Free and un-crashed after my dirt dumbness adventure, we chase shimmering mirages back to the highway, back to civilization, routine and normalcy, whatever that is. The mirages all dry up before we reach them, but we still give chase, all the way to Nogales.

In Nogales, a town who’s name I consistently mispronounce, I get lost. Not lost like the usual “Oh no, I’m lost.” Lost like, “Oh shit, are we in Mexico?” lost. I know that once on the other side of Homeland Security’s protection and terror threat rainbow warnings, we’ll be on our own in the wild, and most likely dead within minutes. I learned this from watching TV. Rather than finding out what it feels like to be instantly murdered, I perform a few highly illegal motorcycle maneuvers, and we remain in the safety of the US of A.

We’re supposed to be scared, aren’t we? I mean, it’s MEXICO!! Right in front of us! How come we’re not? If we had a few more days, I think we’d have kept on going. Another time, for sure.

For a few miles, we travel along the SBI (Secure Border Initiative) fence. Expensive? Look it up for a good laugh. Effective? At keeping fence builders swimming in money, sure. At keeping ‘illegals’ out? Maybe…

Monkey time is over, we still have a lot of road between us and home, and time is running out. We latch on to I-19 and speed north towards home. An hour into our slog, Sleeping Beauty nearly knocks me off the bike with one of her patented head butts. I knew she was settling in for a nap when she tucked in and wrapped up tight, but I didn’t expect the 7.2 on the Richter scale slam from behind when she finally nodded off. I take the exit for Tumacácori National Historical Park, and a National Parks Passport stamp I have yet to add, in an effort to wake her up.

As a bonus, a sweet old native woman is offering samples of traditional bean burritos fresh from a simmering pot. Every National Park would benefit immensely from having fresh burritos on hand.

The woman only speaks Spanish, so I use my immense knowledge of her language to tell her her hat is blue, which it isn’t, then ask where the library is. She shrugs and gives us four burritos in an effort to make us go away. Full and happy, I bid our benevolent cook a hearty “Merci” and we are on our way.

Shortly, I stop by what seems like a military base, and we wave at the Predator drone circling overhead as I snap my final ghost Rider picture of this trip.

Back on the road for a boring hour, then I finally see it. The Titan Missile Museum. I know we’re too late to take the tour, but being so close, I figure there has to be a way to hot-wire that flying bad boy rocket and send it skyward towards lawless, flag-filching Tombstone. Can’t hurt to try!

We park next to a fully overloaded Interceptor and a nicely loaded BMW touring bike, and walk inside the museum. Of course we are thirty minutes too late for the final tour of the day, a fact that the girl behind the desk is a little too happy to tell us. Perfect. If only I’d eaten less burritos at Tumacácori, we’d have made it for sure. Drat.

Outside, the Interceptor and BMW riders, fresh from their tour have assembled. One of them looks like he’s waiting for me.

“Hey man! Are you Frenchy?”

What the hell?

“Yes?” I reply.

“Man, I’ve read all your stuff!” He’s excited. “Hello, Sleeping Beauty! I’m Dave!” Turning to his group, he says, “I told you this was him! This is the guy that works for the WWE!” Pointing to my bike, Dave exclaims, “That’s Rain Cloud Follows! Cool! I knew it from your license plate! Do you still have Stormbringer in the Kingdom of Rhode Island?”

This is… weird. I honestly didn’t think people actually read this drivel. Wow. For once in my life I am speechless.

Dave goes on, “You must get this kind of reaction all the time, huh?”

“Um, no, not really…”

We pose for a ‘ADVrider Salute’ picture, shake hands and part ways. Dave, if you’re reading this (and somehow, I’m sure you are) get in touch with me, OK? And, thanks for being one of the Faithful Fifteen!!

“We’re famous!” says Fiona.

We decide to spend the night as famous people do, gambling at a casino. The closest casino is out of the way, which means getting off the sleep-inducing highway. Fine by me. With darkness threatening, we beat a hasty retreat towards it.

In darkness, we find Harrah’s, and pull up to watch as two paramedics wheel someone out in a stretcher. I walk up to the front desk and ask for a room.

“Sorry, sir, we’re full.”

“But someone just left in the ambulance! Can we have their room?”

“No, they’ll be back.”

Drat.

For once our gamble fails, and now we’re stuck. This part of the world isn’t exactly chock full of hotels. The GPS indicates the nearest hotel is a Best Western in Gila Bend, a hundred or so miles away. An hour later we pull up to the hotel, which is instantly familiar to me. This Best Western, replete in a weird Space Age motif has hosted me before, on a trip that Dark Meat Snack and I made through Baja and Arizona a few years ago. (That poorly written report can be found here.)

Small world.

All night long, the same freight trains shriek the same annoying whistles not ten feet from the back of the hotel. Oh yeah, now I remember.

Most of the next day is spent on the highway, at ludicrous speeds, bridging the gap between us and home. I take a detour through the Anza-Borrego desert, but by now I’m as tired of taking pictures as you are of reading this.

The final sunset of the ride caps off the Best Day Ever, and we arrive home late Saturday night, safe, sound and extremely happy. While Fiona relaxes after this undertaking, I sneak a peak at a map of Alaska and another dream begins…

The Entire 2643 Mile Route Map

Author: frenchy

One Response to “The Road to Wrestlemania XXVI – That’s a Wrap!”

1. Jarrett Baker says:

   April 19, 2010 at 9:55 AM

   I drove about the same distance in roughly the same time period over the last two weeks. Your journey was a little more exciting than mine, but both involved TV production. I could come up with a name for my ’95 Toyota Tacoma (with matching topper), though it would be a failed attempt at coolness.

   Reply