Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

Germany is a hard country in which to navigate.  Unlike, say France, which has numbered roads, Germany depends on clusters of destination signs to point the way.  You come to a sudden cross-roads, and instead of an arrow that says "Route 19" you are confronted with one small yellow sign that says.

Marktoberdorf
Klosterlechtfeld
Totenschweinhocksmitstuffin .. .
and another one that reads...

Pfizerknottendinkelrude
Rotenkaisersunterwarren
Bad Rainagain
Behanginwashonderseigfriedline

As you go flying past the intersection at about 120 kph, your navigator/wife leans forward and shouts, "What did those signs say?"
Struck completely dumb in the presence of a thousand Teutonic syllables, you simply skid to a stop and put your head down on the tank and groan.
Leanings  Peter Egan p200

[Biggles]

On the road, fellow tour member Peter Wylie on his Suzuki TL1000 passed us with a wave, sailing off into the distance at high speed.  Five miles later, we found him standing in the road next to his bike, at the end of a 50-yard streak of rubber.  As he was accelerating through the gears, his transmission had suddenly seized up solid in fourth gear, locking the rear tire.  The TL had been a test bike for several German magazines, so its trans had probably seen better days.
Leanings  Peter Egan p201

[Biggles]

Saturday was race day, but the Friday night before was festival night in downtown Assen.  Unlike Douglas at the Isle of Man, which is Bike Central, Assen has its guest park just outside the barricaded downtown, which is as charming as Disneyland's European Village, but real.  Bands play on every other street corner, bungee jumpers leap from cranes, beer tents sell beer, food tents sell pretzels and sausages. and everybody walks.
Everybody:  Kids, grandmas, bikers, riders in full leathers, moms, young couples with prams, all circulating in a huge, swirling counter-clockwise flow through jam-packed streets.  No pushing, shoving, or swaggering, just a polite, cheerful crowd out for a mass stroll.  I've never seen anything quite like it.  In the U.S., we seldom get an all-ages family crowd at a bike rally.
Leanings  Peter Egan p204

[Biggles]

On Saturday we rode to the track, joining the flow down A28 until we were ducted into one of a dozen parking fields whose size and glittering mass of handlebars, gas tanks, and headlights almost defies description.  How many bikes do you picture on Earth?  Triple that number, square it, and then multiply by your age and envision them all parked at Assen.
Ever wonder where all the cowhide goes when McDonalds is done making hamburgers?
Leathers.  At Assen.
Leanings  Peter Egan p204-5

[Streak]

"Most motorcycle problems are caused by the nut that connects the handlebars to the seat"

[Biggles]

I later stopped again at the Nurburgring, the famous 14-mile race circuit tested in the Eifel Mountains.  The track was open for anyone with the 22-deutchmark ($13)-per-lap fee. So our group lined up behind various Porsches, taxicabs full of tourists, sportbikes, and teens in hot-rodded Opels (can you imagine this happening in America?) and paid our money, just as the rain began pouring down again.  Before we pulled onto the track, Christian walked up and said, "A road- racing friend of mine recently won a race here in the rain because he didn't crash. He normally finishes 14th.”  He peered in through my helmet visor to see if I understood.
Message delivered. The track was indeed quite slippery in the rain- slick with oil and rubber- so we didn't exactly set any new two-up lap records, but the length and difficulty of the track, one of the most beautiful on Earth, made its impression.  With 174 corners per lap, you feel like you’ve been gone for a month when you finally get back to the start-finish line.  And, in my case, I probably had.
Leanings  Peter Egan p205-6

[Biggles]

El Chico Loco rejoined us for dinner that night, seated in a wheelchair.  Seems the surgeons had not only fixed his broken leg, but repaired the botched job done by an American hospital back in the 1970s after his dirt-bike accident.  He read us a hilarious account he'd written of his week in the hospital, and said he'd seen the Dutch TT on TV in the hospital lounge, sipping champagne ordered from the maternity gift shop.
Seems a German policeman came to his hospital room and served him a traffic ticket for going too fast.
"I was going fast," Chico told him, "but certainly not too fast.  If I'd been going too fast, I'd be dead.  All I've got is a broken leg."
The cop agreed and reduced the fine.  A happy ending, all things considered.
Leanings  Peter Egan p207

[Biggles]

Over dinner, I learned that Stan and Herb have been riding since high school and, between them, have owned, restored, broken, or patched up just about every motorcycle ever made: BMWs, BSAs, Ducatis, Harleys, Hondas, Kawasakis, Laverdas, Nortons, Triumphs, etc.  Motorcycle guys of wide focus, lifelong and hopeless, which we now know to be the best kind of person. They've got the disease.
Leanings  Peter Egan p213

[Biggles]

And, as usual, we had a great bunch of guys to travel with.  I looked around the table at our typically hilarious farewell dinner and thought of that old saying about the pioneers and cowboys who settled the Old West: "The faint of heart never left, and the fools perished along the way."
Motorcycle tours have a little of that same filtration process built into them.  Only folks with a sense of adventure and the ability to keep it on two wheels for a week ever sign up for these trips, and they are by nature a lively bunch.
Leanings  Peter Egan p225

[Streak]

"The best modifications cannot be seen from the outside"

[Biggles]

(Remember- this is USA- LH drive, so the sidecar is on the right…)
A sidecar, of course, is not like any other vehicle. It doesn't- as some have suggested- exist halfway between a motorcycle and a car; it's simply a Third Way.  It lacks all the saving dynamic virtues of both bikes and cars, so driving one ("riding" seems an inadequate verb) is an art form unto itself. 
In right turns, the car feels as though it wants to lift and flip over on you, while the motorcycle itself leans and groans vertiginously outward in defiance of all sound motorcycling instinct. In left turns . . .  well, it doesn't want to turn left.  It prefers to go straight and can be made to change its mind only through brute force on the handlebars.  Until you get used to it both motions set off primitive alarm bells in your brain that Something is Going Wrong, inducing the occasional cold sweat.
In straight-line cruising, inertia and wind want to hold the car back, so you have to keep a steady pressure on the right bar to hold it straight.  In hard downhill braking, the car wants to circle the bike, unless you use plenty of rear brake- which, on the Harley, is linked to a nicely effective disc brake on the outer wheel of the car.
In other words, its more work than riding a motorcycle.  But once you get used to the rig, you begin to relax and it becomes fun.  It’s simply a unique and refined skill, like flying an airplane, or playing the dulcimer with a sledgehammer.
Leanings  Peter Egan p228

[Biggles]

I'd been standing by the highway for some time when two full-dress Harleys came thundering by.  To my amazement, the front rider signalled a stop and pulled over.  I ran up to the bike and an older man in a white T-shirt and a yacht-captain's hat grinned and said, "Hop on."
I climbed on the back of a huge sprung saddle with fringe and conchos and we roared on down the road.  I remember looking over the guy's shoulder at the speedometer and noting that we were going 80 miles an hour.   The whole ride was a crazy overload of sounds and sensations: too much to take in.  What struck me about it, though, was the absolute sense of freedom.  I looked around myself at the Harley and thought,  "With one of these you could go anywhere."  On that big motorcycle, the open road seemed to beckon endlessly as it never had when I rode in a car.
Leanings  Peter Egan p240-1

[Biggles]

Novellist D. H. Lawrence once asked how it was possible that so many young Englishmen were able to leave the green, pastoral beauty of their farms to work in the coal mines, living deep underground for all their daylight hours. His answer?
Motorbikes.
Young men wanted motorbikes, he said, so they could return to their villages and farms, take their girlfriends for a ride, and generally Be Somebody.
Leanings  Peter Egan p245

[Biggles]

The only disconcerting part of these rides home was that there was something slightly odd about shutting down a lawn mower with a big four-stroke single, and then firing up a motorcycle with a 50cc fan-cooled two-stroke that would have been right at home on a lawn mower. I felt, as Kurt Vonnegut would later say, that some terrible mistake had been made. Bigger bikes with Turtle motor mower quality engines would come later, along with larger loans.
Leanings  Peter Egan p247

[Biggles]

Not only do I have plenty to do until spring, but I sometimes find myself overwhelmed with the myriad possibilities, suffering from a condition that has recently been called "option paralysis." This is a malady where you have so many things to do that you can’t focus on any one task, so you end up (in my case) sitting on a workbench, staring happily at pour bikes, sipping on a Guinness, and listening to Bonnie Raitt and John Lee Hooker on the garage boom-box.
This is not a bad thing in itself, but it raises the spectre of spring arriving with bikes only half ready to be ridden. I still picture them, poised like a row of battle-ready fighter planes, waiting to take off at the first sign of warm weather, then to be ridden like crazy all summer without guilt or mechanical hassles.
Leanings  Peter Egan p252

[Biggles]

Then, suddenly, there were Hondas. Word spread like wildfire, and so did the bikes, all through the early Sixties.
The price range was $245 to $700 new, depending on the model. Most models (other than the 50cc step-through) had slick, four-speed transmissions hidden inside engine cases, where they couldn't even snag your pants cuff and leave grease marks. Electricity actually reached the headlight, which in turn lit the road. Performance, per cc, was amazing. A Honda Super 90 would go about 60 on the highway while getting around 100 mpg. The CB160 was quicker than most of the old 250 British singles and cost less. The 305 Super Hawk was a giant killer. What's more, these bikes looked good. Someone in Japan understood. Goodbye, Cushman scooter.
Leanings  Peter Egan p258

[Biggles]

It was assumed, for reasons I will never understand, that motorcycles had to be wrenched upon constantly, that they were destined to leak oil and vibrate excessively, scattering parts and vaporizing light filaments.
Perhaps I'm painting too bleak a picture of the pre-Honda era, as there were many fine and relatively refined bikes made earlier, but the majority of 1950s motorcycles had what seemed to me a World War I aircraft flavour to their mechanical innards- and outards. ("Advance the spark, Biggies! We've a Hun on our tail.")
My own first bike was not a Honda. After a brief fling with a semi-functional James/Villliers 150, I bought a Bridgestone Sport 50, mainly because we had a local dealer. A good little bike, but it was a two-stroke and had the usual oil-mix/plug-range hassles.
Shortly thereafter, I got a Honda Super 90 and decided I was a four- stroke kind of a guy.
Leanings  Peter Egan p258

[Biggles]

A group of people at a party hear you ride a motorcycle and at least one person in the crowd can produce a richly detailed, moment-by-moment account of catastrophe on a first bike ride. Usually the tale ends in a vow never to ride again, or to "stick to four wheels."
As nearly as I can tell, a typical sequence of events in most of these mishaps seems to be: (1) surprise at the abruptness or speed of forward motion combined with a poor sense of twist-grip modulation; (2) growing panic in realizing that the technique for stopping safely has not been adequately rehearsed; and (3) a total loss of steering control as the unnatural instinct to countersteer is replaced, through terror, by an attempt to automatically turn the handlebars in the direction you want to go (which is effective only at very low speed) causing the rider to hit the very object he or she had hoped to avoid.
Leanings  Peter Egan p261

[Biggles]

Reflecting on this later, I thought it was both sobering and a little amusing (if such serious matters can ever be said to be amusing) that so many of us who love cars, motorcycles, airplanes, etc. nearly always react to a life crisis in terms of a coveted machine- or an untaken adventure with a machine. Chest pains? Quick, call your Ducati dealer and see if that 916 is still unsold! Tornado miss your house by a few hundred yards? Might as buy a new XR and do Baja off-road, all the way down to Cabo.
Time's a-wastin'!
Leanings  Peter Egan p290-1

[Biggles]

Yours truly, for instance, has hardly ever been without some form of late- 1960s Triumph in the garage. I like the way these bikes look and sound, but there's a little more to it than that. Part of their appeal lies in the fact that these are the bikes I most lusted after during the time I was in Vietnam. And every time I look at one now, it reminds me I'm back.
There's a little reward built into every Triumph, a little private celebration. I suppose people who don't care about motorcycles find some other way of handling these curve balls life throws at us. Maybe a new set of gardening tools, a deluxe bowling ball, or a trip to the Yucatan. Or, if they are of a non-materialistic bent, they may find renewed interest in some spiritual aspect of life, or merely be reminded of how much their families and friends mean to them, or how pointless it is to cause dissension in this short passage of time.
Leanings  Peter Egan p291-2

[Biggles]

Inside, mixed with fishing lures, hip boots, rifles, and shotguns, were rows of new 1973 Hondas. And one of them, pulled out from the row, had a tag on the handlebars that said "SOLD: Egan."
It was a Honda CB350- first year with the disc brake- in a beautiful dark green.
I looked at Barb, who was watching my face to see if she'd done the right thing.
"How did you do this?" I asked quietly.
"I saved a little every month in the credit union at work."
Back in business, after three years without a bike. Reborn.
Anyway, when someone says, "I'm surprised your wife lets you have a motorcycle," I never get annoyed. I just reflect for a few fond moments and am too. Every time.
Leanings  Peter Egan p295

[Biggles]

The author wrote this book after completing a round-Australia awareness raising ride for Batten Disease sufferers and their families.
She self-published the book, and all proceeds go to the Batten Disease charity to promote research and support families with information.
The book is only $17.50 posted and can be bought here: http://www.battens.org.au/perils-motorcycling

During 1988 I went up to Queensland to visit my youngest sister Kylie for her 21st birthday. Her partner was a truckie and they had to go out to Ipswich to drop off a truck somewhere out west, so I went in the car with Kylie.  We followed his semi-trailer with the truck on the back of the trailer.  Whilst I was sitting in the passenger seat, a horrible thought occurred to me.  What would we do if the truck fell off the back of the semi?  I started sliding down in the seat to see how flat it was possible to lay.
The next minute I noticed all the chains had in fact snapped, and were dangling off the left side of the truck as we started heading up a hill.  I told Kylie and we madly overtook Phil to get him to pull over before he continued on.  We joked later that because I came up for her birthday, it prevented her from becoming a flat pancake.  She would have been in the car by herself and wouldn't have noticed the broken chains from the driver s seat.
I have the utmost respect for truckies and have appreciated their help over the years during my travels.  Many of them ride motorcycles as well, so their brains work on a similar wavelength.  I've lost count of their “saves” and can remember their warnings, whether it be water over the road ahead or some other potential disaster.
The Perils Of Motorcycling  Alanna Gayko p47

[Biggles]

My instruction on learning to ride an outfit was a short lesson in the car park, of which all I can remember doing was a 'figure 8'.  Off we headed down to ride for what likely had been a very short distance.  I went out of control, middle of the freeway.  The rig tipped over, with the chair up in the air momentarily.  Whilst Marie was balanced up there - or perhaps it was immediately after the chair slammed back down to earth, I can distinctly remember her words.  She was so cool and didn't panic, just calmly said, "Lucky no one was in the overtaking lane at the time!"
Well I never got over that experience remaining scared senseless for the remainder of the trip. I loved the chair, but must have had a look of terror on my face during the times I was at the helm.  Firstly, I didn't feel right sitting so high on the K series, being more comfortable lower to the road.  I have a severe case of duck's disease, where my bum is close to the ground and it likes being there.  The occasional time I rode into a service station, I would forget about the chair being there, hitting the petrol bowser.  Anyway, only because of Maries’ skill, we made it to Mt Dare in one piece, to enjoy the rally over the next few days.
The Perils Of Motorcycling  Alanna Gayko p56

[Biggles]

Riding the Beemer R1OO/S westward past Ipswich, it was the most suffocating heat, somewhere in the mid-40s.  It was the most intense temperature by the middle of the day.  The soles of my boots, as well as the foot pegs, were literally soft and sticky, with the rubber actually melting.
I was riding behind a line of cars, when the next moment I got whacked with a large piece of truck tyre hitting me on the lower body and leg.  I don't know how I stayed upright, but fortunately was able to pull over still in one piece despite the intense pain and sit by the side of the road.  I eventually stopped bawling,  regaining my composure.  It was only then that I realised how lucky I was not to have copped it in the head or chest, as it may have been a different story.
The Perils Of Motorcycling  Alanna Gayko p74

[Biggles]

After multiple attempts to start the bike, it finally fired away.  I looked down at the engine where petrol was pouring out everywhere and noticed some electrical sparks flying about.  Being “the sharpest tool in the shed”, I considered that this may be a vital bit of information that could prevent the two of us self-combusting up there on the road.  I quickly informed Ludo and he immediately cut the engine.  That was the only time we started the motorcycle.  Besides not being able to start it, I didn't like my chances of using the right foot gear changes without killing myself.  For those reasons, we have since sold the Matchless.
The Perils Of Motorcycling  Alanna Gayko p100