Act One

Ever since I was this little drummer boy in the picture below, I'll confess, I have been a fan of the rock band Rush.



I can still remember the first time I heard Rush like it was yesterday, which is funny because I can't remember what actually happened yesterday. Anyway, way back in the day, I somehow managed to convince my friend's older sister, the beautiful Jennifer, to follow me to her basement. I had no clue what was going to happen next, but I think she had an idea.

Innocently, she popped her All The World's A Stage 8-track into the player, and instantly my world changed.



The 8-Track That Started It All

From the first notes of "Bastille Day" to the closing chords of "What You're Doing," I was hooked. Beautiful Jennifer ceased to exist as I sat there transfixed by the amazing drumming I was hearing. As a nine year old tadpole drummer, my dream became to learn how to play drums like Neil Peart, Rush's drummer extraordinaire. Once I learned to play the drums right, I'd then tour the world in my very own tour bus as a world famous rock drummer. For years, my poor, understanding parents both supported my dream and tolerated my hours long drum practice sessions, as I attempted to dissect each intricate rhythm and drum passage. With time and practice, I could sorta-kinda play through some of the less difficult songs. I annoyed the entire neighborhood for years.

Funny how things work out, just not always like you plan. Now, I do travel the world on a tour bus, though as an audio engineer for World Wrestling Entertainment, instead of the world famous drummer I planned to be. These days I consider myself merely a drum owner, though from time to time I will still sit down behind the drum kit and annoy my neighbors by trying to hack my way through "Tom Sawyer." Though I don't drum like I used to, Neil Peart continued to inspire me.

Back in 2002, a friend suggested I read Peart's Ghost Rider, a tale of the tragic loss of his family and the healing powers of motorcycling.



This book came along at a particularly low point in my own life, and once again, everything changed. After my second reading, I decided the best thing for me would be to take my little yellow Suzuki Katana - nicknamed The Nip-cycle - for a long, healing ride. My longest ride to date had been about 100 miles. This journey - performed by a much thinner version of myself - the young version that actually fit into that matching yellow leather coat - comprised over 3500 miles in eleven days, meandering from the Kingdom of Rhode Island to Kentucky, through Deal's Gap and the Blue Ridge Mountains and back.





That ride was the origin of my very first, very poorly written ride report, and also the motivation behind every ride that followed, to this day. Again, I was hooked.

A recent, half-joking Facebook post from my friend Pat's wife became the basis for my latest ride. Her post said, "Rush is coming to Houston on September 25th. Will someone PLEASE take Pat so I don't have to go?!?" I looked at my calendar and talked it over with The Boss, then responded with a simple, "I will." My girlfriend Sleeping Beauty conveniently had plans to attend her sister's initiation ceremony into the Third Decade Club on that same weekend, which I think was her way of saying to me, "Please don't drag me to go see Rush again!" The birthday party was conveniently located on the way to Houston in San Antonio, so I broke out the crayons and doodled out a semi-decent Map-kin.



One the Wednesday before the concert, I flew in from wherever the WWE show was, arriving just in time to say goodbye to Fiona before she left on her flight to San Antonio. I quickly tossed some clothes in a bag, fueled up my trusty Yamaha FJR that I call Rain Cloud Follows, and set out for Houston.



Without the luxury of unlimited time, I knew the majority of the ride would be on the Mundane Mile Disposal Thoroughfare known as I-10. With little choice in my first day's route, I settled into a comfortable rhythm and the miles effortlessly disappeared behind me.

I decided that since this ride was a sort of tribute to my childhood influences, I'd take one Ghost Rider tribute picture each day. This was my first day's attempt:



Ghost Rider Tribute - Day One

I wandered east, soon leaving behind my adopted home state of California for the drier, browner pastures of neighboring Arizona.



A few hours into the Grand Canyon State it started getting dark. I wound my way to Gila Bend, figuring I'd spend the night at a hotel I've stayed at a few times before, the quirky Best Western Space Lodge. Of course the Best Western Space Lodge was full of the kind of people I detest; those scumbag travelers that plan ahead and make reservations. Bleeach! Those forward thinking scumbags occupied every room in the Space Lodge, forcing me to seek other accommodations. I opted for the closest and cheapest motel, a no name place with $26 a night rooms, and cryptically offered 'Refrigeration.'



Refrigeration?

I almost laughed at the room total - $30 including tax. The man behind the bullet proof glass slid me a key through the opening and gave me that look that says, "For $30, don't expect much." In fact, for $30, you really don't get much at all: one bare light bulb, a bed, and a fan for air conditioning. My grandmother would find the room's interior decorations retro. The bed is comfy, if you like your mattress extra, extra firm. I'm not positive, but I think the sleep number of that mattress is somewhere above a thousand. For comparison, the floor's sleep number is one hundred. For the low price of $30 you also get to experience the thrilling sounds of freight trains as they shriek and rumble past all night long.

As the 5 AM Sante Fe Express train clattered through Gila Bend, I got up and got out. As I thumbed the ignition, the pull of New Mexico's curvy Route 152 was pretty strong, and since I was up so early, the extra miles were easily justifiable. I pointed Rain Cloud Follows east once again, with the little town of Silver City, which is the unofficial start of Route 152, at least the really good, really twisty bits, square in my sights.

As the day warmed up, I stopped for some fuel and a cool drink. Almost instantly, a leathery old lady came running up to me, gushing about how she took a ride on the back of a motorcycle a week ago. She told me, "Now I need to get me one, but," she said with a half-smirk in Rain Cloud Follow's direction, "I'm getting a real bike - a Harley!"

You go, girl!

As I made my way to Silver City and the goodness that is Route 152, I noticed a sign for Chiricahua National Monument. On a whim, I took the exit - the small two lane road provided a perfect backdrop for my second Ghost Rider tribute photo.



Ghost Rider Tribute - Day Two

I was nearly alone on this road, a long, scenic two laner that led the forty or so miles from the highway to Chiricahua National Monument. I say nearly alone because while I was the only vehicle on the road, there were thousands of frisky grasshoppers doing all manner of things in the middle of the pavement.



I felt awkward interrupting their insect orgy, so I did my best to swerve around the mounds of frantically fornicating bugs. Even with my best efforts, there were too may horny hoppers in the road to avoid them all. Rain Cloud Follows arrived at Chiricahua National Monument covered with legs and antennae.

Chiricahua National Monument is seldom visited, thanks to its remote location. As I figured out, you really have to want to go there, since there is no direct route in. The detour from the highway to the Monument stretched to over forty miles. Once at the monument, I added another stamp to my National Parks Passport, then took the eight mile scenic road to Massai Point.





Massai Point, at an elevation of 6870 feet is surrounded by interesting pinnacle formations on all sides.



I turned around and headed back down to the visitor's center, not relishing the though of riding forty miles back the way I'd come to the highway. Studying my analog map, I found another route, a small, dashed line indicating some kind of road that led back to the highway, though the map claimed the road was closed in winter. This is September, long before winter, so I reasoned with the negative voices in my head that I should be OK, though I wondered exactly what the dashed line meant. It didn't take too long to find out.





Decision time. Behind me is the certainty of forty miles of pavement covered with crickets banging each other. In front of me are unknown conditions, certainly dirt, most likely climbing high into the Chiricahua Mountains. What to do?

The decision is simple. It's obvious. Don't listen to the voices, even the ones of reason.

Never turn around.





I slipped and slid my way through miles of gravel, dirt and mud, enjoying this treacherous fun. Of course, the ride would have been much more fun on a nice dual sport, but I've taken Rain Cloud off road enough to know how the bike handles in the dirt, which is surprisingly not all that bad. After about an hour winding up the side of a mountain, I started thinking to myself, "What am I going to do if I get trapped out here by myself under a fallen bike?"

The only answer I could come up with was, "Don't find out."

The road was challenging and fun, requiring total concentration to keep from pointing my wheels at the sky. The next thing I knew, I'd spent nearly two hours hidden away in total seclusion, when suddenly my reverie was broken by the sight of a gigantic, battered, old pickup truck clattering and banging its way towards me at a high rate of speed, the wild eyed driver glaring menacingly as he rapidly approached.

Alone in the wilderness, this sudden development did not bode well at all. 

Edited by Frenchy750, 25 October 2010 - 06:04 PM.

Awesome ride report! 

Love it when you write up a report! Keep it comin'. 

Great read so far! Looking forward to next chapter! 

...waiting with great anticipation!  

--G 

Frenchy, your ride reports are what I aspire mine to be like. I'm still rereading you RR to Alaska and back. Great reading - can't wait for the next installment!

ian 

Frenchy,

Great RR! Really love the pics, especially the one from the side of the fairing. Looking forward to seeing more. 

Act Two

Most times I ignore the voices of reason in my head, the ones that say silly stuff like, "Hey, dummy! Maybe taking a touring bike up a mountain on a dirt road is a bad idea, especially when not one soul knows you are doing it," but when the hair on the back of my neck stands up, that I do not ignore. The appearance of this huge and ominous truck got my complete attention. Though he was a fair distance away, I could see the dread-locked driver shouting and menacingly waving his arms.

So, I did what any brave soul would, I turned tail and, as fast as my nearly bald road tires and overweight touring bike would allow, I took off, with the battered pickup gaining on me. He seemingly gave chase, and while I wasn't sure if I was interpreting things correctly, I didn't exactly want to stop and find out that I was; discretion being the better part of valor, and me feeling pretty much like a big pussy at that moment.

With fear and hope swelling in equal proportions, I ran away. When the path forked, I formed a desperate plan to give the demon pickup truck the slip.



I faked left then went right. At this point, while I didn't exactly leave the giant stranded by the riverside, I did manage to evade him. I have no idea what he might have wanted, and I am OK with that. Through the rest of the dirt I cautiously raced, and three hours after starting, I found myself safe and sound at the other end of the path.


Welcome To The Enchanted Land

Thanks to my extended off-road adventure, the excellence of Route 152 would have to wait for another day.





The road I'd found was nearly as good, though still infested with locusts performing bizarre insect love acts. Low on fuel and tired from the chase, I putted through the landscape until I found my oasis, an old Shell gas station. As I pulled up to the pump, another sun-dried old cougar approached, asking me to take her picture. This was starting to become an odd theme for this ride.

"You want me to take your picture here?" I asked. "At the gas station? In front of a pump?"

"Yesssssss!" she hissed.

I obliged, shot a stunning three-quarter length portrait of her and a diesel nozzle, then got an earful of what was now becoming the usual - how her friend had a Honda blah-blah-blah and she once blah-blah-blahed... Odd, indeed.

I smiled, nodded, waved, and got the hell out of there.

 

The day's detour forced me to crank it up a notch, and soon I was in the state where notch-cranking is encouraged and even expected, because in Texas, driving at 80 MPH is considered dawdling.


Drive Friendly - But Fast!

Following smog-belching trucks down I-10, I noticed some peculiar cloud forming ahead.



I've seen these peculiar formations before, they usually mean that the clouds that always seem to follow me have caught up, are rallying the troops, and soon there will be rain, high winds, lightning and hail. As I approached the clouds, they eerily light up as dazzling lightning bolts dance around inside. I enjoyed this impromptu light show until it is dark, and the very first fat drops of rain started to fall. Home for the evening is the semi-famous El Capitan Hotel in Van Horn, a grand old hotel built way back in the 1930's when people built good looking hotels.

Damp, tired from the day, and in desperate need of some Scottish 12 year old Single Malt therapy, I trudged to the front desk. The desk clerk, noticing my Rhode Island drivers license asked what I am doing so far from home.

"Well, it's a long story," I begin, "but the short version is I am riding from Los Angeles to Houston to watch Rush play."

"Rush? Is that the band from the movie I Love You, Man?" She added incredulously, "Wait a minute, is Rush a real band?"

"Ummm, yes," I answered, "they are a real band."

She continued, "So, are you gonna air guitar thought the show?"

"Nope. I'll be air drumming, thank you very much."

The bar was still open, so I order a double Dalhwinnie Single Malt neat and happily hoisted a toast to the Best Day Ever. I was completely unconscious about fifteen minutes later.



The next morning I woke up up early. I had a birthday celebration to attend in San Antonio, and I wasn't exactly as close to the home of the Alamo I as I would have liked to be. I knew the day's ride would be mostly high speed, highway induced hypnotism. I loaded my 'Angry White Man Music' playlist on my iPod, gritted my teeth and accelerated to warp five on a road that looked more like a runway than a highway.



In the interest of efficient travel, and knowing the Texas Rangers would probably frown on me setting up Rain Cloud Follows in the middle of I-10, I decided to forgo my Ghost Rider tribute, taking instead this awkward portrait at a fuel stop:



Hours of mind-numbing highway later, I arrived in San Antonio, and the rest of the day was spent helping my beautiful girlfriend Sleeping Beauty and family celebrate her sister's induction into the BIG THREE-OH Club. Welcome to the Top of the Hill, Denise! It's all downhill from here!

I had trouble sleeping that night. My restlessness didn't stem from my birthday cake excess indulgence, it's just that... I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve! Though I have seen Rush about twenty times over the years, I still get excited before each show. Needless to say I was up early once again. Bidding Sleeping Beauty and family a fond farewell, I cranked up the only fitting playlist for such an important day - All The World's A Stage (naturally.)

Pat and family put on a Texas style feast as a pre-concert meal; gigantic, thick steaks with all the trimmings. Excited and full, two of Rush's biggest fans piled into Pat's truck and headed out for some much anticipated concert excellence!



Rain or shine? Of course, about thirty minutes before the show started, the skies opened up and a short deluge soaked everything. Thankfully, Pat and I were safe and dry in a nearby Irish Pub. Again, as if on cue, the rain stopped and the sky cleared just before the show started.




The View From The Cheap Seats

The house lights dimmed, the opening movie rolled, and the sold out crowd erupted in a wild cheer as the opening melody of 'Spirit of Radio' boomed throughout the amphitheater.


Image Courtesy John Arrowsmith - All Rights Reserved


Image Courtesy John Arrowsmith - All Rights Reserved

(Before I continue my fanboy gushing about the show, I have to say a huge thank you to Rush tour photographer John Arrowsmith for giving me permission to use these pictures from the Houston show. More of John's fantastic concert photography can be enjoyed at this site.)

All those years I spent learning the drum lines to Rush songs paid off as I put on an amazing display of air drumming excellence way up in the cheap seats. Not surprisingly, Pat distanced himself from me during what surely looked like a seizure to the untrained eye. During 'Freewill,' I air drummed so hard I accidentally punched a kid in the face. I apologized profusely, but the kid understood. 'Freewill' is that good of a song.

The only time during the whole concert there was a line for the men's room was after the drum solo. But then again, at $13 a beer, I can understand the reluctance to purge. That's some damn expensive urine! I doubt there was ever a line for the women's room.

I air drummed until I was sore. I screamed until I was horse. In between I bought beers until my wallet was empty. The band played better than I have ever heard them play, and seemed, at least from my far-off vantage point, to be having a good time doing it. The show was so enjoyable that the three hour set passed by much too quickly. Without even needing to say it, this incredible culmination of sixteen hundred miles of motorcycling can only be described as the Best Day Ever!

Supremely happy and content at being a small part of such a display of musical excellence, I was almost as excited to turn around and begin the sixteen hundred mile journey home. 

Act Three

Big Bend National Park is another one of those national parks that you really have to want to go to. Tucked way down in the far western corner of Texas along the Mexican border, it isn't on the beaten path to anywhere. I've always eyed this elusive expanse of land, but could never make all the logistics work to justify visiting. Until now. With a modicum of hammering from Houston, I figured I could fit in a brief visit and still make it back to California in time.


Self Portrait

As an added bonus, once I rode past San Antonio, the desolate but delicious Route 90 appeared to be the most direct route I could find to the park. I'd ridden parts of Route 90 once before, and knew it to be a wonderfully deserted stretch of asphalt, surrounded by some beautiful West Texas scenery.

To make up for my past two days of laziness, and celebrate an amazing concert the night before, I decided to shoot two Ghost Rider tribute photos on this first day heading west.


Ghost Rider Tribute - Day Five, Number One

I rode for hours through the beautiful and barren West Texas scenery, which seemed to have been put there just for my enjoyment. Again I started to wonder what would happen if I had an unfortunate high speed dismounting incident out here in the middle of nowhere. I shoved those thoughts deep down and concentrated on the rugged yet serene tranquility surrounding me. Hours passed and I never saw another vehicle, until I got close to the Mexican border. Suddenly, green and white Border Patrol vehicles swarmed like angry ants; driving up, over and around everything in their never ending, vigilant quest to keep our borders safe from extraterrestrials.

I had to pass through a series of US Border Patrol checkpoints along the way. At one checkpoint, I asked the officer which upcoming town, Sanderson or Marathon, would be a better choice to spend the night. He thought for a second, then replied, "Well dude, to be honest both towns are shitholes that are stuck in the year 1973."

I continued toward shithole town number two, because it was the closest shithole town to Big Bend with a hotel. The sunset can only be described as glorious. I realize that using the word glorious in a ride report makes me sound like I also joined the West Texas Knitting For Douchebags Club, but with a gigantic, well defined halo and parhelion surrounding the setting sun, I think the word fits, so just deal with it.



I stopped on this deserted road to take my second Ghost Rider tribute picture:


Ghost Rider Tribute - Day Five, Number Two

On the way, I also stopped to punch a few bulls, crushed a beer can on my skull and shot up some road signs, just to prove that my glorious application to the West Texas 'KFD' club would never be accepted.



Located sixty miles from the entrance to Big Bend, the Gage Hotel seemed like it would be a bit above my modest price range for a room, but was not. For $70 I was allowed to spend the night in an authentically decorated Western room, including an authentic cow skin rug on the floor. And by authentic cow skin, I mean it looked like someone had skinned a unfortunate cow and with a minimum of work turned the hide into a cow shaped rug.



Donning my one good shirt, I aimlessly moseyed on over to the only restaurant in town. Within minutes I was happily tucking into another delicious and very juicy slab of beef. Within minutes after that, my one good shirt doubled as a napkin. It never fails. After dinner, I ambled over to the nearest watering hole saloon to toast the Best Day Ever. Sitting by myself at the bar, I noticed one of the things that makes small town Texas bars great. In these small bars, dogs can and often do sit in the kitchen furiously licking their balls and nobody seems to care.



Big Bend National Park was far away from everything, the road in was long, and that morning's ride was all worth it. This park would require several days and a sturdy dirt bike to fully explore, but what I saw of the place with my limited time, I liked. And nearby Big Bend Ranch State Park was even better, with an awesome, gravity defying roller coaster of a road that snakes along the Rio Grande river.









Glorious!

After passing through several more exotic non-citizen visitor checkpoints, my Best Day Ever ended in the hotel town of Deming, NM. I noted on my analog map that Deming is only fifty miles south of Silver City. With a big grin, I realized I might be able to unravel the luscious Route 152 after all.

But, sadly, that grin abruptly deflated as I was unloading Rain Cloud Follows for the night. While carrying my dirty clothes into the hotel room, I noticed this cliffhanger-in-the-making that would completely ruin that plan.

How disappointing.

Granted, this tire - a Michelin Pilot Road II, one of the best I've found - faithfully served Rain Cloud Follows on both the Road to WrestleMania XXVI ride and on the Alaskan Adventure - in fact, when I did the math using my fingers and toes, I realized the tire had over 12,000 miles on it, but still, what a hunk of junk! To give up the tread now, out here in the middle of nowhere, so close to home could be a big disaster; unless of course, I could find a nearby motorcycle shop with a tire that fits.

A quick Google search put my mind at rest, Deming Cycle Center was located less than a mile from my hotel. What could be easier?

Well, for one, the shop could still be in business, which it isn't.

I started making a flurry of phone calls. I quickly learned that there isn't much in the way of motorcycle dealers out in the lonely middle of New Mexico, so my calling flurry was exactly two calls long. The first shop I tried didn't have the tire I needed, and wanted my credit card number and my left kidney to install the crappy tire they did have. The second shop I called, Cochise Motorsports in Sierra Vista, AZ not only had the tire in stock, their service department made it clear they were overstocked with kidneys, and quoted me a very reasonable price, sweetening the deal by promising to install the tire as soon as I arrived.

I limped two hundred miles from Deming, and after a quick lunch, the excellent service department at Cochise outfitted Rain Cloud Followswith brand new sneaker, and both man and machine were set for the long slog home.




Thanks, Cochise Motorsports!

The mechanic warned me that the new tire might be a little slick, and recommended taking it easy for the first hundred miles or so. During lunch, I realized that the Coronado National Memorial, another hard-to-get-to, out-of-the-way National Memorial was only thirty miles from my present position. What a perfect way, I reasoned, to break in my new tire, and cross another National Monument off my list.



What is Coronado a National Memorial to? I have no idea. Instead of getting an Monument education, I spent my time in the visitor's center asking the cute ranger chick if she drew the short straw to get assigned to this far out of the way post.

"No," she said, "I actually picked this place. I wanted to work here."

"Why?"

Motioning over her shoulder, she replied, "I wanted to work for my boss."

Her boss, sitting behind his desk looking all rangerly was probably the most handsome ranger in the whole Park Service, this stud could easily have been the National Parks ranger recruitment poster hunk.

Got it.

I'd noticed on my analog map another dashed line out of the the park, leading in a roundabout way back to the highway. I asked the cute rangerette about road conditions.

"Well, it hasn't rained in a long time, so you'll probably be OK. Motorcycles go through there all the time. You won't have a problem."

At that moment, I could think of no better way to break in my new sport touring tire than scraping it up another mountain dirt road. I proceeded with the confidence the Lord only ordains in a fool.



About a mile up the narrow, winding goat path, I was stopped by my new best friends, the US Border Patrol. One agent, dressed from head to toe in camouflage, with three pistols strapped to his person, walked up to me shaking his head.

Eyeballing the Glock holstered on this guy's chest, I nervously stammered, "Umm, am I OK to go through here?"

He laughed, "Yep, son, you're OK, but you're also nuts! I never seen a bike that big up this way."
That's OK, I know something that this well-armed GI Joe wannabe probably doesn't. The Lord looks after a fool.





I stopped to take my final Ghost Rider tribute picture of this ride.


Ghost Rider Tribute - Final Day

Through seventeen miles of dirt, this fool was well looked after. Not only by the Big Biker in the Sky, but also by the US Border Patrol. I counted seventeen trucks that passed me, most drivers shaking their heads at my folly. I never ended up under the motorcycle as I slipped and slid over gravel, mud and through three water crossings. Only once did I get really scared, through my final, particularly hairy water crossing. As I deftly flailed Rain Cloud Follows through the rapidly flowing water, I shouted out, "HerrrUmmmWoo! Ha ha ha! ShitshitshitshitSHIT! AAAhhhhh! WoooGrrHaHaHa!"

Nobody heard me, proving the old adage that if a numbskull shouts in the woods, nobody cares.
In hindsight, I probably should have asked Cochise Motorsports to put a knobby dirt tire on instead.



Safely back on pavement, I soaked in some more of that beautiful Southwestern scenery.





I stopped in a restaurant, and was a little startled by my waitresses' all too familiar accent.
"How you doin'? You rode that bike all the way heah from Rho' Disland?"

A fellow New Englander. Perfect. She told me she came from Massachusetts thrity years ago to babysit for a weekend, and never left. We chatted a while, and when I asked her about all the border patrol trucks I'd seen, she said, "Yeah, you know, illegals and smugglahs come through heah every night. Sometimes they knock on my dooh late at night askin' for food and watah. I give them some because they're humans after all, but then I tell 'em to be on theih way. I still like it heah bettah than the East Coast. I don't miss all that snow!"

I got on my way, back on the highway and hammered all the way to Yuma. I thought I could win back the cost of my tire at a casino, which proved a bad idea. The Lord may look after a fool, but not all the time.
The next morning, I decided to get up early, cut my losses and make short work of the remaining miles between me and the garage.







With these few final snapshots, my 3452 mile journey was complete. I toasted the Best Ride Ever with my beautiful girlfriend, and that familiar melancholy post-ride feeling once again set in.


The Entire 3452 Mile Route

One thing cheered me up a little. There are rumors that Rush may continue the Time Machine Tour next spring and summer...

To Be Continued... 

Edited by Frenchy750, 28 October 2010 - 12:53 PM.

Outstanding as usual, thanks for taking us along

  

Once again, a most excellent ride report Frenchy!! 

Awesome report! Thanks for that! 

VERY fun read, very fun. 

Great finish Frenchy...always enjoy the read. Thanks for sharing your adventure with us!

--G 

awesome...i'm afraid to post my own sad sack literary RR's after yours. Well done. I enjoyed Alaska as well. 

On behalf of the West Texas KFD's, I am pleased to announce that your gratuitous use of the work "glorious" has entitled you to "Douchebag Emeritus" status. 

The traditional lime green yarn is on its way, and we expect to see your interpretive shawl displayed at the next club meeting.

Exceptional report, Frenchy. 

I've never been to that part of your country, but that report made me feel like I was along for the ride. AWESOME. 

Thanks Frenchy for the awesome report. Well Done 

As a fellow Rushian, I must proclaim this to be the greatest ride report ever! I loved the Red Barchetta reference while escaping from the wilded eyed pickup guy. Thanks again Frenchy for taking us along.