Frenchy's Rant

The WWE merry-go-round stopped in Moline, Illinois today for RAW. Directly across the street from the Mark of the Quad Cities Arena, is this place:

Moline is home of John Deere’s worldwide headquarters, and an interesting museum of past and current John Deere farm equipment.

I know… farm equipment sounds so… boring. But this museum is cool because they let you climb up into the cockpit of their biggest tractor, the 8030, and a gigantic cotton picker (model 9970).

Looking down from the cockpit of this enormous cotton picking contraption, I wondered what it might be like to work on one, plugging in a DVD or listening to XM radio, slashing through the cotton fields with a $265,000, 250 HP piece of farm equipment at my command.

Then I realized, after about an hour, it’d probably be pretty boring.

As I climbed down from the mammoth machine, I noticed little warning labels – the kind lawyers require almost everything to have these days – affixed to the most dangerous parts of the machine. Look what can happen to you if you are a stick figure and operate the 9970 improperly:

The last one I saw summed it up.

Be careful out there, cotton pickin’ stick men.

Due to circumstances that ended up out of my control, I missed my flight home from St. Louis yesterday. The circumstances? TV crew convergence. Every once in a great while the WWE will end up in a city during another major sporting event. In this case, the World Series was right down the street. Both TV crews met at the hotel bar.

Whenever a convergence happens, bars usually end up running out of alcohol. And usually, the day after a convergence, early morning flights are missed.

The feeling of missing a flight is right up there with root canal and proctologist visits. Airline gate workers take great perverse pleasure in taking out all their pent up frustration on dumb-assed alcohol-reeking idiots that manage to miss flights all on their own.

Fifteen minutes after my plane left without me, I meekly walked up to the ticket agent and explained my situation. I saw a demonic smile flash across her face as she pounded her keyboard.

With a smug grin she informed me, “Well, since you missed the 7:30 flight, you just might not make it home at all today, honey. All our flights for the rest of the day are sold out.” Then grinning a little wider she added, “Tomorrow too.”

Great.

I managed to refrain from throwing something at her head. I also somehow managed, in my debilitated state, to walk away and book a flight on Southwest – the flying Greyhound bus of the skies. Southwest has an ‘open seating’ policy, which means seats aren’t assigned, just get on, sit down, shut up and fly. First come, first served. Of course I was last, so I was in the last group, looking forward to a middle seat by the toilet next to a couple of overweight and underwashed old hags.

I grumbled to myself in the waiting area, swearing that I would never drink again, when suddenly a young-looking girl sat down next to me. Normally, I try very hard not to talk to people in airports or on planes, because the inevitable, “What do you do for a living?” question is asked. When I tell them I work for the WWE, they dive into their long story about “One time I met a wrestler and blah blah blah…” And once you’ve heard them all… there is no need to ever hear them again.

Instead of leading off with the question, she asked right away, “So, where are you going today?”

I looked up a little, but avoided eye contact. “Home”

She replied, “I’m going to rehab.”

Rehab? Hmm, what do you say to that? I started thumbing through my mental Rolodex. “Good for you?” Nope. “Rehab, eh?” Naah. I was at a loss. “Err… Hmmm… Oh.” was the best I could do.

Fortunately, the plane started boarding, which I figured would save me from having to continue making strange noises at this poor girl. Not quite. Unfortunately, thanks to Southwest’s ‘open seating’ policy, Rehab Girl ended up sitting next to me.

As we sat, she looked me in the eye and said, “You smell like YOU had some fun last night.”

The mental Rolodex came up blank for this one too. I heard myself murmur, “Sorry.” What else do you say to someone on their way to rehab when alcohol is reeking from every pore?

She said, “Oh, that’s OK, it smells good.” Then, we sat in silence as they demonstrated seat belt and oxygen mask functions. After that foolishness finished, my curiosity got the best of my hangover. “So, what are you feeling right now?” I asked.

“Right now? Thirsty. I wish they’d serve me a goddamn drink, and quick. I have Valium stuck in my throat. If you’re wondering,” she continued, “I don’t really need to go to rehab. I’m just going to regain my parent’s trust. They woke me this morning at four and told me I was going away to Jacksonville for thirty days to get clean. And the best part? The rehab center is picking me up in a limo!”

“Wait a minute. Regain your parent’s trust? How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

I can’t imagine. Rehab at eighteen? I bought my first motorcycle at eighteen. I crashed it at eighteen too. I don’t think I’d even had my first beer by the time I was eighteen.

She continued, “My favorite thing is Robitussen. That shit’s great! Take enough of it and it’s like a combination of LSD and ecstasy, but cheaper. Really fucks you up too. But it’s not a problem. I can stop at any time.”

Of course.

Soon we were airborne for the hour long flight. As she reached into her bag, I noticed long red scratch marks on her arm. She caught me looking and said sheepishly, “Damn cat. Got me good.”

“That’s one angry cat.”

Her voice lowered to a demonic whisper, and with a look similar to the evil gate agent she spat, “I’ll NEVER stop doing it! They can’t make me!”

Oooookkkkkayyyy… And with that information, I’d had about enough. The previous night’s excess was catching up and it was time to go to sleep. I closed my eyes and made an attempt. Noticing my attempt, my seatmate announced she was bored, and produced a box of Crayons and a Sesame Street coloring book. She chose a Cookie Monster picture and started coloring.

“This is all I brought, since they’ll search my bag as soon as I get there.”

Hey, whatever works.

The flight attendants offered drinks. I asked for water to try and make my hangover lessen. She asked for tonic water with lemon to help dissolve her Valium. When it came she confided, “It won’t be nearly as good without some gin.”

Of course not.

Downing my water in one gulp, still feeling tired, I tried again to sleep.

As the plane started it’s descent, she finished coloring her picture, tore it from the book, signed it and handed it to me – while I was still pretending to be asleep – saying, “Here. This is something for you to remember me by.”

Somehow, I don’t think remembering her will be a problem.

Good luck, Rehab Girl.

Route 12 in Utah is one of the best roads I’ve ridden. Dan and I found this incredible road on a riding trip a few years before. Perfect corner after perfect corner after perfect corner – for nearly eighty miles.

Route 12 made up for the disappointment of ‘riding’ through the Rockies in a stupid U-Haul.

Not wanting this road to end, we stopped a few more times. Dan, who prefers riding to stopping went on ahead of us, forcing him to wait for us.

We made our way to Bryce Canyon National Park for lunch. Dan said that we were stopping too much for his taste, and decided to head home on his own. I was a little surprised, but this would let us finish the trip at our own pace.

Dan left for home, and we headed for another stop – in Bryce Canyon. This surreal place looks like something straight out of a Dr. Seuss book.

Colorful sandstone towers, called ‘hoodoos’ tower over the orange desert floor. Three states can be seen from the observation point, with visibility approaching 200 miles on a clear day.

And we stil had Zion National Park to go.

Nearly on scenery overload, we aimed our bikes toward California. Three more states to go!

We were in Arizona for a grand total of twenty three miles.

With lightning flashing in the distance, I sped right past the welcome to Nevada sign. No sense in getting zapped this close to the end. The town of Mesquite – home of the world’s worst buffet – would be our home for the night.

One day remains.

Click Here to read about it

Internet access is hard to come by in the middle of Utah, Incidently, so is alcohol…

As we were gearing up to get the hell out of Blanding, a rider on a BMW touring bike pulled into the parking lot to say hello. I wish I had my camera handy, this guy’s bike was something to see. He had a CB radio, a GPS, a radar detector, a water bottle, XM radio and a heavily modified rear end. most of the rear frame had been cut and an extra six gallon gas tank was mounted where the passenger seat would have been. He said he has a five hundred mile range.

Good for him, I guess.

After spending the night in Blanding, we headed for Natural Bridges National Park. Route 95 is a road that just begged for some speed, and my throttle hand was getting itchy anyway, so Fiona and I left our little group behind.

I stopped to wait near the entrance to Natural Bridges... and waited… and waited…. then I started to get that sick feeling. I turned around to go find Dan and Abi, as they came around a corner. A buck had jumped out of the brush in front of Abi, fortunately he was able to avoid it, allowing him to remain a vegetarian in good standing.

The town of Hanksville receives and annual rainfall of about five inches. While we were slogging thorough the Rockies in our fancy U-Haul, Hanksville was flooding with four inches of rain in a single day. We were concerned about road closures, and everyone we asked had a different opinion on what may or may not be closed. (one thing I’ve learned is local people WANT to be helpful, but more often than not, they aren’t.)

We decided to try and get through Hanksville. There really weren’t many other options, so we went for it. We passed Lake Powell, the second largest man made lake in the world, according to the sign. There were signs of recent flooding on huge red clay splotches crossing the road, but the roads were all passable, even on a Hayabusa.


Pulling into Hanksville for lunch, we learned that Route 24 was open in one direction, and that two days earlier, the whole town was under water. Flood damage was extensive, a motel and some cars were still partially submerged.

We met two couples in Hankville that had trailered their dirtbikes all the way from Tennessee to ride in Hanksville. They weren’t able to ride because of the spongy mud, and, disappointed, were turning around to make the long drive home. Fortunately for us we were able to press on.

With our high mileage highway-slogging days happily behind us, we decided to stop more frequently, take more pictures of the amazing scenery, and actually see things instead of flying by everything like we usually do on these trips.

Our day ended in Torrey at the fantastic Rim Rock Inn.

The beer in Utah might only be 3.2 percent alcohol, but the wine is full strength, as our experiments confirmed.

Four hundred fifty miles in two days on the back of a Hayabusa, and Fiona hadn’t complained once.

Of course there were still five hundred miles to go…

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