things even better, it also happened to be Lance’s birthday. Seemed we’d picked the perfect day for a visit.

In my opinion, the best gift Lance received was a bottle of my favorite whisky, The Macallan. During the course of the evening, we celebrated the festive occasion by draining most of the bottle.

Always happy to increase my vocabulary, I also learned two new words at this party; douchosity which is the inherent amount of a douchebag that a person or things is, and douch-o-meter, which is a scale to rate that inherent douchosity. In return, I taught the party the finer points of Tuzigoot.

The Patriots won, so Abi was happy, and the Macallan was flowing, so I was happy too. Lance’s birthday definitely rated a healthy zero on the old douch-o-meter. On the other hand, Lance and Ramona’s Texas Sized Hospitality ranks a solid A++

Click Here For Day Seven