The Road to Wrestlemania XXVI

[frenchy750]

The silence is thrilling, the emptiness all-encompassing, the involuntary smile on my face is so wide it hurts. All of this can only mean one thing: A scant three hundred fifty days from the last time we set out - Rain Cloud Follows and I are once again doing it, we're on the Road to Wrestlemania.

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Last year's Road took me, my riding buddy Dark Meat Snack (and occasionally my girlfriend Fiona) on a long and winding commute to work from California to Houston, the site of Wrestlemania XXV. This year's version of Wrestlemania - the XXVIth - is being held at the University of Phoenix stadium in Glendale, AZ. In a straight line, the UoP stadium is around three hundred fifty miles from my adopted home in California. I figured with a little creative planning and Map-kining, I could make this year's commute to work last a few days and at least fifteen hundred miles.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXIV/WM-XXVI-Mapkin/811091812_kfg4a-M.jpg
The 2010 Road to Wrestlemania Map-kin

For various reasons (a marriage in Abi's case and a new addition to her sister's family in Fiona's) this year I am riding the first half solo - not such a bad way to go if you ask me. My route the first day takes me up 395 in California, a pleasant backroad-ish route, until I'm involuntarily tagged into a spirited but annoying game of Pass the Ass.

A white pickup truck races past me, pulls in directly front of me and sloooooows down. I then turn up the wick and pass him. This driving exhibition, more boredom induced that road rage, continues for about eighty miles until I'm finally tired of it. At the Trona cut off, I fake Mr. 'I-Love-My-White-Truck' out, turn off 395 onto Trona Wildrose road, and am once again peacefully on my way to Death Valley.

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I stop at a breathtaking scenic vista high above an incredible valley for a few photos, and am amazed at what happens next. As I set up my shot, a fighter jet comes screaming out of the sun, wags his wings back a forth a few times at me then races away over the mountains.

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I smile as the jet disappears in the distance, then notice another flier watching in mutual appreciation, or possibly jealousy.

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Not ten feet from me, a Chukar partridge sticks his head out of the scrub, intently watching the activity. He coos and honks away, saying, "Hey Dude, take my picture!" I oblige, then he whoops it up, flaps himself into a frenzy and also disappears into the distance. As I start putting my camera away for a second time, I notice something out of the corner of my eye in the direction my feathered friend flapped off to. Brown, vaguely car shaped and way, way down in the valley, I wonder what it could be.

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Pulling out my big lens, I realize the brown lump is a car, or at least it used to be. The owner must have taken a serious wrong turn many years ago.

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Happy with my decision to stop and the pictures it provided, I realize that daylight is already starting to be at a premium, and if I'm going to make it to the Furnace Creek Inn in Death Valley before sunset, I've got to crank it up a notch. I mount up and rapidly descend towards my eventual home for the evening.

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Along the way, a tempting road side sign offers a tempting distraction. Though somewhat in a hurry to get a room before nightfall, I'm always willing to sacrifice the destination for the day.

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It's not hard to figure out what happens next. Yielding to temptation, I turn right down the 3 1/2 mile dirt road down to do some sloppy dual sport riding and bust some ghosts, of course. Sunset be damned!

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As far as ghost towns go, Ballarat is definitely one. Not a good one, but at least there is one deserted building that is somewhat interesting.

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Rain Cloud Follows handles the dirt road like a pig in ballet slippers, we're slippin' and slidin' all over the place as we make our way back to the pavement. The fighter jet makes a return pass overhead, low, fast and loud!

Life is good.

Before I left home, I decided to take one 'Ghost Rider Tribute' picture per day on this ride. Ghost Rider, for those few that live under rocks and don't know, is Neil Peart's excellent book about life and motorcycling. That book is one of the main reasons I ride as much as I do.

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Here is today's tribute:

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG1835/823888705_34v4s-L.jpg

All this ridin', off roadin' and photographin' in the desert makes a guy hungry and thirsty. I stopped to top up both me and the bike in Stovepipe Wells.

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The sun paints the sky as I brush the last crumbs of apple pie off my well insulated belly. Rain Cloud Follows and I race deeper into the desert with our night's home of the Furnace Creek Inn locked in my sights.

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Unfortunately, when I got there, I found out there was no room at the Inn. I guess they expect people to make reservations, which would mean they also expect people to know where they are going ahead of time. I hate making reservations, because then I'm stuck having to be somewhere at the end of the day. As they say, the adventure begins when the plan derails, and now, in the desert at night without a place to stay, I'm on an adventure.

Checking the GPS, I realized there isn't much out in the desert in the way of hotels. I briefly considered going back to Ballarat, because I knew of at least one building with a vacancy. No roof, but at least vacancy. Then I find another hotel, right across the state line in Nevada called the Longstreet Inn. Beggars can't be choosers, so I head that way to try and sort something out.

My oasis turns out to be the place where elderly weirdos hold their elderly weirdo meetings. But, at least the Longstreet Inn has a room, and not long after I check in I easily figure out why. This is the kind of place where the bartender gets mad at you for expecting him to get you a drink. After waiting and enduring a long, "What the fuck do you want?" stare, I finally am able to toast the Best Day Ever, substituting Jameson for Macallan in honor of my patron saint, Patrick.

I wander over to the sad looking slot machines, and am soon on a roll. Bells keep ringing, and I keep winning. Pretty soon I am up, way up. The little voice of reason, the one I almost always ignore, shouts in my ear, "Take the money and run!" For once I do the sensible thing and hit the Cash Out button.

Excited to be instantly rich, I quickly realize two things. One, instead of dollars like I thought, I was only playing for nickels, and two, instead of printing a slip that I can take to a cashier, this is a first generation slot machine, and by hitting the Cash Out button, sixteen hundred nickels are slowly clank-clank-clanking their way into the tray.

The worst is yet to come. The grumpy bartender is also the grumpy cashier. He gives me the Stink Eye as patiently I sit at the bar with my brimming bucketful of nickels. Finally, with a great big sigh, he trudges over to me and just stands there. After a minute of hoping I'd just vanish, he asks if I want to cash in my nickels.

"No, I want to buy another beer!" I paid for a Corona with 110 nickels, and, being the generous soul I am, I even tip this grouch with two more of my newly won nickels. I take my nickel bucket back to the room, and am soon fast asleep, with visions of deserted roads still to come dancing in my head.

[frenchy750]

At the crack of very late morning, I'm half awake, and not feeling so good. For a change, the previous night's nickel beers didn't do me in, I just have some kind of cold or virus or, more likely, a super strain of the Bubonic plague infecting me. I can feel it in my head, my sinuses and my chest, and no, it doesn't feel good.

Hoping the awfulness will soon clear, I stare at the map in my tankbag, and in my semi-hallucinogenic state, a new route starts to form. "Hmm, there are a lot of scenic roads up in that toothbrush shaped state. Didn't notice those before." As I get out of bed, I already know my plans have changed, so I grab my Map-kin, blow my nose in it, pitch it in the trash and head out towards the scenic roads of my second favorite state, ToothBrushLand.

http://www.motorcyclistcafe.com/forums/the%20plan%20derails,%20and%20now,%20in%20the%20de sert%20at%20night%20without%20a%20place%20to%20sta y,%20I%27m%20on%20an%20adventure.http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG1935/817005328_ioicg-L.jpg

To save a little time getting between my current location and my new destination of Utah, I opt for the highway. I had all distances, sights and places to stay worked out on the Map-kin, but that's in the trash. Now I'm venturing into unknown territory.

I love it.

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The little bit of I-15 that thrusts into Arizona is as good as any mountain road I've ever had the pleasure of slowing traffic down on, with deep, sweeping, beautiful curves lovingly sheltered in a mountainous canyon. Even though I'm under the weather, I know my route change was the right move. A few curvaceous hours later, I am surprised to find myself at the gates of Zion National Park.

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I love Zion.

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What's not to love?

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I mean really...

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Zion Rocks!!

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Signs at the Zion-Mt. Carmel tunnel warn to wait for an escort, but at the guard house I'm just waved on. The tunnel is a miracle of 1930's technology. Dug by unemployed cartoon characters after World War One using mostly TNT and other dangerous cartoon methods. This is a fact that I just made up.

All I know is on the other side of the tunnel, the temperature started to drop.

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After the park exit, the temperature still drops, the road straightens out, but it is no less scenic.

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Utah is without a doubt my second or third favorite state. If they could just fix their wacky alcohol laws, Utah would definitely be my second favorite state after the Kingdom of Rhode Island.

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By improvising a route, I knew I'd need to figure out a place to stay, and I also knew that out in the great wide nothingness of upper Utah, places to stay would be sparse. One thing I know, accommodations always work themselves out, so there's no sense in worrying. Besides, there's still a lot to see before the sun sets.

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Today's Ghost Rider Tribute

I follow the map as Route 89 takes a sharp bend, and I am suddenly riding in a huge semi-circle. I trust the designers of the road made this detour for a reason, and my trust is rewarded with the best scenery of the whole trip.

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Navajo Bridge

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Marble Canyon

I could not have felt luckier if I'd hit for thirty-two hundred nickels the other night.

On an adventure, everything is a compromise. At the beginning, adding hundreds of miles to detour to an exotic location is a great idea. At the end of the day, those additional hundreds of miles can leave you far from a place to sleep.

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But the sunsets out in the middle of nowhere are nice, and riding in the dark is fun, for a while. The closest town to me is Tuba City, nearly one hundred miles away. To Tuba City I go.The miles tick off as I assure myself the big TC has plenty of hotels to host the legions of faithful fans that must visit the Tuba Hall of Fame. In inky blackness, I pull into a safe haven, and manage to secure an expensive room.

With my head still stuffy and sick, I am soon fast asleep. I am at least five hundred miles from Bisbee, where I have a reservation at a haunted hotel for the following night, but that's a problem for a new day.

Screw it. I'll rework that part of the plan in the morning.

[demenshea]

Another audacious affirmation of awesome antics a'la Frenchy!! Good show, mate, I can't wait for the "rest of the story". Sorry, I am not joining you the first at Deans. I really wanted to, but my dad calls the shots these days and I gotta be in beautiful downtown Yerington this week. Cheers!! Damn, I'd give a nickel for some of your gambling luck! ; )

[Dirty Doug]

Mark,

Another of what is always a well written trip guide I can't wait for the remainder. Like you I also enjoy solo trips but this year I'm taking my long trip with GREAT company. It will be an Old Hoon revival topped by none.

Dirty Doug

[Deans BMW]

Frenchy, your travelogs are second to none.

[Donson]

Mr. French, they oughta give You a Travel Show!

[Sir Limpsalot]

I agree wholeheartedly with both Dean and Don. Dean and Don? Sounds like a double act!
Your photography holds me spellbound. Just fantastic.

Si.

[frenchy750]

What strange place have I landed in? Tuba City? No Tuba Hall of Fame, no tuba factory, no Ooom-Pah Band in the town square to greet me when I arrive. In fact, Tuba City's list of NO's goes on and on, the worst no of all being NO ALCOHOL. The warning from the front desk is dire, the penalty for being caught with alcohol on the reservation is extremely severe.

Even though I still have a cold, I refuse to take any type of cold medicine that doesn't come from Scotland, preferably a nice single malt aged in oak barrels for, oh, say, twelve years or so. Since I always carry an emergency stash of "cold medicine" in my bag, I'm now afraid the Anti-Fun League might bust down my door at any moment. In an effort to avoid 'extremely severe' penalties, I disguise my contraband as cleverly as I can.

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Before retiring for the evening, I toast the Best Day Ever with a healthy dose of medicine. It helps a little, but the next morning I wake up still under the weather. I put on my helmet, and a sneeze immediately shotgun blasts everything in sight. Not a great start to the day.

As I'm cleaning my visor, a friendly Navajo man walks over to me and gives me sage route advice. "See the Dinosaur Tracks on your way out of Tuba City, then seek out Grand Falls. Do not bother with Meteor Crater, it is a tourist trap."

I thank my new friend, and with a clean visor and clear conscience am out of Tuba City and on my way to see the Dino Footprints.

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Nothing is quite as invigorating as cresting a small rise on a small two laner, well over the posted speed limit, then suddenly realizing there is a gigantic land yacht sprawled across your lane struggling to pass another gigantic land yacht. Turns out that pure terror is good for the senses, and a great cold remedy. Narrowly avoiding becoming one with the dinosaur footprints spread over the landscape, I emergency swerve away from the lumbering Winnebago. I didn't sneeze for the rest of the day.

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When my heart rate returns to normal, I pull into the Dinosaur Footprints parking lot, with 'Tourist Trap' senses tingling. A lone man in a red jacket waits as I park, then introduces himself. "Hello. I am Junior, and I will take you on a tour of the footprints. Please, follow me."

I follow Junior approximately twelve feet, and he points at the ground. "Here is one. They say this was a T. Rex."

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I nod appropriately, making various 'I'm interested' noises, as I wonder how much this 'tour' is going to cost. Junior leads me to the next print, about five feet away.

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"They say this is also a T. Rex. I think he was running."

"Mmm-hmmm," I say.

Junior leads me in a three hundred yard circle, pointing out a few more prints, and places where prints have been removed. Then, the tour reaches its inevitable climax. Pointing to a non-descript whitish stone he tells me, "They say this is the bones of a giant flying dinosaur. They have scopes that prove it. The other bones are in a museum in Flagstaff. They took them away back in the forties."

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He proceeds to point out the ribcage of this flying dinosaur, then abruptly asks me for a ride into town. I guess that signals the end of the tour. Shaking his hand, I hand Junior some money but decline his request for a ride into town.

Being one that loves cheesy roadside attractions, I feel the tour was totally worth it.

I search for Grand Falls for about an hour, but the Falls elude me. My Garmin Everlost is no help at all, sending me in ever expanding circles that always seem to end up at the same place. Finally, I resign myself that Grand Falls will have to wait for another day. That's OK, because I know the biggest cheesy roadside attraction, Meteor Crater, is yet to come.

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I pass snow-covered mountains on my way towards Meteor Crater, and though it is chilly, all is right with the world. The anticipation of seeing an actual meteor impact site has my imagination reeling. A long time ago I flew over Meteor Crater, and vowed to one day peer into its rim. I'm excited to have another Place-I'll-Only-Visit Once to tick off my ever growing list.

On the access road, I stop to take my daily Ghost Rider Tribute picture.

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And then, finally, after a lifetime of waiting, my time to unravel the mysteries of Meteor Crater has finally arrived.

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Meteor Crater is exactly what I expect it to be - a big hole in the ground - seven hundred feet deep and four thousand feet across - that costs $15 to go look in. And... that's about it. They've made it a bit more interesting by placing a wooden cutout astronaut at the center of the crater, paying tribute to the Apollo astronauts that trained there for their eventual moon mission, which may or may not have been filmed on location in Meteor Crater.

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If all that isn't enticing enough, the Subway restaurant there also offers a free cookie if you buy a sandwich. Awesome.

After this intermission, it's time to buckle down and get going. On the highway, another RV, this time with a gigantic boat in tow, nearly capsizes right in front of me. The camper slowly started drifting off the road, then jerked violently left to regain the lane. The boat trailer swings wildly back and forth, one wheel skipping in the air. Already hip to the wild and unpredictable ways of the RV'ers, I drop the hammer to avoid this shipwreck. Rain Cloud Follows and I are southbound, heading for the delicious vortex of weirdness known as Bisbee, a place so fantastic it really deserves its own post.

[Griffon]

I too visited the Meteor Crater whilst en route to Dave and Betty's Motogypsy Emporium from the wilds of Phoenix last summer. I too felt my $15 was well spent and was thankful for my free cookie.

I am more than a little bummed I missed out on Junior's Amazing Dinoprint Tour. Pity I missed that sign...

[frenchy750]

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Standin' on the corner in Winslow, Arizona, and nothing happens. No girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford, or anything else for that matter slows down to take a look at me. Ah well, back to runnin' down the road to Bisbee.

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The temperature stays in the low 50's, and at these high elevations, snow still lines both sides of the road.

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Then, finally, thankfully, the elevation starts to drop. Suddenly, where there were pine trees and snow there is now cacti and sand. That's more like it!

My Garmin Everlost routes me off the highway, and for a change, I am happy for the detour. Usually the little wonder of technology will have me exit the highway only to perform a U-Turn or two and get right back on. This time the Garmin has excellent scenery and roads on the mind (or memory chips as it were) and I'm along in the Tonto National Forest for the ride.

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The remaining miles between me and Bisbee decrease, speed and time conquering distance as always. The sun sets and the last fifty miles to my home for the night are completed in darkness.

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Copper Queen Hotel - The Next Morning

I check in at the Copper Queen Hotel, and am told the room next to mine is supposedly haunted. I thumb through the Ghost Journal on the counter; some of the stories are quite well written. I don't really believe in ghosts, but you never know...

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I have dinner at a local restaurant, and the hostess, a kind older lady offers up the line of the night. A strange couple sits next to me at the bar, a couple that can't seem to keep their hands off each other. When the hostess asks for their order, the lady spells out a complicated list of changes she wants to her dish, including adding shrimp. The hostess informs the woman that adding shrimp will result in a $3 additional charge, to which the woman starts loudly complaining. The hostess leans in close and whispers, "Listen lady, I'm pushing 70. Do you really think I need this shit? So, tell me. Do you want the shrimp or not?"

Stunned, the woman at the bar says, "Ummm, yes. OK." My new favorite hostess then responded in a loud voice, "Well, the customer is always right!"

There is plenty of entertainment to be had in Bisbee, ghosts or not. The newly opened Old Bisbee Brewing Company is a great place for an India Pale Ale or three, and a story. After ordering my second, the bartendress, a cute girl around twenty-five asks if I'm enjoying the brew. Being a bit of a beer connoisseur, with the beer connoisseur belly to prove it, I reply, "Yes, very much. It's just right."

"Good. I'm glad to hear that. I'm the brewmaster, and that's my recipe."

Woah. Interesting. A girl brewmaster that makes excellent beer. If it wasn't for Fiona...........

Turns out the Old Bisbee Brewing Company has only been open about a week, and on the night I am there, the place is packed. Mindy, the brewmaster, attended Brewmaster school in England. I sample every beer in the place, and have to say that there wasn't a bad one in the bunch. Beer school paid off for Mindy.

I walk around Bisbee, and am almost in a constant state of amazement. Everyone in the town, from local residents to tourists says hello, which seems to have become a lost art in most parts of the US. Usually a single traveler in a bar will be roundly ignored, in Bisbee that doesn't happen, because you aren't a single traveler for long, you are almost instantly absorbed into a group. In an alleyway I'm convinced for a second that I see a ghost, then I wonder if it's just the after effects of Mindy's brewmastery.

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Further down Brewery Avenue, I do another double take.

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A house sits on the corner that is so interesting I have to go back in the morning for pictures, and to make sure I'm not losing my mind.

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Yes, Bisbee is a very interesting place. I vow to come back someday, but as the Road to Wrestlemania is winding to it's inevitable end, I know I have to leave. With one night left, and one more fun stop planned before work interrupts my ride once again, I sadly point Rain Cloud Follows away from my new favorite town towards the drier pastures of Tucson, then Phoenix, and the reason for this whole ride - Wrestlemania XXVI.

[1MPH]

Nice Frenchy.

Jack Kerouac on a motorcycle.

[DarthRider]

6 nipples...wow!
And a great big one hung down low with a...stick in it?

I gotta see Bisbee.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG4442/817097226_PZ8Mm-L.jpg

[frenchy750]

Leaving Bisbee was hard, as leaving any truly great place is. But sometimes in life, you have to make hard decisions, and with my flight booked out of Phoenix to the final WWE show before Wrestlemania eminent, it's time to make the hard decision and head north.

A stop in Tombstone made that decision a little easier, for a few minutes.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2136/817127866_Uniqy-M.jpg

I hitch Rain Cloud Follows to the sidewalk, and mosey down Main Street.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2141/817128608_8xd5B-M.jpg

Tombstone is a tourist trap, but it is a cool one, because at least they have gunfights on the hour. Any tourist trap can be made infinitely better with the simple addition of a gunfight. Instead of watching the battle, which I have already seen, I stop into my favorite Tombstone watering hole for a quick beverage.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2151/817128189_XBqjK-M.jpg

The beverage goes right through me, and I see this sign in the Cowboy's room.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2147/817128008_ByvEg-M.jpg
I Wonder If They Knew I Was Coming?

To my horror, when I return to Rain Cloud Follows, I can tell something is wrong. After a quick check, I realize some slimy little shit, some random scumbag stole my favorite possession, the Kingdom of Rhode Island flag that I've proudly flown on every ride I have taken on Rain Cloud Follows.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/RI-Flag/818684781_m9Qkq-L.jpg
Missing - Reward for Capture of Flag Thief

Tombstone is still a pretty lawless place. Where is Wyatt Earp when you need him?

Shit.

After fantasizing about hangings, drawing and quarterings, waterboardings and other messy methods of punishing the Flag Thief, I resolve to get over my loss and somehow find the strength to carry on. The fact that I am heading to the Kitt Peak Observatory for an evening of stargazing makes this resolution easier.

But first, my Ghost Rider Tribute, which I changed up so the missing flag wouldn't be noticed.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG1838/828657915_GdnhN-L.jpg

Kitt Peak Observatory, located about forty five miles outside Tucson, hosts twenty-six telescopes. A Nightly Observer program offers, for a small fee, the opportunity for visitors to use one of their sixteen inch telescopes to peer out at the universe. When I found out about the program a few weeks ago, I immediately signed up.

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The ride up to the top of Kitt Peak is exhilarating, I'm easily the first to arrive. The group, almost forty strong, is excited to learn about the stars and see some up close and personal. But first, we gather outside to watch the sunset.

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With the distracting sun safely out of the way, we are taken on a tour of the universe, first with binoculars, then, what everyone is waiting for, through the telescope.

I have to admit that the views were somewhat disappointing. While I was expecting this view of the Cigar Galaxy:

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/m82spitzerc48/817149026_4CNWA-L.jpg

Through the sixteen inch eye of the Schmidt-Cassegrain telescope, it looked more like this:

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/Cigar-Galaxy/817149072_MiQH2-L.jpg

Then, our guide explained that the light from the Cigar Galaxy that we were seeing left that galaxy about twelve MILLION years ago, and is just now reaching the Earth. For all we know - and there is no easy way to tell with any amount of certainty - the Cigar Galaxy might not even be there anymore.

Because of the enormous distance involved, what we are seeing at that moment is what the Cigar Galaxy looked like twelve million years in the past. This is such a huge mind fuck it still makes me dizzy just thinking about it. Telescopes have a way of putting everything in perspective, and making me feel incredibly small and insignificant.

The fun wasn't over when the program ended, not by a long shot. At the end of the viewing, our guide announced, "Folks, as there is active astronomical research going on all night, we need a favor from you. Light from headlights can mess up sensitive telescopes, so we ask as you leave that you please refrain from turning on your headlights until you are one mile down the access road."

Ummm.... Say what?

After asking if they were out of their minds, I tell them I can't just switch off my headlights. The guide assures me he is serious, then offers a low tech solution - taping manila folders over my headlights. Oh yeah baby, I'll just use the force to get down that first winding, windy mile of mountainous road.

This is what the first mile looked like:

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/Black/828841788_L2uBD-M.jpg

And not just because I had my eyes shut for most of it.

The remaining miles back to Tucson were much less exciting as that first mile was. For anyone interested, I can highly, enthusiastically, one hundred percent recommend against taping folders over your headlights and descending a mountain road at midnight. My toast that night is to the Best Day Ever to Still-Be-Alive-After-Blatantly-Cheating-Death-on-the-Side-of-a-Mountain.

[frenchy750]

Five days and well over a thousand miles after leaving California, through deserts, forests, reservations, dry counties, curvy roads, a hot Bisbee microbrewmaster, and all the rest, D-Day has finally arrived. I ponder the map, wondering just how lost I can get and still make my appointment with the airline to have them whisk me to San Jose for the final marathon session of WWE shows before the insanity that is Wrestlemania begins.

Biosphere 2 lies somewhat between me and my date with Delta, but so does the Titan Missile museum. I know that if I go to the missile, I will figure out how to launch it and lob a nuke at Tombstone in revenge for stealing my flag. This is why I will probably never be president.

Cooler heads prevail, and I opt for Biosphere 2.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG1838/817132926_2FCv4-M.jpg

I end up at the tail end of a huge Harley train on the way to Biosphere 2. At the entrance to the 'Place Where Science Lives' , the Hog train roars on, leaving my by myself to explore this strange place.

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The campus of Biosphere 2 is impressive, and the price of admission is a steep $20. I try to decide if the hour long tour is worth it, decide it isn't, turn around, get all the way to the parking lot, then decide oh what the hell, it IS worth it and turn back around. Though I am on a somewhat strict schedule, as long as the tour is over by 1 PM, I think I'll be OK.

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http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG4568/817130814_zcnj8-M.jpg

If you're wondering where Biosphere I is, the wackos that built this ultra-expensive debacle consider Biosphere I the Earth, and Biosphere 2 was designed as an enclosed environment and possible way to colonize other planets.

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I kind of remember reading about Biosphere 2, and thinking even back then it was a sham. Now that I'm inside the giant glass terrarium, I can see firsthand what a huge sham it is. For example, in the movie that precedes the tour, an eager looking scientist in overalls and a checkered shirt exclaims, "Biosphere 2 is a great way for us to learn about the environment. For example, to study the effects of drought on living organisms, we stopped watering these trees three weeks ago, and now all the trees are dead."

Dude, if you want to learn about the effect of not watering trees, you don't need to spend $150,000,000, you are welcome, in the name of science, to visit my front yard anytime for free.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG4580/817131525_nocVt-L.jpg
Another Biosphere 2 'Experiment'

Comedy in the name of science continues, as our tour guide confides the 'Biospherians' - the eight lunatics that volunteered to seal themselves in Biosphere 2 for a few years to see what would happen didn't have such an easy go of it. Within two months, the group of eight splintered into two groups of four, and the two groups stopped speaking to each other. For nearly two years. Yeah, I bet that was comfortable!

As the experiment wore on, critics disclaimed Biosphere 2, saying the two-year experiment in self-sufficiency is starting to look less like science and more like a $150 million stunt.

Some Biosphere 2 literature defends their experiments, saying, "In the case of Biosphere 2, the experimenters learned that small, closed ecosystems are complex and vulnerable to unplanned events."

Kind of like life, no?

The tour led us through the 'Desert,' the 'Ocean,' and the 'Rainforest,' before taking us backstage, to the underground machine rooms that make the Biosphere, um... Sphere.

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At this point, I'd seen enough. The tour went on, and on, and on. I briefly considered using the emergency axe to make an escape, but simply told the tour guide I had to leave. He nodded, we shared a 'I know this place is loony' stare, and I left.

They never did show us where the Biospherians grew their weed, I guess that is on the VIP tour.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2170/817129017_42pUh-L.jpg

One more brief stop for one more Ghost Rider Tribute, and it was time to make a beeline to Sky Harbor International airport, where I made my flight with plenty of time to spare. Before boarding my flight, before imprisoning myself in a tube to breathe recycled farts for two hours, I snapped one, final Ghost Rider tribute, from the parking lot of the airport.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2174/817133276_o3gse-L.jpg

In two days I'll be back to Phoenix for the week long terror fest known as Wrestlemania.

More to follow.....

[Tassie Devil]

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG4568/817130814_zcnj8-M.jpg

From what I understand, this device will mate with aliens to colonise other planets.... Right?

Thanks for the tour and the remarkable images Frenchy....
A masterful report...

Cheers,

JQ.

[Sir Limpsalot]

A toast to "the best ride report - ever".

Cheers,
Si.

[frenchy750]

San Jose blurs by. Compressing what normally is a two-day, four show taping into one super long day has a strange way of making time (and eyes, brains, ect) blur. For the second time in less than two days, I take to the unfriendly skies, where US Air (Motto: We hate to fly and it shows) delivers my half asleep carcass back to Phoenix. And now, it's time. The Road to Wrestlemania has come to an end. The flying over for a while, I quickly rescue Rain Cloud Follows from the confines of the parking garage, and the ever trustworthy, ever predictable Garmin Everlost takes me on a tour of the smallest streets of Phoenix on the way to the hotel that will be my home for the next week.

And that home is not bad at all if I do say so myself. Usually, it seems our hotels are conveniently located in a desolate warehouse district, presumably in an effort to keep the crew safe and sober. This time, for a welcome change, our hotel is located directly next door to one of those fun bar/restaurant/fun complexes. Uh oh...

On Thursday night, this fun bar/restaurant/fun complex hosts Bike Night, with enough raw, blatant motorcycle porn on display to cause that gland in my tiny brain to dump happy juice into my system at a pleasantly alarming rate.

Warning: Motorcycle Porn to Follow

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The biggest tribute to motorcycling excess I've ever seen, the Boss Hoss made me chuckle.

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http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2184/821720153_wA5vM-L.jpg

Standing next to this behemoth, I laugh as I picture this monster firing up, and the wash from the exhaust cannons knocking surrounding bikes and bystanders down like dominoes.

Then, there is this tribute to the other extreme; the three wheeled, 1 HP Road Hog trike:

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2186/821720193_EGfTZ-L.jpg

I love the look of this motorcycle.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/photo/834337127_Kdrd3-L.jpg

Then, I see it. Tucked away in a corner, hidden from view of all but the most determined moto-porn connoisseurs is the bike I lusted after, the bike I decorated the inside of my high school locker with centerfolds of, the motorcycle that for years I couldn't get out of my head (and now it thankfully back in my head once again) the one and only Yamaha FZR.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2193/829765662_ZFxV5-M.jpg

MMMmmmmm-MMMmmmm good.

As much as I hate to do it, I tear myself away from this dangerous but delicious bike, as grand theft moto is still probably a felony in Arizona.

A few days of setup in the University of Phoenix stadium, a building that sort of looks like a futuristic toaster oven from the 1950's, begins. For about a week prior to the TV crew's arrival, other crews armed with fun toys like cranes and lifts have been setting up jillions of tons of steel, stages, screens, lights and everything else it takes to put on this massive show.

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On Friday, Dark Meat Snack and I leave the chaos of the futuristic toaster building for the relative calm of the Dodge Theater, to set up for Saturday evening's Hall of Fame ceremony. This year, for a welcome change, set up is smooth, and the show, featuring the induction of Ted Dibiase, the Million Dollar Man, comes off without a hitch.

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Then, the big day arrives. 72,219 of our closest friends file into the arena, and at the appropriate time, the announcement is made, the crowd erupts in a wild cheer, America the Beautiful booms through the building, and the show goes on, as all shows must.

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Now it's just 364 days until the Road to Wrestlemania XXVII takes me and Rain Cloud Follows to Atlanta.

Up next, Sleeping Beauty arrives to accompany me on the Road Home.

[Arby]

Great read, frenchy!! Judging from your photos, there really is "no business like show business!!"

Looking forward to the rest of the story too.

RB

[Dirty Doug]

Atlanta is only a short hop to Charleston and the Casa deBunch and the spring ride to Arby's if the dates work out. Either way my Casa your Casa.

Dirty Doug

[demenshea]

Wow...when i think of the power bill for just that one night...

Frenchy, I ALWAYS look forward to your ride reports. You do the 'best ones ever". :pftroest:

As always, i look forward to connecting with you and Sleeping Beauty. Maybe this summer!

[Deans BMW]

Damn Frenchy, simply unbeliveable.

Your travelogs are world class.

[DarthRider]

Great stuff as always Frenchy...thanks!
I think I'm going to be a pro rassler when I grow up...

[frenchy750]

Ka'ahele, the god of travel and arena booking smiled twice on The Hardest Working Crew in Television™. His first benevolent act; the show the day after Wrestlemania - Monday Night RAW, also affectionately known as 'Go Fuck Yourself Monday' is booked in downtown Phoenix, a scant twenty-seven miles from Wrestlemania's University of Phoenix arena. This is good for two reasons. First, it means The Crew™ will be able to attend the Wrestlemania after-party instead of jumping on a bus and riding through the night to Monday's show. Second and more importantly, the Phoenix arena is conveniently close to the Phoenix airport, meaning I'll be able to stash Rain Cloud Follows at the airport again for a Wednesday pickup.

The second benevolent act of Ka'ahele is arguably even better. Smackdown on Tuesday, affectionately known as 'And The Horse You Rode In On Tuesday' is booked in none other than Las Vegas! I can think of no better place to end a week of insanity than in an insane city. Rather than trying to ride three hundred miles in the dark from Phoenix to Sin City on Monday night, I opt for the safety, comfort, and conveniently stashed bottle of Macallan on the bus.

After the show on ATHYRIO Tuesday, I sneak away to the Hard Rock Casino, for some well deserved slot machine therapy. This time I don't mess with the paltry nickel slots, I go straight to the dollar machines. Sometimes you just have to go for it.

Pretty soon I am up. Way up.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/Hard-Rock-Winnings/828657565_BSmYH-L.jpg

Pretty soon I'm out. Sometimes you just have to take the money and run.

Wednesday is also affectionately known as 'The Best Day Ever' because it is the day that The Crew™ gets to go home, to finally separate from the constant drone of close quarters Crew contact, to go and do anything but another day of television production. On Wednesday, I fly back to Phoenix, meet Fiona, grab Rain Cloud Follows and start the Long Ride Home.

While I've been working to make sure all the fantastic sounds of wrestling are appreciated by the masses, Fiona's been busy saving lives. After her third night of preserving people, she flew directly to Phoenix to ride with me, just because she's tough like that. She's also tired, but still game to ride. My original plan was to head up to Show Low to visit my friends Dean and Mz. Pam, introduce them to Sleeping Beauty, and, in the interest of full disclosure, make my riding gear a little tighter with big helpings of Mz. Pam's incredible pie.

Mother Nature has other plans. The weather forecast for Show Low is a high of 44 with the possibility of up to two inches of snow. Fiona's reaction to this little news flash immediately tells me it's time for Plan B.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2196/838537078_wTVdU-M.jpg
I Love This Girl!

Plan B... Plan B... B... Hmmm... B.... What about... Bisbee?!? I liked Bisbee, it's forecast is better than Show Low, and, while I'm not a huge fan of going back to places I've already been, I have to admit the beer in Bisbee is good. Right in the Terminal Four parking garage of Sky Harbor International airport, our plan officially changes from Oh No, Snow in Show Low to Plan Bisbee. Just before we leave, I phone ahead and book a special "room" at the Shady Dell, paid for with my Hard Rock windfall.

Mother Nature's foul mood extends into Phoenix. The wind is brutal, bitch slapping us from one direction, then sucker punching from the other. I struggle to keep us on the black and out of the brown. Passing trucks is like entering the Vortex of Doom, as the sudden vacuum threatens to suck us under. I notice with some trepidation that there are hardly any motorcycles coming up from the Bisbee area.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2214/837150940_XEsXP-L.jpg

What an adventure.

After enduring this blow job for far too long, we arrive at the Shady Dell. The Shady Dell is a trailer park with a twist. The "rooms" for rent are all 1950's mobile homes that, according to their website, are "perfectly restored to combine mid-century Americana kitsch with the comforts of home in a way that only the 1950s were capable of."

Our kitschy home for the evening is the lavishly, if not entirely accurately titled Royal Mansion.

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And with that, Sleeping Beauty and I officially are trailer trash.

I try to find a taxi to take us to my new favoritest place on Earth, the Old Bisbee Brewery. Unfortunately, it seems there are none to be found, so we gear back up and ride Rain Cloud Follows into town. This sucks, because it means I'll only be able to enjoy one of OBB's fine IPAs, but that's the price you have to pay for being the designated front-seat jockey. We learn from the bartender Vic that Mindy, his daughter and my favoritest brewmaster isn't in. It's probably just as well because I'm sure Fiona could take her in a fight. Vic fills us in on the history of the brewery, telling us that he and his business partner had a brainstorm to open a brewery in Brewery Gulch, the only problem was they needed a brewmaster. Vic called his daughter one fateful night with a tempting offer to go to England to attend Brewmaster School. She readily accepted. Vic then asked when she thought she'd be able to go. Her answer, "Well, I guess I'll need about an hour to pack..." The rest is history. Turns out the brewpub has only been open two weeks. Also turns out I was there on the first Friday, a fact which gets me a hearty "Thank You!" but no free beer.

I ask Vic if there is a taxi in town. "Yeah, we have one... sometimes... when he's sober enough to drive... " I'm guessing tonight isn't one of those nights. Draining my pint, we leave for a forgettable dinner, then head back to our trailer in the still raging wind.

The gale shakes the trailer all night long. At one point Fiona and I both jump up thinking our Spartan Royal Mansion is about to flip over. I'd thought about heading to San Felipe in Baja the next day, but with hurricane force winds still threatening to blow us all away to OZ, that plan is quickly scrapped as well. We decide that one more day in Bisbee won't kill us, while attempting to ride in this violent windstorm just might. I book a room in the haunted Copper Queen for that night, as sadly, the trailer park is full.

I walk around the next morning and snap a few pics of this interesting place.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5514/837151084_CfTM4-M.jpg

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5543/837151502_p6u9c-M.jpg

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http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5532/838930068_rYVeG-M.jpg

The diner isn't open, so we prepare to leave the Shady Dell. As I am setting up the tripod for the mandatory Shady Dell shot, a man runs up and says, "Oh, let me take that picture for you! I do this all the time!" Now, I hate trusting pictures to other people, because if there's one thing I've learned in all my travels, it is that most people pretty much suck at taking pictures.

Case in point. Here is the picture that Dead Eye took for us:

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5547/837221002_y4P4s-M.jpg

Awesome. I thanked him anyway, then, when he left, I took the picture that you'd think anyone that doesn't walk around with a stick and a dog would take at a location like this.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5546/837221366_9pTis-M.jpg

Right.

Our entire days ride takes all of three minutes. Exhausted from the road, we check into the haunted hotel, fully ready for a day off, and fully prepared for whatever that day may have in store for us in the lovely town of Bisbee.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2224/837153036_LqFpZ-M.jpg

[Sir Limpsalot]

I just love this pic of the bike..

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5456/837150822_Z7j5i-M.jpg

Bang on!

Si.

[frenchy750]

A day off. Almost never happens when we ride. I'm not sure why really, guess there's just too much to see, and too little time to see it all. Turns out the decision to stay was a good one.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5651/839237245_ftKLc-M.jpg

The morning is soggy, but the winds have blown out, and the rain clouds soon follow. The day improves greatly, and we take in the sights of the town.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5564/837151853_kqVFX-M.jpg

Stopped at an overlook, a car pulls up, and a nice, older couple bounds right up to us. "Hi. I see you have a Canon. I do too, but it's not working. Says 'Err 99' every time I try to take a picture. Whaddaya think?"

I don't have to think, I know. Err 99 is the catch-all error code, like a check engine light. I've had a few Err 99's; one was a dead shutter mechanism, another was a lens problem. We try a few roadside repairs, and after some fiddling around, manage to get the camera to take a few pictures.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2235/837153186_i9qPz-L.jpg

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5563/837151690_wkFwE-M.jpg

All the while we're trying to repair the camera, we talk. They're from Canada, driving around and seeing the sights, heading to someplace else from somewhere else; visiting, laughing and having a great time. After our few snapshots, his dreaded Err 99 pops up again. He shrugs and says, "Well, so much for that. Thanks for trying." As they get ready to leave, the lady says, "Oh no. I don't do handshakes, I do hugs." Fiona and I are both enveloped in a hug so strong it feels like a python has wrapped around us.

After they leave Fiona says, "That'll be you and me someday, don't you think?"

"No," I reply. "My camera will work."

Back to town, we've got lots of time to kill, and a storm brewing on the horizon. The rain clouds have followed us once again. We know this drill well, it's just a matter of time. We need someplace, dry and indoors to kill some time. The Queen Mine Tour fills that bill perfectly.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5587/837152383_dEFTG-M.jpg

We don helmets, mining lights and for some reason, yellow rain slickers, and board the world's weirdest train to be shuttled deep into the vertical mine shaft.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG5568/837152167_TGAPD-M.jpg

Our tour guide leads us off the train and into a chamber, where he bombards us with facts we can later use as a natural repellent to bore people away from us.

"Did you know the Queen Mine produced over eight billion pounds of copper in its day?"

Snore...

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5613/837152640_HUP9k-M.jpg

The tour guide was a master at evading questions. Sometimes he feigned deafness "due to all the dynamite" he used to use, other times he'd repeat what he just said, whether it answered a question or not. One parent finally asked him a question he could answer. "What do you do with a five year old that has to use the bathroom really bad?"

"Sir, this is a mine. Pick a wall. Go anywhere you like!"

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5618/837152900_6erNJ-M.jpg

Back at the Copper Queen, a guy and his daughter ask us if we're taking the ghost hunting tour. I walk to the front desk, where a woman is unpacking strange looking devices. "EMF detectors, to aid in ghost hunts. No, sorry, the tour is already full," she says without ever looking up. Strange thing is, I didn't even ask.

Oh well, what to do?

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2225/839237162_fRhTx-M.jpg

Exactly. Best Day Ever? Absolutely!

The night is ghost free, fortunate for us, less so for the EMF detector toting tourists. The morning is rain free, fortunate for us. With two days left to get home, we've got to get moving, but after two days of sitting still, we're ready to go.

As I load Rain Cloud Follows, a guy working on the sewer walks over and starts a conversation. By now in Bisbee, I expect conversation from strangers, and am never disappointed. The usual friendly banter leads to the usual local nuggets of knowledge that no tour book can provide. Back roads, secret routes, great places to eat. But Sewer Man has more.

"The sewer's clogged with grease. Come see!"

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2236/839237347_Jf4EA-M.jpg

"Err... OK, I guess..." Peeking over the rim and into the clogged abyss, I get to see a part of Bisbee that no tour dares show, much more frightening than even the best ghost tour ever could be.

We follow Sewer Man's suggestion, diverting southward toward Nogales before the westward slog commences. On the map I spy the ghost town of Harshaw, and while I know the dashed line means a dirt road, I conveniently leave this fact out when I suggest visiting the ghost town to Sleeping Beauty.

"Ok," she replies, pointing over my shoulder at the map, "but doesn't that dashed line mean dirt?"

"I'm not sure, dear."

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2263/837153968_cvgvS-M.jpg

Five miles of slippery, silly gravel road later, we find Harshaw, more of a 'ghost house' than a proper ghost town.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2271/837231656_dNyir-M.jpg

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2276/839296690_ajmb4-M.jpg

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2274/839292296_xLTM3-L.jpg

Thrilling. At this point I could turn around, but to me, turning around equals defeat. The dashed lines all eventually lead to Nogales, so, I choose the dirt road less traveled. I take our fully overloaded, two-up sport bike deeper into the wilds of no-man's land.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2253/837153538_rgSqh-M.jpg

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2303/837154691_NXuzm-M.jpg

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2295/837154442_RzsiG-M.jpg

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2255/837153726_jeVfZ-M.jpg

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2313/839296802_Jhvaq-M.jpg

Up gravelly hills, down rocky descents, through five water crossings, the FJR never misses a beat. Sure, steering is sloppy fun, but at a comfortable 18 MPH, I'm happy. Maybe as happy as I've ever been on a ride. This is insane, but for the moment I'm free of crew calls, departure gates, cell phones, with my girl in the bright sunshine and fresh air, and this dirty nonsense is exactly what I need. My involuntary smile pulls so tightly it feels like I've had three facelifts.

With a swat on my leg, Sleeping Beauty shatters my reverie. "This is nuts. You're fucking crazy. You know that, right?"

Right. It's OK, she's smiling too (or is that a grimace? I'm not entirely sure). I reassure her that we're fine and I know what I am doing. She knows better.

At a dirt crossroads we have an official Mexican standoff with an official Mexican on an official donkey.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2314/837154825_5JppB-L.jpg

He concedes the route, his one donkey power vehicle no match for my 141 ponies. Though in this dirt, I think he could outrun me. We round perilous corners, almost always nearly out of control, but not quite. Just as I allow myself to think the worst of it is over, the worst of it hits us like, well, like a ton of sand.

We pass a campsite, and I absorb the wild stares we get from the campers, when suddenly, without warning, things get deadly serious. My handlebars launch into a wild Irish jig. The bars slam lock to lock, side to side, and suddenly we're on a bucking rodeo bronco that wants desperately to lay down. The road, until this point loose gravel and hard packed dirt, has turned into a beach, and my road tires have zero traction in the soft, silty shit beneath them. I'm sure we're going to crash spectacularly, but my butt is clenched so tight I can't even speak.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2333/837154934_LVVLL-L.jpg

I picture the headline in tomorrow's El Periódico Nogales: "The Line Between Adventure and Stupidity Is Thin. El Gringo Was Estupido."

Somehow, through more dumb luck than skill, my definitely non-dual-sport bike remains upright, and we ride the case of the head shakes out. Fiona, aware that some scary shit just happened but unaware that it wasn't scary shit of my doing yells at me for shaking the bars and scaring her.

You weren't the only one scared, hon.

A few miles of this sandy stupidity, using my legs as outriggers to keep us upright, and suddenly we're stopped by the Border Patrol. They are more surprised to see us two goofballs than we are to see them. The agents all have a good laugh at us as the sergeant says to me, "You rode all this way here on that? You're crazy, you know that?"

I know.

One more day. One more post, and the Road to Wrestlemania XXVI will be nothing more than a footnote in the annals of ride report history.

[frenchy750]

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, is this the Mexican Border entrance?" 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. 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? How come we're not? If we had a few more days, I think we'd have kept on going. Another time, for sure.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2340/839323302_2WJuV-M.jpg

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.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2370/837221683_TZcV5-M.jpg

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2346/837222093_pSZSS-M.jpg

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2358/837221503_Cq4HT-M.jpg

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.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2246/837153368_MFHp3-M.jpg

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!

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2375/837223403_ccQuJ-M.jpg

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!!

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2378/837223601_2ZJU9-M.jpg

"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.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2453/837223120_ZEtmB-M.jpg

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2461/839313277_gHF92-L.jpg

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. (http://www.frenchysrant.com/?p=265))

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.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/IMG2509/837222958_ppoNr-M.jpg

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...

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/Entire-2643-Mile-Ride-Map/838776789_N7HZJ-M.jpg
The Entire 2643 Mile Route Map

[frenchy750]

UPS delivered a small cardboard tube today, and all is right with the world once again.

http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/Motorcycles/Road-to-Wrestlemania-XXVI/MG5708/840259950_ybasU-M.jpg

I still haven't forgiven the evildoer in Tombstone for stealing my Kingdom of Rhode Island flag, but at least I'll be able to proudly fly the Hope banner once again.

To Alaska in August?

[DarthRider]

I still haven't forgiven the evildoer in Tombstone for stealing my Kingdom of Rhode Island flag, but at least I'll be able to proudly fly the Hope banner once again.


Does that mean the US will be invading Arizona soon, seeking "weapons of mass flag-stealing"?