Frenchy's Rant

day 7

San Antonio to Houston, TX – 380 Miles

We had another great night planned with more television-related acquaintances, this time with friends Pat, Vicki and their beautiful seven month old daughter Kaitlyn. Pat is an Emmy Award winning audio mixer for ESPN, who had worked on the previous night’s Monday Night Football game (and was toasted several times for his efforts at Lance’s party) and was going to ride his Harley halfway to San Antonio to a town called Bastrop, meet us, and lead us back to his house. Even mildly hungover, I tried to get up extra early to be packed before Abi, but somehow his bike was already loaded when I got outside. I chalked it up to the fact that Abi went to bed after the game, and I stayed up to celebrate with Lance and the rest.

We made a quick stop at the Sister Creek vineyard to pick up a nice bottle of wine for the evening. After a very small self-guided tour of the vineyard and wine making process, we were allowed to taste a few samples of various wines. By her wildly rambling slurred speech, it became apparent that the woman behind the cash register had also been tasting samples, possibly all morning or longer. “The M… Mer… Merlot you’ve picked is very wonderful and com… com… compecchh flavored! It’s my faaa-vorite!” Then followed a ten minute battle between this woman and her cash register.

Proving once again that my hatred of airlines isn’t unfounded, we soon learned Pat’s flight from Cincinnati to Houston was delayed, giving Abi and me some extra time to explore. On another ride years ago, I was taken to the tiny town of Luckenbach that Willie Nelson made famous in a song with the same name:

Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas,
With Waylon and Willie and the boys.
This successful life we’re living,
Got us feuding like the Hatfields and McCoys.
Between Hank Williams’ pain songs,
And Newberry’s train songs,
And “Blue Eyes Cryin’ In The Rain”,
Out in Luckenbach, Texas,
Ain’t nobody feeling no pain.

Since we had the time, we went to Luckenbach to see Waylon and Willie and the boys. We never saw them, but two bikers we met gave us a tip about a Stonehenge replica just outside a tiny town called Hunt about forty miles west. Rumor has it that two cowboys with plenty of money and time took leftover concrete from a patio they’d built and started erecting a half-scale reproduction of the original Stonehenge. Though one of the cowboys has since passed away, his invitation for all to visit still stands. With a few hours left until Pat was due to land, it was a no brainer to go and seek out this awesome imitation.

The Luckenbach biker’s tip was good, because the roads leading to Hunt were fun, but the directions were not, as we never managed to locate the fabled Hunt Half-Size Stonehenge. During the search, Pat called. He was suited up and heading to Bastrop to meet us, so we cut our exploration short. (It turned out we missed the replica by less than a quarter mile. Ah well, we’ll just have to go back next time!)

Our pilgrimage to the mythical patio concrete monument had taken us much further west than I realized. The GPS indicated over 100 miles between us and our meeting place. I guess I forgot how big Texas really is, we had to haul ass to meet Pat. Even hauling ass, we were still late, which meant our ride to his house ended in the dark, and worst of all, we were late for dinner. I scored a perfect ten on the douch-o-meter for bungling the timing so much.

As Pat led us to his house, a cat appeared in the road. He swerved to miss it, and I nearly crushed it with my front wheel. A closer look revealed this was no ordinary cat, it was armor plated. I was thrilled at my very first armadillo sighting, as Pat said, “Welcome to Texas!”

Even with our late arrival, the day ended with some of Vicki’s excellent home cooking, chilly Coronas, more Texas sized hospitality, and great laughs with great friends, which is what motorcycle trips are really all about.

On to Day Eight

Day 8

Houston, TX to New Orleans, LA – 424 Miles

Cooing and hamming it up, Kaitlyn stole the show and our hearts during breakfast. I wished we had more time to spend, but with Fiona’s flight landing in New Orleans at five thirty, we had to get moving. Pat led us around Houston’s worst traffic on his Harley, before waving goodbye. Three days after entering it, we finally left the great big state of Texas.

Normally on these trips, we make every effort to stay out of chain restaurants, and avoid fast food. Sometimes, however, it is impossible. In the great battle of the fast food giants, Subway® beats out the greasy burger joints. While ordering my lunch, a delicious Made Fresh™ sandwich, I noticed the cashier had – I am not making this up – a tattoo of a wristwatch around his left wrist. Not even a nice watch tattoo, this guy had permanently inked some kind of girly Swatch® watch to his arm, and now, at least in his world, it was permanently quarter of ten. I wondered what the bet he lost was as I collected my delicious and nutritious FreshFit™ Subway® Club.

Instead of staying on Interstate Highway Number 10 for a fourth day, we ventured down Route 90, both for a change of scenery and to visit the home of one of my favorite products. Avery Island is the home of Tabasco Sauce, and they offer factory tours. Abi and I knew immediately we were in the right place by the thick smell of delicious spicy pepper sauce hanging in the air. What we didn’t know was the last factory tour was at 4 PM. We missed it by minutes. My bad timing streak continued! We were also 125 miles from the New Orleans International airport. In order to score better on the timing-is-everything douche-o-meter, we had to get moving. No use crying over spilled Tabasco, so we got on our way.

Five days and fifteen hundred miles after dropping Fiona off in Phoenix, we were exactly fifteen minutes late picking her up. Not bad if I do say so myself. We pulled the bikes to the curb, and she ran up to us. With a big hug she exclaimed, “How cool is it to get picked up at the airport on a motorcycle!”

She wasn’t the only one that thought it was cool. As she was loading the side bag, a very excited woman ran up to us. “Hey! I saw your loaded up bikes, so I had to come over and check them out! Are you guys on Adventure Rider?” When she noticed the ADV stickers on our cases, she went nuts. “You ARE on Adventure Rider! What are your names?”

“Frenchy750 and BMWRocks77.”

Fiona looked a bit confused by this. “Hun, Adventure Rider is my favorite website.” She still looked confused, so I elaborated, “No, not the porn one. OK, Adventure Rider is my SECOND favorite website then. Riders write reports from all over the world. I read it all the time. You know, it’s the one that always makes me late for everything.” The flash of sudden understanding told me she knew. “Now that I met someone else from the site, looks like I am going to have to write this trip up. Great.”

Our new friend, Missy Impossible, started taking pictures, insisting I give her the ADVrider ‘salute.’ Fiona looked a bit confused again when I gave Missy Impossible the finger. “It’s OK, that’s how Adventure Riders greet each other.”

As we mounted up, Missy said, “I don’t know what you guys are doing tonight, but I’m meeting another ADVrider, my friend Datadaddy for dinner later on, maybe you’d like to join us?”

“Absolutely!” We all gave Missy Impossible the ADVrider salute once again as we pulled out.

Before the trip, we booked two hotel rooms, the Super 8 in Sedona, and the Ramada Inn on Bourbon in New Orleans. Finding accommodations on the rest of the trip we left to chance, but in these two places we wanted to be assured a decent room. In New Orleans we also wanted to be assured safe parking for the bikes.

On the way to the Ramada, we passed the Superdome of Hurricane Katrina fame, and cruised the full length of Bourbon Street. Hurricane Katrina might have destroyed much of New Orleans, but it didn’t wash away the Code Yankee stench currently assaulting us.

As soon as we pulled into the hotel, a kid in a baseball hat ran out of the valet office, pony tail flapping in the wind. I didn’t even have my helmet off before he started in. “Sorry, we don’t allow motorcycles to park here.” I finished removing my helmet, pulled out my earplugs, then fixed him with an incredulous stare. “What?”

“No motorcycles allowed. That’s hotel policy. You can’t park here. Sorry.”

Thus far, every hotel, from the cheap Driftwood Motel to the ridiculously overpriced Tusayan Quality Inn had no problem with motorcycles. In fact the Sedona Super 8 hotel manager let us park in a No Parking area so he could keep an eye on the bikes for us.

I pointed at two big touring Harleys parked next to an Escalade Blingmobile in the oversized lot right next to us. “What about them?”

“Well, we try to accommodate motorcycles when we can, but as you can see, the oversize vehicle lot is full. You’ll have to take your bikes and park at a lot three blocks from here.” The Cat in the Asshat wasn’t even attempting to help.

“Uhh, no. I’m not doing that. Who else can I talk to about this?”

“I am the valet parking manager. It’s my call.” He crossed his arms. It was obvious I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him.

“Great. I’m done with you. Get me the hotel manager.” I made sure my bike was blocking the valet driveway, locked the forks so moving it wouldn’t be easy, took off my jacket and the three of sat on a bench to wait.

One thing I’ve learned from years of dealing with airlines and hotels is there is almost ALWAYS a way to make everyone happy, and there is ALWAYS someone else to talk to. The only thing one person saying no means is you haven’t talked to the right person yet. As long as you’re reasonable, you can usually get to someone that will give you what you want. To this point, I felt I’d been reasonable. Abrupt maybe, but reasonable.

Ten minutes later, a used car salesman, with beady eyes, slicked back hair and wearing a black turtleneck arrived. “Hello, and welcome to New Orleans. I’m the hotel manager and I understand we have a little problem. As I am sure you can appreciate, while we try to be accommodating, hotel policy doesn’t allow us to park motorcycles. Sorry, but there is a lot three blocks away…”

I cut him off. “You have two motorcycles already parked in this lot. Why can’t you move one of these other vehicles into your valet garage and let us park here too? Accommodate us all. I don’t want to leave my motorcycle in a lot three blocks away.”

“We just can’t do that. I’m sorry.”

Just then a Dodge pickup truck pulled up and stopped behind my motorcycle, conveniently still blocking the valet driveway. Pointing, I said, “What are you going to do with that truck? Like you said, the lot is full, and that truck’s bigger than some of these other ‘oversize’ vehicles parked here.”

Rather than answering, he clasped his hands together and said, “I’m sorry that we can’t accommodate you, sir, OK? I hope you enjoy your stay on Bourbon Street.” Gesturing to my bike, the little weasel finished with, “Please feel free to check in before you move your motorcycles to the lot.”

Abi stayed with the bikes, because we figured Pony Tail would kick them over if we left them unattended. Fiona and I, both pretty angry by this point marched to the front desk. We caught the Weasel watching for us in a lobby mirror, and laughed as he scurried into his office before we got to the front desk.

“Welcome to the Ramada Inn on Bourbon,” the clerk greeted us. “I hope everything about your stay with us is satisfactory.”

Keeping my cool as best I could, I said, “You know what? It isn’t. Already. We had some trouble parking our motorcycles, and your manager was no help at all.” She looked mildly shocked. “I know it’s not your fault, but I’m really not happy about it.” I grabbed the room key card and we headed for the elevator. Then I turned around. “In fact, what is the manager’s name? I’m going to write a letter to Ramada about this poor service.

“Uhh, his name is Juan Carlos.” I wrote it on the room key card. As soon as I got upstairs, I was going to write that letter, before I moved the bike and while I was still good and angry. “Thank you.” We headed back to the elevator. Before it arrived, the Weasel reappeared. “Excuse me, sir? Could you please come back to the desk a minute?” Hands still clasped in front of him, he said, “As I said before, welcome to New Orleans. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, and I would like to make it up to you. I am going to upgrade your room to a balcony suite facing Bourbon Street.”

A balcony suite? SWEET! I remained calm, because though a balcony suite overlooking Bourbon Street would be great, I wanted my bike parked in the hotel lot more than a front row seat for the beads n’ boobs show. I shook Juan Carlos’ hand. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” But I am still writing a letter, buddy.

Before we’d even put our bags down, the room phone rang. “Hello, sir, J.C. here. I just wanted to welcome you to New Orleans, and I wanted to know if your upgraded balcony suite is satisfactory. I’m here at valet parking with your colleague, and I think we have figured out a way to park your motorcycles in our lot. If you could come down to move your motorcycle from the driveway at your earliest convenience that would be great.” I was sure my bike was causing quite a traffic jam.

The net result of all this foolishness was they moved the smallest ‘oversize’ vehicle into the valet garage – JUST LIKE I’D ASKED THEM TO – making room for us. We got exactly what we wanted, and Fiona and I scored a balcony suite for our trouble!

We sat on our balcony and watched as the first rain of our trip wet down Bourbon Street. When the passing shower slowed, we left to get some refreshing adult beverages.

Beers in hand we walked down the middle of the slick street, where we bumped into none other than Missy Impossible and her friend Datadaddy. Naturally.

“Hey guys! Here you are!” Missy exclaimed. To her friend, a tall guy with an easy smile she said, “These are the riders I met at the airport!” Then to us, “This is Datadaddy, we’re going to eat at a great place he knows. You want to join us?”

“Absolutely!”

Datadaddy, also known as Jay, took us deep into the French Quarter, where we shared a great meal and countless Coronas. Without meeting these two, there is no way we would have ventured into the French Quarter, we’d have probably have stayed on Bourbon Street with the rest of the tourists. At dinner, Jay told us his stories of riding to Alaska, Missy Impossible, a.k.a. Marylee told us about riding in the Rockies in a sidecar, and we all swapped jokes and laughs. These were the only two people on the whole trip that Abi and I told what we do for a living. They were also the only two that ever asked. The consummate New Orleans ambassador, Jay stated flatly that our money was no good in his home town, and picked up the tab.

I told my new friend Datadaddy if he ever makes up my way, I will gladly repay his generosity. Somehow, I feel that he will one day show on his motorcycle to collect.

After dinner, Jay suggested some more liquid refreshment in a little bar called ‘The Spotted Cat’ located on Frenchman Street, instantly my favorite street ever. I wanted to climb up and steal the sign, but the group was drifting away, and I had to hurry to keep up. Plus I doubt I could climb, as walking was already becoming a challenge. But I was still winning the battle with gravity, so I soldiered on.

Suddenly, both Fiona and Marylee, stopped, screamed and jumped. Running straight at them was the largest rat I have ever seen. This thing was easily bigger than the armadillo in Houston. Running behind the rat was a man, calling out, “Fluffy! Fluffy! Come back here Fluffy!” Jay turned to me and said, “Welcome to New Orleans!”

Vavavoom, the small jazz band in The Spotted Cat was very good. A guitar, a stand up bass and a piano filled the bar with wonderful music. We scored a table right behind the pianist, and marveled at the intricate workings of his uncovered piano, hammers striking strings, things moving up and down as his fingers expertly tickled the keyboard. While we watched this display of virtuosity, a man wandered in, trumpet in hand, sat down, played a few numbers, then got up and left with a wave.

At one point, Fiona struck up a conversation with a dark and reasonably handsome guy sitting at the bar. Pretty soon Abi was drawn in as well, and I could hear Abi and the guy conversing back and forth in rapid fire Hindi. I leaned in to Jay and said, “Look at that guy! First he hits on my girlfriend, and now he’s hitting on my riding buddy!” The guy stealing my friends turned out to be Anil Kumar, a character actor best known for his role as Kalil Hasan on the excellent FOX series 24, currently working on FOX’s New Orleans based series K-Ville.

The rest of the night was a blur, but a fuzzy, fun blur. I know it was fun because I tried to dance. At least that’s what I was told the next day. Everyone was floored by my one move, ‘Stir-The-Pot.’

We said goodnight to our new friends, promising we’d see each other again. There is no doubt in my mind we will.

On to Day Nine

Day 9

New Orleans, LA to Pensacola, FL – 215 miles

With only six hundred fifty miles to go, we felt we could sleep in late. The hangovers from the night before in no way influenced that decision. Of course, my idea of late, hangover or not is about eight, so I was up before anyone else. I wandered to the Jazz Preservation National Historic Park for another passport stamp, and chatted with the ranger for a few minutes.

On his recommendation, I stopped at the world famous Café du Mond for a coffee and beignets, little squares of fried dough absolutely covered with powdered sugar. After finishing this snack, I looked like the world’s worst cokehead; I was absolutely covered with white powder. The skies, blue when I left the hotel, were darkening; a long black line of clouds was moving in, it was obvious rain was coming.

Abi sat patiently waiting, Fireball’s engine purring as Fiona and I finished loading my motorcycle. Without warning, the storm hit, and hit hard. We were soaked in an instant. The on ramp to the highway was flooded, but I decided to go through anyway. What motorcycle adventure is complete without a water crossing? A massive torrent of oil, mud, water and who knows what else covered us, splashing up my legs and all the way into my helmet, covering me, Fiona and the bike with an oily film. Noticing this, Abi plowed through in my wake, sparing himself the worst of it.

As soon as we were on the highway, we rode ahead of the fast-approaching storm.

We could see the dark line of clouds marching towards us, but we wanted to see firsthand the lingering devastation from Hurricane Katrina. On Datadaddy’s recommendation, we took Route 90 out of New Orleans, and got to see some of the destruction up close. Two years have passed since the hurricane and floods, but many places are still damaged, seemingly abandoned and never to be repaired.

The sign at the Mississippi border read, ‘Welcome to Mississippi – It’s Like Coming Home.’ I guess it would be, if I lived in Mississippi. But since I don’t, I had to wonder about the marketing geniuses that came up with that brilliant slogan. The entire length of Route 90 in my new semi-home state was hosting the world’s largest Classic Car Block Party. Thousands of antique cars zoomed and cruised up and down the highway for miles, while spectators lined both sides of the road, cheering and clapping as these classic beauties roared by. Unfortunately, the bridge from Biloxi to Ocean Springs, damaged by Katrina, was still out. We detoured back to the slab, stopping once again to fill our tanks.

Fiona, sitting at a picnic table taking a break made a new ‘friend.’ A grubby looking guy parked his bicycle and sat next to her. “You wanna hear ’bout sumpthin’ unfair? I got a ticket yesterday, a speedin’ ticket on this here bicycle, for goin’ fifty-three miles an hour! I’m not lyin’ either. Fifty-three! I ain’t got seventy-five bucks to pay the ticket though.”

Ignoring his obvious attempt to bum some money, Fiona asked, “How did you get that bike going that fast?”

“Easy. It’s a twenty-one speed.” Sensing that he wasn’t going to get any money for his creative story, he climbed back on his racing bike and zoomed off into the distance.

Drawing ever closer to Orlando, I felt a little depressed that our journey was almost over. We had one small sentimental stop left to make. Fiona and I met in, of all places, Mobile, Alabama, and since it was more or less on the way, we decided to stop at the place ‘where it all began.’ Too bad we couldn’t relive that whole first night… but we weren’t THAT close to Orlando.

Mobile Marriott – Where It All Began

 

Moving on, we crossed our final state border for this trip. The Sunshine State welcomed us with dark grey skies. At dinner, I ordered a tall cool Sierra Nevada beer, only to be told by the waitress, “I’m not even sure why that beer is on the menu, since it’s illegal here in Florida.” I’ve never heard of such a thing. I think she was just hoarding all the ‘illegal’ beer for herself.

On to THE END!!

day 10

Pensacola to Orlando, FL – 488 Miles

Once again, Abi had his gear loaded and ready before Fiona and I came down at the agreed on time. “Dude, what the hell? Every single day I’ve come down on time, and every single day you’ve already been loaded up and ready to go. WHY?!?”

Abi pragmatically replied, “Because if I’m not early, I’m late.” Good point. It’s hard to argue with that kind of logic.

We stopped at the Gulf Islands National Seashore visitor center where I managed to score not one, but four more Passport Stamps. Great success! Though this day would be the highest mileage day ever for Fiona, she didn’t seem to mind at all. We disposed of the dwindling miles easily, with not much to see except vines, vines and more vines covering every tree, fence, and slow moving retiree in sight.

Cracker Barrel™, that wonderful chain restaurant with the homey feel not only has good food, but also has tables equipped with those annoying brain teaser games. The most annoying one of all is the triangle shaped game where you have to jump pegs over each other, leaving one remaining peg at the end. If you can manage that feat, you are rated as a ‘genius,’ leave two and ‘you’re purddy smart,’ leave three and ‘you’re just plain dumb,’ leave four or more and ‘you’re an eg-no-ray-moose.’

After playing, we found that the three of us are all ‘just plain dumb’, so we asked the manager for the solution. He answered, “Just plain dumb? Me too, and I’m happy to be that way. Let me send Ryan over, he’s a genius.” Ryan came over and showed us the secret, but even then the best we could do is ‘purddy smart.’ It’s good to know that even though we may not be geniuses, at least we’re all qualified to manage a Cracker Barrel™.

Stepping outside, Abi looked at the blue sky and said, “You know this is Florida. It’s going to rain.”

“No way. The sky is perfectly clear. It’s 3:00 now. What’s the over/under on the time this rain will start?”

Abi said, “4:30.”

Fiona said, “5:15.”

“OK, I’ll say 6:00. But it’s not going to rain.”

By 4:20 the perfectly clear blue sky had darkened into a thick blanket of dark clouds, and the first smattering of raindrops soon fell. Abi pumped his fist in the air, and Fiona and I shot him a hearty ADVrider salute. Pulling into a rest area to weatherproof, we spotted a guy in a helmet, T-shirt and jeans trying the nearly impossible maneuver of push-starting his Movistar repli-racer motorcycle. He was running alongside the bike, holding the clutch in. When he got moving fast enough, he then would attempt to jump aboard the bike and dump the clutch. Damn near impossible, but it was fun to watch a few runs.

“My battery is dead, and I really want to get going before this storm hits!”

Feeling his pain, we helped push him, and on the second try his bike roared to life. We committed our first actual good deed of the trip. Racing out of the rest area, our new friend wheelied us a big thank you.

The rain drizzled on us for a while, but once again the biker trick of gearing up for rain before it hits worked. Soon the road was again dry. But not for long. At 5:15 on the dot, the rain returned. We pulled into a gas station to fill up, and admired the biggest double rainbow I’ve ever seen.

This shower passed before we left, and all was well until 6:10, when the first fat raindrops smacked us. This wasn’t going to be a passing shower, this time it promised to be a deluge, and that deluge followed us the final hundred miles to Orlando. Gigantic streaks of lightning lit the entire sky as the miles wound down.

Making the final turn of the trip into Abi’s driveway, we were soaked but ecstatic. What would have been a six hour flight in an uncomfortable airplane had instead been, for us, the greatest motorcycle journey yet. Ten days and 3564 miles after leaving California, our great trip ended in a champagne toast. Abi’s girlfriend Anna met us at his house and joined the celebration.

 

 

Abi: “Good trip, where do we ride to next?
Me: “Let’s do Europe this spring!”
Fiona: “Next time, I want my own bike!”

If it’s Wednesday, I must be delayed in some generic airport, some generic place in this country. And it must be time to endure more stupidity, courtesy of the automatons from the TSA.

This actually happened to me about ten minutes ago:

I hand my ticket and drivers license to a security agent, who studiously examines them as if the secrets of the universe may be contained within, then, satisfied my license hasn’t expired and therefore I am not a threat to national security, she finally looks up and says, “Good morning sir, how are you today?”

“Fine, and you?”

“I’m doing OK, for a Monday.”

“Uhh, it’s Wednesday, isn’t it?”

Handing my documents back, she replies, “Well, yeah, for some people I guess it is, huh?”