Vacation

Pardon the interruption from regularly scheduled ranting, but it's vacation time for yours truly.

Yes, in my humble opinion, there are probably a few good posts that need to be written, but they can wait until next week. In the meantime, here's some useless rambling, in Frenchy's Reader's Digest form.

The surprise 30th birthday party I threw for Sleeping Beauty in the Kingdom of Rhode Island can only be called a success, though it had more than one chance to be a complete disaster.

A Mass of Californians (and New Jersey-ites) invade the Kingdom of Rhode Island to celebrate with Fiona as she officially goes Over the Hill!

The best thing about pulling off a surprise party is that feeling of satisfaction when it all comes together, and you see the look on the surprise party victim's face at the moment they notice familiar faces in an unexpected place. The worst thing about pulling off a surprise party is your significant other figures out that you have the ability to hide things from them, and do it well.

As they say, no good deed goes unpunished. The full story should appear here next week if I can remember how I used to string my incoherent thoughts together into some semblance of a yawn-inspiring tale...

Now that the big party is over, I can finally shift all my planning energy to another motorcycling Expedition, this time to British Columbia. I already have the rough draft Map-kin prepared, sent invitations out to the original Great Unsponsored Nova Scotia Expedition Team, and, thanks to a cryptic email I received today, I learned there is some real yet preliminary interest from a real French television channel about including this ride in a French documentary being shot about 'Bikers in America.'

While I give it about a .001% chance of happening, if it does, the joke will be on them when they find out that Frenchy doesn't actually speak French. Hopefully they realize this small yet important fact after they pick up the bar tab!

To complete my pointless brain dump, a revamped website for the Rant is in the early planning stages. Not that I need more room for my pitiful posts, I just hate writing on Blogger.com more and more every day (might even be time to dust off the ol' GFY award.) More information to come as I figure out the best way to not lose any of the Faithful Fifteen in the migration.

And that will all happen, I am sure. For now I am trying to get my fill of doing nothing much at all, and so far it's working out quite well. Full-on ranting will probably resume next week.

Memories For Sale

For Sale: ESPN EX-1 Mobile Unit

Chassis Description
Custom built 48' Rack Ready Expando by Medical Coaches, Inc. 28' Electric expanding side Completed in 1995 GVRW: 60,000 lbs. Dual Staco Automatic Voltage Regulators Hydraulic Levelers HVAC needs repair Very good condition
Photos Click any photo above for a larger view
Click any photo above for a larger view
$59,000 Financing Available

The shitty formatting of this post is frustrating.

Blogger is frustrating, which is part of the reason for my sporadic posting of late. It takes too much time to format posts, and the pictures all come out too small to see, or are so large they fall off the screen. Yes, I could change blog templates, and that might help, but overall, I don't thing that is the change that needs to be made. In short, Blogger sucks, but there is a solution, a solution that I've been working very hard on for the past few weeks.

Never fear, Faithful Fifteen - The Rant will be moving soon!

Rock the Boat

In a rare but welcome change, Sleeping Beauty and I spent the past week in seclusion, hidden away on a beautiful lake deep in the heart of the Kingdom of Rhode Island. We shut off our phones, unplugged the computer and TV, and, for once, didn't get on a motorcycle at all.

We had a great time sitting around, recharging our batteries from all the running around we've done in the past, oh, I dunno, three years or so. Almost felt like we were on vacation. Maybe we'll even do it again sometime in the next three years, who knows?

My friend John has a small party barge docked at my house. In exchange for this berth, I have a key and permission to sail anytime. I've a somewhat checkered history with John's boat, nicknamed the S.S. Crapshoot. A safe voyage in this scow is at best, a 50-50 proposition. But, the lake is fairly small, and after sitting around for two days, I felt the need for a little adventure.

S.S. Crapshoot

"Hey, Fiona! I have an idea! Wanna take the boat out for a nice sunset cruise?"

"That piece of shit?" she replied, somewhat incredulously. "Are you kidding? That's the same boat that stranded us last year, remember?"

"Yeah, but that was last year." Along with a thick stubborn streak, selective memory is one of my better qualities. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

She rolled her eyes, knowing by now it's much easier and quicker to agree with me and get it over with.

"Fine. Let's go."

While I did a quick check to make sure we had the essentials; life jackets, some fuel and cold beer, Sleeping Beauty disappeared. On the fourth or fifth try, the S.S. Crapshoot sputtered and coughed to life, not bad by this barge's admittedly low standards. Minutes later, Fiona was ready to set sail, armed with her cell phone and two oars, as she put it, "Just in case."

Our yacht motored out into the lake, where, it seemed, everyone else had the same 'sunset cruise' idea. Idly, we waved at other boaters as we traced a lazy circle around the two mile perimeter of the lake. What few clouds there were barely dotted the horizon. In the game of sailing, it seemed we'd rolled a seven, as the S.S. Crapshoot ran strong on our peaceful voyage. Ah yes, this is the life, and, at that moment, feet up and smiling, my girlfriend by my side, life was indeed very good.

An hour later, with the dock nearly in sight, the boat shuddered once, and the motor abruptly died. Our peaceful cruise just got a bit more peaceful, but not in a good way.

Fiona shot me that look, the one that says, "I told you so," without actually saying it. The clouds that barely dotted the horizon now blotted it out entirely. Out of nowhere, the wind suddenly picked up, and started blowing our tiny, dead ship away from our dock.

Waving her phone at me, Sleeping Beauty said, "Let's call the Coast Guard."

"Don't over react. It's nothing, dear." I said with more conviction than I felt. I turned the key, trying in vain to get the Crapshoot restarted. Snake eyes. I checked the fuel level; plenty of gas in there. Twist the key again. Nothing. Frustrated, I let loose a nice string of curses, swearing like the sailor I was pretending to be. What the fuck do I know about boating? Not enough, that's for sure.

Looking around for help, we realized we were alone. All the other people we'd waved to earlier had wisely brought their perfectly running boats back to their dock ahead of the impending storm. The dark clouds thickened. I fiddled around, trying in vain to restart the engine. Without seeing any other options, I said, "Well... I think we're going to have to row."

Fiona's string of curses would've made a real sailor blush.

Half an hour later, all we'd managed to do is paddle the heavy boat around in circles, and drift even further from the dock. Soaked with sweat, Fiona snapped, "You did check the battery, right?"

"Yes, dear, of course I did!" I snapped back. But, of course I hadn't. Dropping my paddle on the deck, I said, "Let me go check it again!"

Right there in the battery compartment was the source of our trouble. Somehow, a thick red wire had worked itself loose from the battery terminal. After Macgyvering a temporary repair using a bottle cap and a small stick, I said, "Try starting it now."

Miracle of miracles, the S.S. Crapshoot roared back to life, just as the first fat drops of rain started to fall. I jammed the throttle forward, and minutes later we were safe and sound on dry land.

Shaking her head at my folly, Fiona said, "You know, maybe we should stick to something safer, like motorcycles!"

I have to agree.

All Good Things Finally Come To An End

The next morning, refreshed and ready, clearer heads ruled the day, and 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 - no gravel. 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.



Around six, mule deer started appearing on the sides of the road, making me wish I'd brought Steve from Enterprise along 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 firmly in sight, and, at this point, 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.....

All Good Things... Almost There!

The time zone may have changed, but the curves just kept coming as we followed Route 12 across Idaho. Route 12 snakes alongside 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.




Up Shit Creek, But With A Paddle





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.

For The Love Of God, Wrap It Up Already! Click Here For the Conclusion!

All Good Things... Still Going...

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'm forced 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.

Click Here For The Penultimate Post!

All Good Things... Photo Interlude

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.

The Next-To-Last Post Here!

All Good Things... Part V

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.

Pics of Yellowstone - Here!

All Good Things... Part IV

On a long, multi-day motorcycle tour, one of my favorite times of day is early morning, after my mental haze has lifted and I figure out where I am, but before the toll for the previous night's excess is collected. This is the moment where I draw back the motel room curtain, make sure Rain Cloud Follows hasn't disappeared during the night, and I find out what mood Mother Nature is in.

Her mood this morning?

Angry.

Thick, gray clouds filled the sky. The temperature was slightly less that warm, but at least it was damp out. Not yet raining, but just damp. Rain was sure to come just about the time we pulled out of the lot. I know how Ma Nature operates. Looked like it was going to be a long day, and with Rocky Mountain National Park on the agenda, probably a day filled with good-natured self induced suffering.

So, we played a trick on Mother Nature, and it seemed to work. Instead of hauling ass directly to the park, we made a quick detour to check out Fish Creek Falls.









These stall tactics seemed to throw Mama N off, because the sun actually came out. Believing out little trick worked, we stopped in Steamboat Springs for lunch.

I knew we were in trouble when the radio started playing 'Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head'. A quick glance out the window confirmed it. Mother Nature was on to us, and wasn't pleased. Those dark clouds were now boiling, and a downpour was eminent. We ran to the bikes, and suited up just in time to endure the brunt of her wrath. It's not nice to fool with Mother Nature, after all!



With Mike in the lead, we spent the day dodging rain clouds, often surrounded by deluges on all sides, but somehow, most times, not actually in them.





Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park, the exciting path that leads to a ridiculous altitude of 12,183 feet was open, but reports were of ten foot visibility for the top eight miles. With a vote of three to one, the majority ruled, and we decided to go for it.





The beginning was wet, but fun. Elk, deer and other delicious tasting critters dotted the fields. Abi, the one and only 'Nay' vote for this excursion was unimpressed. Maybe it's just the vegetarian in him, who knows?

The road ascended,the fog descended, and the temperature plummeted.



Pretty soon, it was just as described. Riding in a thick blanket of opaque fog.







At the summit, well over the altitude where it is safe to turn on your computer on an airplane, we stopped at the visitor center, which, naturally, was closed. Unlike 95% of National Park Visitor Centers that close at 5 PM, these chuckleheads close early, at 4:30.



Mike walked over to find out the center was closed, and almost immediately disappeared in the fog. After a few minutes, he reappeared. winded, and said, "You do realize... that we are above... the altitude that... supplemental oxygen... is required... for aircraft, right?"

Great unsuccess getting the highest National Parks Passport Stamp this time, which only means we'll have to go back and try again another day. I'm also pretty sure there was a sign up there with the altitude on it, and I would've loved to stop and get a picture, but two things prevented that. One: Stopping would amount to suicide in the fog, and Two: A picture of fog proves nothing. So, stamp-less and picture-less, we started the harrowing decent.

On the ride down, we saw a gut wrenching sight. Three park rangers, sirens flashing in the fog, next to two parked motorcycles, no riders or rangers in sight. Granted the fog was still thick, but my tingling spider sense told me something bad had happened.

We wouldn't find out the story until a week later. Turned out that, purely by chance, one of the parked motorcycles belonged to the guy that rented Mike the VStrom. The guy noticed Mike's rented VStrom ride by, and mentioned it when he returned the bike. The story was there were three bikes in their little group, and one got separated. Not sure if he panicked or just made a really bad decision, but the guy, on fog shrouded roads with next to zero visibility, made a U-turn to try and find his buddies. With visibility so close to zero, the truck in the opposite lane never even saw the motorcycle and crunched into him. The rider was OK, but the bike and the truck were pretty well smashed up. When the park rangers showed up, it turned out that the driver of the truck had a warrant, and was arrested. The passenger didn't have ID, and was held at gunpoint in the freezing snow and fog for two hours before being released. All things considered, a crashed bike with an alive rider, and a felon apprehended, things could have turned out worse up there.

Anyway, back to happier stories. Below 8000 feet, the fog lifted, and the rest of the ride was mostly uneventful, except for the huge herd of elk we saw on the way out of the park.



Sadly, we parted ways in Boulder, and the next day we endured the beginning of our three days of worked mandated Tripus Interruptus.

And, judging by the hail and lightning she provided Dark Meat Snack and I on the way to Denver International Airport on Sunday, Mother Nature was definitely less-than-pleased with the previous day's little stunt.

Next up: Tripus Resumus, a little ride of the four wheel kind, then, onward to Yellowstone!

Part V - Here!

All Good Things... Part III

The scene of the crime? An innocent place called Drifter's Cookhouse, a great looking place surrounded by the most amazing umm... Flock? Gaggle? Swarm? Or... is it, as Wikipedia claims, a... charm? A 'charm' of hummingbirds? Whatever it is actually called, it was the most amazing bunch of hummingbirds I've ever seen.



The Cookhouse was rustic, decorated all around with autographed dollar bills stapled to the walls. It's one of those places you walk into and know immediately is going to be good. I was served a mean Cookhouse buffalo burger by the owner and his young son.



We arrived at Drifters on opening day for the season. The owner was proud of his place, and after a long winter, seemed to really enjoy talking to us.

After a lunch, which included fresh chocolate chip cookies and home made raspberry ice cream, my darling Sleeping Beauty decided we should add a dollar to the wall.

Sometimes even the best, most well intentioned of ideas turn out so bad.

After signing the bill, the owner handed Sleeping Beauty a loaded staplegun, saying, "Put it up wherever you want."



Somehow, instead of stapling our special bill to the wall, disaster struck as Fiona managed to shoot a staple deep into her fingers!



Hastily, I finished the job for her.



She played it cool until we got outside, then she lost it!



"Oh my God! That HURT! I tried to be cool about it in there, but I started sweating right away and everything! Great job, guys!" She turned her anger on us, "Real smart! Give Fiona the staplegun! OUCH!"

Fortunately she's a trained medical professional. Using her extensive medical knowledge, she managed to staunch the considerable flow of blood from the tiny staple holes in her fingers.



After this debacle and repair job, we were back on our way. A few miles later, she calmed down and things were back to normal.



Bloodied but unbeaten, Team TT twisted through more great roads, climbing ever higher towards the 10,276 foot summit of Cameron Pass.









We made short work of the rest of the curves between us and Steamboat Springs, checked into the Rabbit Ears motel, and the usual post ride routine unwound. Toasted the Best Day Ever, smoked fine cigars, then sniffed out a fantastic brewpub by a raging river. The rest of the night is devoid of evidence except for this single photo.



I think this picture says it all. I'm not sure though, because around two AM, the night got a bit err... fuzzy. Fuzzy or not, it was the Best Night Ever, of that I am sure.

And better days, and nights were still ahead.

Part IV - HERE!