All Good Things...

[1FJR]

Great report. The weather here on the west side of Rocky Mountain National Park has not improved since you left. It has been raining everyday and is dumping down rain today on my day off. Next time you are in the area let me know.

 

[wyowags]

Frenchy,

Man do you have a way with words!! Great story! I was just up over Cameron Pass and through Poudre Canyon on Saturday with a few other Feejers and a stray Honda. Always a great ride. Even though Mother Nature tried to blow us off the highway from Cheyenne all the way to Walden. Keep the story going, you've got my undivided attention! B)

Kurt

 

[Frenchy750]

Work.

It's a four letter word, all right, but it's also a necessary evil. Unfortunately, we all have to do it, or, at least most of us do. I do know that I am very lucky, in that that my work as an audio engineer with World Wrestling Entertainment not only funds my madness, but the schedule that I, Abi and Fiona all have makes these rides possible, which makes the concept of that four letter 'W' word all the more bearable.

So, Stapling Beauty flew home for three nights of saving lives at the hospital. Dark Meat Snack and I flew to Los Angeles for whatever festivities Vince McMahon and crew had planned. In a nice twist of events, Mike also flew in to Los Angeles to work with Abi, me and the rest of the WWE's 'Team Audio'. I won't get too in depth, but Monday night's show - the show that was moved from Denver to the Staples Center with little notice - featured a Denver Nuggets team owner look-a-like being knocked around by Vince McMahon, a Jack Nicholson impersonator in the front row of the audience, and the main event was a six-on-six match, with the 'good guys' dressed as the Lakers, and the 'bad guys' dressed as the Denver Nuggets, all announced by the Laker's home PA announcer. Guess who won that match.

All in all, a typical day at the office.

One thing that struck me as funny was how often in LA people asked Abi and I, "What'd you do with the motorcycles?" I must've been asked this question fifteen times on Monday! I guess it's hard for most to fathom that motorcycles are actually vehicles, and there is always vehicle parking at airports.

Wednesday finally arrived, and everyone flew back to Denver for Tripus Resumus. Once Dark Meat, Staplefingers and I were reunited, my plan was to aim our well-rested motorcycles squarely at Jackson Hole, WY. I thought if we could take a decent chunk out of the five-hundred-fifty mile distance Wednesday evening, we'd be able to enjoy the remaining miles in a leisurely ramble to Jackson Hole the following day.

Mike, who wouldn't be coming along, had other, more interesting plans. He called me several times that day, using my own logic, similar to the Jedi Mind Trick, on me. "You should just stay at my house tonight. That way we can get in a nice sunset four-wheeling cruise in the mountains. When is the next time you'll have a opportunity to do that? You're already here, and you won't get very far tonight anyway. Why stay in a crappy motel? This is a great opportunity!"

It's the same logic I use to talk Dark Meat and others into doing things they are otherwise hesitant to do. Yeah, I hate it when others use the Mind Trick on me, but I have to admit, it usually works.

Then, Mike delivered the final knock out blow to my plan, "I've got cold beer on ice! What do you say?"

Best. Day. Ever.

The next morning, we said our goodbyes (again) to Mike, Ingrid and Lucas, and headed north in questionable weather toward Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

Thursday ended up being a longer than anticipated but pleasant haul through the interesting scenery and gently winding roads of Wyoming. We stayed off the dreaded interstate as much as possible, and stayed mostly dry.

Fifteen minutes outside of Jackson Hole, we had an amazing treat, as we were held up in an authentic Wyoming traffic jam - a lumbering herd of bison ambling across the road.

Our Jackson Hole home was the crap-tastic Anvil Motel in the center of town, a town that also became our watering hole for the next two days. Jackson Hole turned out to be a perfect base to launch an all out photographic assault on Grand Teton National Park and, of course, the whole reason we came so far, absorbing the visual pleasures of the most beautiful place on Earth - Yellowstone.

 

[Frenchy750]

Yellowstone.

We Came. We Saw. We Photographed.

Need I say it?

Best Day Ever!

Who would suspect that very evening, an innocent Southern belle would be able, with a smile and a few words, to inflict a detour of epic proportions on the rest of the ride?

Not me.

 

[wyowags]

Come on Frenchy, don't leave us hangin' on the edge of Yellowstone!!

 

[wheatonFJR]

D@mn good report.

Best evar!

Great stuff Frenchy...eatin' it up here in the midwest.

 

[Frenchy750]

Never fails.

If it's just Dark Meat and I at a restaurant, we'll get Brunehilda the Wart-Covered Visigoth for a waitress, but if Fiona is there, our waitress is usually so insanely gorgeous that I have to eat the entire meal with my eyes closed,. I've learned it's that or suffer the Wrath of Sleeping Beauty, a fate much worse than a meal served by Brunehilda.

Our waitress that night was an authentic Southern Belle, a blonde bombshell from Mississippi, or at least that's what I imagined her to be. My eyes were welded shut, of course. Asking how she ended up in Jackson Hole, Miss Mississippi drawled that each summer she escaped her small home town for a new, more exciting place. One year it was Aspen, which, she claimed, was full of 'rich butt-heads', then, Glacier National Park, her self-proclaimed 'Happy Place', and this summer's escape was Jackson Hole. She told us she hadn't been there long enough to form an opinion.

One word of caution, when your waitress is so hot butter melts in her hands, it's not easy to eat with your eyes closed. Somehow I managed. Without visual stimulus, all I had was the words 'Glacier National Park' and 'Happy Place', words that kept resonating through my tiny brain.

The next day, after we dropped Fiona off at the airport in Idaho Falls, there really was no more plan. No Map-kin. Nothing. Abi and I had an entire week to get back to California, and, for a change, had nothing much in mind.

Glacier. Happy. Hmm...

I got through dinner without forking myself, and later that night looked at the map. Glacier National Park is located in the very top of Montana, about five hundred miles straight up from Idaho Falls. A thousand mile detour?

Why not?

It was a fun ride through the mountains to take Fiona to Idaho Falls Regional Airport, but a melancholy one as well. Sleeping Beauty once again had to go home for more of that dreaded four letter 'W' word, and, sadly woudn't be rejoining the trip.

Abi and I managed to finagle a week off from the WWE tour, giving us six more days of riding freedom. And, thanks to the words of Miss Mississippi, we were headed to a Happy Place.

Happy, but wet. Of course.

After the customary deluge, the interesting little town of Deer Lodge, MT became our home for the night.

Here is one of Abi's hard won Nuggets of Knowledge: Any town with a sign like this painted on the wall should generally be avoided:

In Deer Lodge, at the creatively named Montana Bar, I had an experience that drove home how far away from reality we'd landed. In the usual, time honored tradition of Best Day Ever toasts, I ordered Dark Meat and I a couple of beers, then, shortly after, went up for two more. Sitting back down, a large woman almost immediately came up to the table and said, "Look, I know you guys ain't from around here, but next time you get beers, take your empty glasses back up for refills, OK? That way we don't have to wash so many glasses."

My question about free refills was met with a blank stare.

After a bunch more refills, and beating the locals at pool, it was obviously time to go. We snuck out of Deer Lodge early the next morning.

As usual, my gravel shortcut was enjoyed by exactly half the group, with the usual dissent coming from the usual place.

Ahh... some days this ride partnership is... too much like a marriage, and some days... well, some days... I think I want a divorce.

As always during a domestic spat, taking a deep breath and stopping for 'Dinks and Ice Cream Now' makes everything better.

The road to Glacier National Park was fun, the weather was good, and by 2PM, our little dirt road disagreement was behind us, and the gates to the Happy Place were in front of us.

The world famous Going to the Sun Highway, the pathway to the best parts of the Happy Place and the main reason to traipse all the way to Glacier National Park was closed for construction, naturally.

Frustrating? Oh no, not at all.

At least I came all that way for a Passport Stamp, and a few pictures of a waterfall.

Happy place? With the Going To Nowhere Highway closed, Glacier was more like a Crappy Place to me. Disappointed, we turned around and hustled two hundred miles down to Missoula. Missoula, that night's haven, may only be eighty miles away from Deer Lodge, but in reality, is worlds apart. Best part? Clean glasses with every beer!

Missoula was also the beginning point of the end of our ride, with only two more state lines and a few thousand miles remaining between Dark Meat, Frenchy and the inevitable end of the road.

 

[Wicked Webby]

Frenchy,

Very nice ride report.

WW

 

[Frenchy750]

The time zone may have changed, but the curves just kept coming as we followed Route 12 across Idaho. Route 12 follows the Clearwater River, a raging, boiling river that Louis and Clark Expedition traversed in dugout canoes to the Pacific.

Dark Meat and I set off that morning much like Meriwether and William did back in 1805, except our expedition packed iPhones and iPods, GPS, a SPOT satellite tracker, and, of course, high horsepower motorcycles, making our voyage through Idaho last a few pleasant hours instead of several starvation filled months.

We stopped to watch some brave souls white water rafting the Clearwater.

There's a fine line between brave and foolish. In white water rafting, that line is pretty much the boat. Inside, you're brave, but get thrown out of the boat into the rapids, and... well...

Safe on shore, we spectated as some real life white water drama unfolded.

The guy in the kayak came up the bank of the Clearwater, soaking wet, cold and tired looking. "You guys see another one in the water? We had two swimmers go over back there. One's still missing."

With Abi documenting the unfolding mini-drama, I jumped on Rain Cloud Follows to ride upriver and help look for their missing swimmer.

I didn't get very far when the second swimmer crawled up the bank.

With the excitement quota for the day met, we stopped for lunch in the tiny town of Lowell. Evidently the tiny town recently became even tinier, as one of the residents must have moved away, or fell out of a white water raft, never to be seen again.

The remainder of Route 12 did not disappoint. And, by following this road to the border, we were able to sneak into Washington for a few miles, adding one more picture to the completely meaningless collection of Bikes 'n Border Signs snapshots.

The Evergreen State's Highway 129 also did not disappoint; in fact, it was kind of a shock. This road, which quickly led to the border of Oregon, was yet another series of fast sweeping curves snaking up and down through some very sparsely populated, very scenic Pacific Northwest evergreens.

The road led more-or-less directly to 1.5 square mile city of Enterprise, Oregon.

At dinner, we debated the next day's route. According to the map, the road through Hells Canyon include some unpaved roads. On this trip, unpaved roads equal dissent. The alternate route, adding several hundred additional paved miles was briefly discussed. Yeah, the long days in close proximity, both at work and on the road, obviously were starting to take a toll on both of us. Discord ruled.

WWLCD? (What Would Lewis and Clark Do?)

I imagine Lewis would kick Clark's ass for being a pussy then take the dirt road. Instead, before resolving anything, we ended up poisoning ourselves with some home made Mexican hot sauce. Dark Meat went back to the motel to suffer mightily, while I walked to a local bar in search of some hot sauce quenching, and some valuable local information.

I sat down next to an alcohol-soaked patron named Steve. Steve, a lifelong resident of Enterprise had never even heard of Hells Canyon. Great.

Steve clearly had his own agenda. "So, Rhode Island," he slurred, "Do you hunt?" he asked me.

"Err, no."

"Shame on you!" A three-beer long lecture followed about Steve's hunting prowess. I have nothing against hunting, but I wanted to know about dirt roads, not mule deer. It was clear that I wasn't going to get any information about the route, so, still uncertain about the next day's route, I suddenly toasted the Best Day Ever with a confused Steve, then, with the end of the ride only one more post away, wisely called it a night.

 

[Frenchy750]

The next morning, refreshed and ready, clearer heads prevailed, we decided that Hell's Canyon was indeed the right way to go.

The road didn't disappoint, and, as an added bonus was paved the whole way through! Rough and potholed, sure, but at the very least paved. Running out of ways to describe the awesomeness that is riding these secluded back country roads, I'll just say the rest of the day, all the way from Enterprise to that night's home in Bend, Oregon was a series of blissful and almost endless lefts and rights in succession that was as close to perfect as I'll probably ever get.

That night, we enjoyed a few cocktails, ate mightily, laughed loud and long, and toasted the Best Day Ever one more time.

The next day we planned to visit Crater Lake National Park, but the needs of the motorcycles overruled our ideas. On the way down to Crater Lake, Abi raced past me, and I noticed an ominous white stripe flashing on his rear tire.

Tire? Toast.

We quickly pulled over to assess the tire. It was obvious that Crater Lake was out, and a visit to Tread and Tracks Motorsports in Klamath Falls for some new rubber was in order.

Thanks Treads and Tracks!

Dodging more rain, we dove into our final state, my adopted home of California.

In the shadow of Mt. Shasta, we turned west into the mountains, following even more incredible roads, heading for a suitable mountain town to make our home.

Around six, mule deer started appearing on the sides of the road, making me wish I'd brought Steve along from Enterprise to clear the path. Thankfully, we navigated the deer-strewn minefield, and arrived safe and sound in that night's home of Weaverville.

Oh yeah, the end is in sight now! The only thing separating us from parking for the final time in the garage was about eight hundred miles of Pacific Coast Highway. Life sure is tough!

The next morning, we swirled through more of the same ol' magnificent curves and scenery, and that afternoon, swirled through something completely different.

With the end now in firmly sight, and rapidly running out of ride report steam, I'll take the lazy way out. After all, even in this economy, a picture is still worth, oh, I dunno, three hundred or so words. So, here is about fifteen hundred words worth of random sights from the rest of the ride:

The last day of the ride, we decided to veer off the PCH in favor of blasting down the interstate, in the interest of just getting home, finally getting off the bikes, and enjoying a healthy cocktail or three before flying to work the very next day.

Whittling away the dull interstate miles, I reflected on all we'd done on this trip; the sights, the roads, the miles, the laughs and even the petty disagreements. As far as ambitious motorcycle tours go, with 4650 miles (not counting the Los Angeles flights) through eight states in eighteen days, I came to the conclusion that this ride was without a doubt, the Best Tour Ever.

The 4650 Mile Road Home

Fifteen miles from the end, that Best Ever status almost changed. Three exits away from the end, I was thinking to myself, "Keep concentrating... you aren't there yet. Just a few more miles to go. This is the most dangerous part of the ride."

And it is, because when the road is familiar, concentration levels drop. A huge rock, one that I didn't notice, got my complete attention, as I hit it, nearly flying off Rain Could Follows. Abi said he was amazed I didn't wreck, because I flew about a foot in the air.

The result?

All things considered, it could've been worse. Much worse.

Home safe and sound, Sleeping Beauty, Dark Meat Snack and I hoisted a healthy toast to our good friends Dean and Pam, Denise and Luciano, Pat and Vicki, Dave and Betty, Keith and Denise and Mike and Ingrid, all of whom opened their homes to us and provided laughs, fun, and free places to stay, without whom this trip wouldn't have been nearly as awesome. Cheers to the lot of you, Best Friends Ever!!

The Entire 7790 Mile Road To Wrestlemania and Back

Rain Cloud Follows and Snowball, now parked safely in California will sit and rest a while until the next 'great' ride idea comes along.

Of course, that great idea may already have come along, because I hear the Icefields Parkway in Canada, from Lake Louise, up through Banff National Park to the friendly and picturesque community of Jasper is absolutely lovely this time of year.

All I need is a napkin.....