Frenchy750
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- Oct 30, 2006
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Act One
Ever since I was this little drummer boy in the picture below, I'll confess, I have been a fan of the rock band Rush.
I can still remember the first time I heard Rush like it was yesterday, which is funny because I can't remember what actually happened yesterday. Anyway, way back in the day, I somehow managed to convince my friend's older sister, the beautiful Jennifer, to follow me to her basement. I had no clue what was going to happen next, but I think she had an idea.
Innocently, she popped her All The World's A Stage 8-track into the player, and instantly my world changed.
The 8-Track That Started It All
From the first notes of "Bastille Day" to the closing chords of "What You're Doing," I was hooked. Beautiful Jennifer ceased to exist as I sat there transfixed by the amazing drumming I was hearing. As a nine year old tadpole drummer, my dream became to learn how to play drums like Neil Peart, Rush's drummer extraordinaire. Once I learned to play the drums right, I'd then tour the world in my very own tour bus as a world famous rock drummer. For years, my poor, understanding parents both supported my dream and tolerated my hours long drum practice sessions, as I attempted to dissect each intricate rhythm and drum passage. With time and practice, I could sorta-kinda play through some of the less difficult songs. I annoyed the entire neighborhood for years.
Funny how things work out, just not always like you plan. Now, I do travel the world on a tour bus, though as an audio engineer for World Wrestling Entertainment, instead of the world famous drummer I planned to be. These days I consider myself merely a drum owner, though from time to time I will still sit down behind the drum kit and annoy my neighbors by trying to hack my way through "Tom Sawyer." Though I don't drum like I used to, Neil Peart continued to inspire me.
Back in 2002, a friend suggested I read Peart's Ghost Rider, a tale of the tragic loss of his family and the healing powers of motorcycling.
This book came along at a particularly low point in my own life, and once again, everything changed. After my second reading, I decided the best thing for me would be to take my little yellow Suzuki Katana - nicknamed The Nip-cycle - for a long, healing ride. My longest ride to date had been about 100 miles. This journey - performed by a much thinner version of myself - the young version that actually fit into that matching yellow leather coat - comprised over 3500 miles in eleven days, meandering from the Kingdom of Rhode Island to Kentucky, through Deal's Gap and the Blue Ridge Mountains and back.
That ride was the origin of my very first, very poorly written ride report, and also the motivation behind every ride that followed, to this day. Again, I was hooked.
A recent, half-joking Facebook post from my friend Pat's wife became the basis for my latest ride. Her post said, "Rush is coming to Houston on September 25th. Will someone PLEASE take Pat so I don't have to go?!?" I looked at my calendar and talked it over with The Boss, then responded with a simple, "I will." My girlfriend Sleeping Beauty conveniently had plans to attend her sister's initiation ceremony into the Third Decade Club on that same weekend, which I think was her way of saying to me, "Please don't drag me to go see Rush again!" The birthday party was conveniently located on the way to Houston in San Antonio, so I broke out the crayons and doodled out a semi-decent Map-kin.
One the Wednesday before the concert, I flew in from wherever the WWE show was, arriving just in time to say goodbye to Fiona before she left on her flight to San Antonio. I quickly tossed some clothes in a bag, fueled up my trusty Yamaha FJR that I call Rain Cloud Follows, and set out for Houston.
Without the luxury of unlimited time, I knew the majority of the ride would be on the Mundane Mile Disposal Thoroughfare known as I-10. With little choice in my first day's route, I settled into a comfortable rhythm and the miles effortlessly disappeared behind me.
I decided that since this ride was a sort of tribute to my childhood influences, I'd take one Ghost Rider tribute picture each day. This was my first day's attempt:
Ghost Rider Tribute - Day One
I wandered east, soon leaving behind my adopted home state of California for the drier, browner pastures of neighboring Arizona.
A few hours into the Grand Canyon State it started getting dark. I wound my way to Gila Bend, figuring I'd spend the night at a hotel I've stayed at a few times before, the quirky Best Western Space Lodge. Of course the Best Western Space Lodge was full of the kind of people I detest; those scumbag travelers that plan ahead and make reservations. Bleeach! Those forward thinking scumbags occupied every room in the Space Lodge, forcing me to seek other accommodations. I opted for the closest and cheapest motel, a no name place with $26 a night rooms, and cryptically offered 'Refrigeration.'
Refrigeration?
I almost laughed at the room total - $30 including tax. The man behind the bullet proof glass slid me a key through the opening and gave me that look that says, "For $30, don't expect much." In fact, for $30, you really don't get much at all: one bare light bulb, a bed, and a fan for air conditioning. My grandmother would find the room's interior decorations retro. The bed is comfy, if you like your mattress extra, extra firm. I'm not positive, but I think the sleep number of that mattress is somewhere above a thousand. For comparison, the floor's sleep number is one hundred. For the low price of $30 you also get to experience the thrilling sounds of freight trains as they shriek and rumble past all night long.
As the 5 AM Sante Fe Express train clattered through Gila Bend, I got up and got out. As I thumbed the ignition, the pull of New Mexico's curvy Route 152 was pretty strong, and since I was up so early, the extra miles were easily justifiable. I pointed Rain Cloud Follows east once again, with the little town of Silver City, which is the unofficial start of Route 152, at least the really good, really twisty bits, square in my sights.
As the day warmed up, I stopped for some fuel and a cool drink. Almost instantly, a leathery old lady came running up to me, gushing about how she took a ride on the back of a motorcycle a week ago. She told me, "Now I need to get me one, but," she said with a half-smirk in Rain Cloud Follow's direction, "I'm getting a real bike - a Harley!"
You go, girl!
As I made my way to Silver City and the goodness that is Route 152, I noticed a sign for Chiricahua National Monument. On a whim, I took the exit - the small two lane road provided a perfect backdrop for my second Ghost Rider tribute photo.
Ghost Rider Tribute - Day Two
I was nearly alone on this road, a long, scenic two laner that led the forty or so miles from the highway to Chiricahua National Monument. I say nearly alone because while I was the only vehicle on the road, there were thousands of frisky grasshoppers doing all manner of things in the middle of the pavement.
I felt awkward interrupting their insect orgy, so I did my best to swerve around the mounds of frantically fornicating bugs. Even with my best efforts, there were too may horny hoppers in the road to avoid them all. Rain Cloud Follows arrived at Chiricahua National Monument covered with legs and antennae.
Chiricahua National Monument is seldom visited, thanks to its remote location. As I figured out, you really have to want to go there, since there is no direct route in. The detour from the highway to the Monument stretched to over forty miles. Once at the monument, I added another stamp to my National Parks Passport, then took the eight mile scenic road to Massai Point.
Massai Point, at an elevation of 6870 feet is surrounded by interesting pinnacle formations on all sides.
I turned around and headed back down to the visitor's center, not relishing the though of riding forty miles back the way I'd come to the highway. Studying my analog map, I found another route, a small, dashed line indicating some kind of road that led back to the highway, though the map claimed the road was closed in winter. This is September, long before winter, so I reasoned with the negative voices in my head that I should be OK, though I wondered exactly what the dashed line meant. It didn't take too long to find out.
Decision time. Behind me is the certainty of forty miles of pavement covered with crickets banging each other. In front of me are unknown conditions, certainly dirt, most likely climbing high into the Chiricahua Mountains. What to do?
The decision is simple. It's obvious. Don't listen to the voices, even the ones of reason.
Never turn around.
I slipped and slid my way through miles of gravel, dirt and mud, enjoying this treacherous fun. Of course, the ride would have been much more fun on a nice dual sport, but I've taken Rain Cloud off road enough to know how the bike handles in the dirt, which is surprisingly not all that bad. After about an hour winding up the side of a mountain, I started thinking to myself, "What am I going to do if I get trapped out here by myself under a fallen bike?"
The only answer I could come up with was, "Don't find out."
The road was challenging and fun, requiring total concentration to keep from pointing my wheels at the sky. The next thing I knew, I'd spent nearly two hours hidden away in total seclusion, when suddenly my reverie was broken by the sight of a gigantic, battered, old pickup truck clattering and banging its way towards me at a high rate of speed, the wild eyed driver glaring menacingly as he rapidly approached.
Alone in the wilderness, this sudden development did not bode well at all.
Ever since I was this little drummer boy in the picture below, I'll confess, I have been a fan of the rock band Rush.
I can still remember the first time I heard Rush like it was yesterday, which is funny because I can't remember what actually happened yesterday. Anyway, way back in the day, I somehow managed to convince my friend's older sister, the beautiful Jennifer, to follow me to her basement. I had no clue what was going to happen next, but I think she had an idea.
Innocently, she popped her All The World's A Stage 8-track into the player, and instantly my world changed.
The 8-Track That Started It All
From the first notes of "Bastille Day" to the closing chords of "What You're Doing," I was hooked. Beautiful Jennifer ceased to exist as I sat there transfixed by the amazing drumming I was hearing. As a nine year old tadpole drummer, my dream became to learn how to play drums like Neil Peart, Rush's drummer extraordinaire. Once I learned to play the drums right, I'd then tour the world in my very own tour bus as a world famous rock drummer. For years, my poor, understanding parents both supported my dream and tolerated my hours long drum practice sessions, as I attempted to dissect each intricate rhythm and drum passage. With time and practice, I could sorta-kinda play through some of the less difficult songs. I annoyed the entire neighborhood for years.
Funny how things work out, just not always like you plan. Now, I do travel the world on a tour bus, though as an audio engineer for World Wrestling Entertainment, instead of the world famous drummer I planned to be. These days I consider myself merely a drum owner, though from time to time I will still sit down behind the drum kit and annoy my neighbors by trying to hack my way through "Tom Sawyer." Though I don't drum like I used to, Neil Peart continued to inspire me.
Back in 2002, a friend suggested I read Peart's Ghost Rider, a tale of the tragic loss of his family and the healing powers of motorcycling.
This book came along at a particularly low point in my own life, and once again, everything changed. After my second reading, I decided the best thing for me would be to take my little yellow Suzuki Katana - nicknamed The Nip-cycle - for a long, healing ride. My longest ride to date had been about 100 miles. This journey - performed by a much thinner version of myself - the young version that actually fit into that matching yellow leather coat - comprised over 3500 miles in eleven days, meandering from the Kingdom of Rhode Island to Kentucky, through Deal's Gap and the Blue Ridge Mountains and back.
That ride was the origin of my very first, very poorly written ride report, and also the motivation behind every ride that followed, to this day. Again, I was hooked.
A recent, half-joking Facebook post from my friend Pat's wife became the basis for my latest ride. Her post said, "Rush is coming to Houston on September 25th. Will someone PLEASE take Pat so I don't have to go?!?" I looked at my calendar and talked it over with The Boss, then responded with a simple, "I will." My girlfriend Sleeping Beauty conveniently had plans to attend her sister's initiation ceremony into the Third Decade Club on that same weekend, which I think was her way of saying to me, "Please don't drag me to go see Rush again!" The birthday party was conveniently located on the way to Houston in San Antonio, so I broke out the crayons and doodled out a semi-decent Map-kin.
One the Wednesday before the concert, I flew in from wherever the WWE show was, arriving just in time to say goodbye to Fiona before she left on her flight to San Antonio. I quickly tossed some clothes in a bag, fueled up my trusty Yamaha FJR that I call Rain Cloud Follows, and set out for Houston.
Without the luxury of unlimited time, I knew the majority of the ride would be on the Mundane Mile Disposal Thoroughfare known as I-10. With little choice in my first day's route, I settled into a comfortable rhythm and the miles effortlessly disappeared behind me.
I decided that since this ride was a sort of tribute to my childhood influences, I'd take one Ghost Rider tribute picture each day. This was my first day's attempt:
Ghost Rider Tribute - Day One
I wandered east, soon leaving behind my adopted home state of California for the drier, browner pastures of neighboring Arizona.
A few hours into the Grand Canyon State it started getting dark. I wound my way to Gila Bend, figuring I'd spend the night at a hotel I've stayed at a few times before, the quirky Best Western Space Lodge. Of course the Best Western Space Lodge was full of the kind of people I detest; those scumbag travelers that plan ahead and make reservations. Bleeach! Those forward thinking scumbags occupied every room in the Space Lodge, forcing me to seek other accommodations. I opted for the closest and cheapest motel, a no name place with $26 a night rooms, and cryptically offered 'Refrigeration.'
Refrigeration?
I almost laughed at the room total - $30 including tax. The man behind the bullet proof glass slid me a key through the opening and gave me that look that says, "For $30, don't expect much." In fact, for $30, you really don't get much at all: one bare light bulb, a bed, and a fan for air conditioning. My grandmother would find the room's interior decorations retro. The bed is comfy, if you like your mattress extra, extra firm. I'm not positive, but I think the sleep number of that mattress is somewhere above a thousand. For comparison, the floor's sleep number is one hundred. For the low price of $30 you also get to experience the thrilling sounds of freight trains as they shriek and rumble past all night long.
As the 5 AM Sante Fe Express train clattered through Gila Bend, I got up and got out. As I thumbed the ignition, the pull of New Mexico's curvy Route 152 was pretty strong, and since I was up so early, the extra miles were easily justifiable. I pointed Rain Cloud Follows east once again, with the little town of Silver City, which is the unofficial start of Route 152, at least the really good, really twisty bits, square in my sights.
As the day warmed up, I stopped for some fuel and a cool drink. Almost instantly, a leathery old lady came running up to me, gushing about how she took a ride on the back of a motorcycle a week ago. She told me, "Now I need to get me one, but," she said with a half-smirk in Rain Cloud Follow's direction, "I'm getting a real bike - a Harley!"
You go, girl!
As I made my way to Silver City and the goodness that is Route 152, I noticed a sign for Chiricahua National Monument. On a whim, I took the exit - the small two lane road provided a perfect backdrop for my second Ghost Rider tribute photo.
Ghost Rider Tribute - Day Two
I was nearly alone on this road, a long, scenic two laner that led the forty or so miles from the highway to Chiricahua National Monument. I say nearly alone because while I was the only vehicle on the road, there were thousands of frisky grasshoppers doing all manner of things in the middle of the pavement.
I felt awkward interrupting their insect orgy, so I did my best to swerve around the mounds of frantically fornicating bugs. Even with my best efforts, there were too may horny hoppers in the road to avoid them all. Rain Cloud Follows arrived at Chiricahua National Monument covered with legs and antennae.
Chiricahua National Monument is seldom visited, thanks to its remote location. As I figured out, you really have to want to go there, since there is no direct route in. The detour from the highway to the Monument stretched to over forty miles. Once at the monument, I added another stamp to my National Parks Passport, then took the eight mile scenic road to Massai Point.
Massai Point, at an elevation of 6870 feet is surrounded by interesting pinnacle formations on all sides.
I turned around and headed back down to the visitor's center, not relishing the though of riding forty miles back the way I'd come to the highway. Studying my analog map, I found another route, a small, dashed line indicating some kind of road that led back to the highway, though the map claimed the road was closed in winter. This is September, long before winter, so I reasoned with the negative voices in my head that I should be OK, though I wondered exactly what the dashed line meant. It didn't take too long to find out.
Decision time. Behind me is the certainty of forty miles of pavement covered with crickets banging each other. In front of me are unknown conditions, certainly dirt, most likely climbing high into the Chiricahua Mountains. What to do?
The decision is simple. It's obvious. Don't listen to the voices, even the ones of reason.
Never turn around.
I slipped and slid my way through miles of gravel, dirt and mud, enjoying this treacherous fun. Of course, the ride would have been much more fun on a nice dual sport, but I've taken Rain Cloud off road enough to know how the bike handles in the dirt, which is surprisingly not all that bad. After about an hour winding up the side of a mountain, I started thinking to myself, "What am I going to do if I get trapped out here by myself under a fallen bike?"
The only answer I could come up with was, "Don't find out."
The road was challenging and fun, requiring total concentration to keep from pointing my wheels at the sky. The next thing I knew, I'd spent nearly two hours hidden away in total seclusion, when suddenly my reverie was broken by the sight of a gigantic, battered, old pickup truck clattering and banging its way towards me at a high rate of speed, the wild eyed driver glaring menacingly as he rapidly approached.
Alone in the wilderness, this sudden development did not bode well at all.
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