Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

One of the finest Japanese machines to reach these shores, the late and well-lamented Bridgestone, became the "Kidney Stone", while perhaps the saddest nick-name of all belonged to those early Kawasakis. They were referred to then and occasionally now- as Cack-ya-Dackies, or, even worse, as Crack-a-Slackie. That first nick-name could well be descriptive of the monstrous, ill-handling and under-braked 500cc three cylinder Mach 3 Kawasaki of 50-odd years ago - the bike also referred to as the Widow Maker- but Crack-a-Slackie? The mind boggles!
That very first Honda Gold Wing motorcycle I road-tested for Revs magazine way back in 1974 was branded by almost everybody as the Lead Wing - that's lead as in base metal, not lead as in 'ahead of the pack'. It was perhaps an unfortunate name to bestow upon that first example of a very advanced design, which just might have been close to the mark at the time. It's hardly a Lead Wing today, however!
Vintage Morris  Lester Morris  p182

[Williamson]

One of the finest Japanese machines to reach these shores, the late and well-lamented Bridgestone .....

My late older brother, Jeff (would've been 70 next May), bought a Bridgestone 350GTR back in the late 60's.  He hid it in the garage where Mum or Dad never went.  Took me for a ride as pillion, it was effing fast.

Whilst he was away doing his National Service, a school mate and I took it for a ride, lucky we got it back in one piece, lucky I'm here to tell the story.

When Jeff was home on leave one weekend he took it for a ride, the home 'phone rang around 3:00am, Jeff was in hospital, came off the bike, couple days later he was home again.  Never saw the bike again.

[Biggles]

A nubile blonde minced up to the counter one day and said "I need a jockstrap for my boyfriend. He told me to ask for one here." I was about to suggest she go to the sports store Mick Simmons, which was block or so away, but with a (knowing) smile asked her what size she wanted. With a (melting) smile she cooed "Eighteen inches," which I confess took me aback. "You know," she added "those elastic things you use to tie your luggage with."
I know her boyfriend was having a lend of her - for which no man on earth could blame him, the swine - because he had sent her to get an 'occie-strap', luggage elastic, or to use its correct title, an Aerolastic, of the appropriate length. We had no shortage of those things and they lived in a couple of boxes just under one of the tall counters.
"They're downstairs," I said smugly, "I'll go down and get a couple." With that I took several steps to where one of the boxes lay, bending my knees as I did so and thus pretending to go downstairs into the non-existent basement, rummaged around for a while and re-emerged, straightening up as I did so to make it appear I had just come back up again.
Vintage Morris  Lester Morris  p189

[Kev Murphy]

 

[STeveo]

 

[Biggles]

As she was paying for them, another employee, the late, lamented Robert Radnidge, of no little fame, strolled casually behind me with a large cardboard box over his shoulder. "Look out for the stairs!" she shouted as Rob approached what she thought was a flight of stairs. He apparently levitated across the gaping hole where the stairs were thought to be, and grinned over his shoulder at me as he vanished behind one of the fixtures. The girl looked at me as I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise, then she half-closed one eye as she stretched to tip-toes and leaned across the counter to where she could then clearly see the box containing the Aerolastics.
She said nothing, but unfortunately I have seen the look she gave me upon the faces of several other females I have known over too many years, and it was not a sight I was comfortable with or would ever wish to see again. Unhappily I still see that fearsome expression from time to time.
Vintage Morris  Lester Morris  p189

[STeveo]

 

[Kev Murphy]

 

[Biggles]

About twenty years ago, my brother Dave and his wife Pat bought some land and a cabin in the Alaskan wilderness. Their home is in Colorado but they spend their summers roughing it up north and, although I have never been there, I have always wanted to go. It's a long and expensive trip for a working man and not easily attainable, but after years of planning, saving, and obtaining a two-month leave of absence from work, this trip was now a reality. I'd tried to convince friends to go along, but I couldn't find anyone else crazy enough or with enough time off to dedicate themselves to such an undertaking. In my opinion, if you're going to do a motorcycle ride to the northernmost, it's only reasonable to feel that one should start at the southernmost. "Go big or stay home ," as I've heard it said. So off I went, alone, toward Key West, Florida, to establish the starting point for my epic ride of a lifetime- at the age of sixty.
Just Cruizin'  Douglas Miller  pp2-3

[Biggles]

Then I feel something tapping on my left foot. I look down and see my shifter pedal rocking loosely, back and forth. I leave the highway at Exit 205 and coast around the corner to stop on the side of the road. Inspecting the flaccid shifter pedal, I discover that I can manipulate it by hand through the gears and it feels stable, but as soon as I try to shift it with my foot, it becomes dislodged and useless again. A guy walks over from his front yard to see if he can be of assistance and agrees that it will require more than we can do here on the side of the road. He tells me there is a Harley dealership just five miles north, at Exit 210, so I decide to attempt it. I manipulate the transmission into second gear and start off, back onto the highway, where I am able to get to third gear before the pedal once again becomes dislodged... but that is enough to get me to the speed required for highway travel. At four in the afternoon, I limp into Rossiter's Harley- in Sarasota, Florida, and park my crippled motorcycle in front of the service bay door. At 5:30 that very day I ride away, stripped shifter shaft replaced with a new one, and a fully functional bike. Harley-Davidson is known for its care of its traveling family, and I will see this type of service again before the trip is concluded.
Just Cruizin'  Douglas Miller  p18

[Biggles]

We attract some attention at a rest stop (this happens to us a lot, thanks to Jim's social skills). When Jim tells some electric company workers about the trip, they donate several bottles of ice-cold water from their cooler and offer words of support and encouragement. People seem to be doing this sort of thing... generous, supportive gestures. I feel like I have a lot of people, even total strangers, cheering me on. I am also grateful for the support I get from those reading, commenting, and supporting me through my Facebook posts. It makes the mile after mile drudgery so much easier knowing that you are there. I also confess to Jim and Terry that I'd had thoughts of turning back and giving up, but meeting up with them has rejuvenated my attitude and determination. Their help and support has been invaluable- I owe both of my friends much gratitude and a great deal of appreciation. Tonight, it's the Motel 6 in Socorro, New Mexico. We rode about 400 miles today, and hopefully we will make it to Colorado tomorrow.
Just Cruizin'  Douglas Miller  p38

[Biggles]

Cruising along, my attention is grabbed by a flash of something in the low gully on the right side of the road... grizzlies! I slow and make a U-turn. I stop safely, well past them on the other side of the road, take out my phone, set up the camera function, and slip it into my jacket pocket. I ride slowly back past the bears, make another U-turn, and slowly approach the three large brown beasts on the same side of the road where they are grazing. I stop, leave my motor running holding my clutch lever, prepared to flee if necessary. I know that grizzly bears are fast and agile. They can run forty miles per hour so, if one decides to attack, I have little or no chance of escaping. I have knowingly put myself at a disadvantage. One large bear glances up at me, then goes back to grazing, then glances up again, and back to grazing. This happens two or three times when I decide it's time to make my move if I'm going to get a picture. The situation is extremely tense as I put my transmission in neutral, let the clutch lever out, and lean the bike onto the kickstand. No sudden moves- I am very slow and deliberate as that same unpredictable bear continues to check me out. I remove the phone from my jacket pocket and wait for it to look up again. As it does, I snap a picture but, by the time it takes, the bear's head is down again. I wait- again it looks up. I snap another photo but, again, fail to capture it looking directly at me for that brief instant. At this point, I feel like I've pushed my luck far enough. I return the camera to my pocket, raise my bike off the kickstand, pull in my clutch lever, kick the shift lever into first gear, release the clutch, and slowly accelerate. As I ease my way past the third bear, I twist the throttle and shift through the gears, letting out a sigh of relief that the danger is past.
Just Cruzin'  Douglas Miller  pp65-6

[Biggles]

I leave Joe's around eight o'clock. He had already left for work by seven. I had been up to thank him again for his hospitality, then I follow his verbal directions to the northernmost outpost at Fairbanks Harley-Davidson. I had planned to stop here anyway to get a T-shirt, as I had done in Wasilla, marking each occasion. If you ride this far, you should have something to show for your accomplishment. However, I did not wish to be in this predicament with my brakes. The store opens at nine and I arrive at ten minutes to nine, feeling like I am in good shape to get service.
Explaining the brake issue to the service manager, he tells me that he has a group of travelers scheduled for oil changes this morning and cannot promise that he will get to me before noon. This is OK with me. I need to be in tip-top condition when I leave here, and the timeframe is secondary. There is a motel next door if it should get to that point. I unload all my luggage and equipment from the bike, and pile it up on the floor inside the service door and settle in for the long wait.
To my surprise and delight, the work on my bike is done by 11:30. The diagnosis is that I had gotten water in my brake system and, from the long ride in the rain, this seems reasonable. They drained, flushed, and refilled my rear brake system. Whatever had been wrong in the past, I'm sure it's roadworthy now. I pick out a T-shirt, pay the service bill of $57.95, reload my bike, and have a candy bar and a Red Bull at the gas station for my first meal of the day. Then I ride southeast, once again, on the Alaska Highway toward Tok.
Just Cruzin'  Douglas Miller  p90

[Biggles]

Pulling out of the gravel parking lot, I shift into second gear. As I attempt to shift into third my shift lever fails is to function. Looking down toward the left side of my bike, I see it loosely rocking back and forth without resistance. This feels strangely familiar and unwelcome. The first emotion I experience is panic, fearing that my motorcycle is disabled. Turning around, I coast back into the parking lot and shut the engine off. I kneel down and begin my inspection. At first, knowing that the shifter shaft was recently replaced, I assumed the rear linkage had somehow failed. Closer inspection revealed otherwise and, sure enough, the shaft is stripped... again! I stand up and walk away from the bike, overcome with anger and frustration at this turn of events. This was just repaired a month ago in Sarasota and I must admit, I'm shocked that it could be happening now. I find myself wondering if I was bamboozled by the dealership taking advantage of an unwitting traveler. Suddenly, I am furious, expecting to be stranded here in this remote location while I await road service- if there is such a thing in this wilderness with no cell phone service. The transitions of this emotional roller coaster were extremely rapid. I try to gain control of my temper as I contemplate my next move, aware that throwing emotion at a problem is the equivalent of throwing gasoline at a fire, and that my current state of mind will only serve to antagonize my predicament. 
Just Cruzin'  Douglas Miller  p97

[Biggles]

To the front of and below the horn cover, obscured from sight, is a large dome nut that connects the vertical piece rising from the shifter shaft to the shift rod, which in turn connects to the rear linkage above the transmission. From my several experiences of physically manipulating the shift rod, it occurs to me that perhaps I can kick that dome nut with the heel of my boot. If I connect with it just right I can shift up through the gears. This is very cumbersome at first and sometimes takes two or three attempts to get it right, but I find that I can shift gears effectively. Eventually I am able to accomplish the more difficult task of hooking my heel behind the dome nut- by doing so, I can downshift. I can't see it, but I can feel for it. This maneuver takes a lot of practice to become proficient, but I have a lot of road ahead of me in which to practice. Through necessity, I have overcome.
Just Cruzin'  Douglas Miller  pp101-2

[Kev Murphy]

Necessity is the mother of invention, there are many ways to overcome breakdowns 

Way back in the past, I had a clutch cable that broke the knob at the end, that secures the cable to the clutch lever.
No big deal if I was in a town, but this happened on a little used road about 80 Km NW from Paraburdoo, and about 200 km short of Nanutarra roadhouse, WA.
Literally in the middle of nowhere. Time to check what was in my collection of junk odds and ends in the pannier that could be utilised as a quick fix.

I found an electrical blue point connector, removed the plastic cover and then shortened the outer clutch cable sheath by about 40 mm to give myself
a small amount of inner cable length to work with. Pushed the cable through the metal collar of the screw connector, wrapped the cable
around the lever then poked the end of the cable back into the connector and fastened the screw to secure it. Not very aesthetic, but it was functional,
and I was mobile again within 30 minutes. 
Replaced the cable with a new one about 1000 km later at a bike shop in Geraldton.

[Biggles]

My sphincter tightens as my gaze alternates from his eyes to his left hand to his weapon, back to his eyes, and again back to his weapon- I'm concerned he is going to draw down on me and I feel that I know no more about what he is going to do next than he does, and it becomes very tense, very fast. He asks me, "Do you have a weapon on you now?" I reply, keeping my hands in plain sight, "Yes, one under my vest and one in my back pocket." More tension fills the atmosphere as I see his eyes grow even more panicky- fearful and unsure. It is obvious that he is unsure how to handle this situation, and is trying to work through the lesson in his mind as it was presented in training. My attention is focused on his left hand and weapon, as unsure of him as he is of me- possibly more. After what seems to be a long pause, he says, "For my safety I am going to disarm you."
I say, "OK, I am cooperating with you. I am on a long transcontinental ride and I carry these legally for my own personal defense."
Just Cruzin'  Douglas Miller  pp112-3

[Biggles]

I thought that there would be a transition. As a child and even as a young man, I would look at older people and see them differently from myself. I assumed that I would someday become "one of those" people: one who didn't have any fun, who just concentrated on work and responsibilities- telling others what to do and how to live their lives. I thought I would become grumpy and dissatisfied with the world and life- that I would transpire into an old person who would just sit in a chair and watch younger people have all the fun as I waited for the Grim Reaper to fill his quota at harvest time. Now, as I have reached this point in my life, I realize that this is not the way it is- or at least not the way it has to be. I have matured no doubt. In reason, I think things through more thoroughly and am able to plan and execute successfully and effectively. Physically, my hair is gone, my beard is gray, and my stature is altered. But my soul remains constant. My sense of humour is perpetual. My feelings and emotions remain as they have always been. I have the same needs, the same interests, and the same desires. I have learned how to manage them, and my determination has become inexhaustible. I probably have more fun now than at any other time in my life- after all, last summer was the best summer of my life. This summer has turned out to be the best summer of my life- and I believe that next summer, whatever it holds in store for me, will be the best summer of my life.
Just Cruzin'  Douglas Miller  pp116-7

[Biggles]

But I do remember with startling clarity that it involved Sophia riding a Vespa around the cobbled streets of a tiny Italian village, and that the grainy image stirred something in me. There, on the screen of our battered Grundig, I saw the epitome of style, sophistication and drop-dead gorgeousness. I also realised with a Neanderthal teenage 'huh!' that Sophia Loren wasn't too bad, either.
I kept an eye out for Italian movies from that moment on. Whether it was a home-grown classic, such as La Dolce Vita, or one of the Hollywood variety, such Roman Holiday, there seemed to be one incontrovertible truth: all a guy had to do to look cool was jump on Vespa and buzz down to a cafe, a beach or  nightclub. No matter the time of day or night, there would always be a clutch of beautiful women with large, dangerously pointy breasts waiting to flirt with him. And once he threw his leg over a Vespa, even with a three-day growth and crumpled suit he was nonchalant style personified. To a young guy still wearing flannelette shirts and ugh boots in the western suburbs of Sydney it was a heady revelation indeed.
Vroom With A View  Peter Moore  p3

[Biggles]

Bruno the mechanic had fixed the carburettor, put a new bulb in the front light and attached a side mirror on the right-hand side of the handlebar. Gianni said I probably could have got away without a mirror because originally my Vespa didn't have one. But now, with a mirror, the police would have no excuse to pull me over.
Gianni had also bought me a lock and chain and a litre of oil to keep in the side panel. I'd need to put the oil in the petrol. The 1961 Vespa has an old two-stroke engine and you have to add the oil manually every time you fill up with petrol. It's not the most environmentally friendly way to power a vehicle. But it's extraordinary how much power it squeezes out of something that is really just a glorified sewing-machine engine.
We stopped at a petrol station on the way back to Gianni's office to fill up with fuel. Petrol stations in Italy still have attendants, blokes in greasy overalls who fill your tank, check the air in your tyres and wash your windscreen, if you have one. The attendant at this particular station was convinced I had to put in 5 per cent oil and snorted at Gianni's suggestion that I put in 2 per cent. In the end I compromised and put in 3 per cent. Clearly my rusty maths skills were going to get quite a work-out over the next couple of months.
Vroom With A View  Peter Moore  pp28-9

[Biggles]

As good a plan as it was - and it was an excellent one - it was still contingent on me getting past the T-intersection at the bottom of Gianni's street. It wasn't the most dangerous intersection in Milan, but it was still daunting, involving a hair-raising turn onto a major road, cutting across oncoming traffic to a lane on the far side. I couldn't see a break in the traffic, but Gianni zipped off on his Honda, darting through a split-second gap and pulling over to the side of the road a couple of hundred metres away. He waved for me to follow, but I sat, waiting patiently for a safe break that never came. Gianni waved again, frustrated, before magically doing a U-turn through a seemingly endless stream of traffic and coming back to me. "You must not have fear," he shouted through his helmet. "If they see you they will not hit you."
As if to prove the point he did the same turn again, squeezing through a gap as a truck was bearing down on him. I waited a few seconds before following, my eyes nearly closed and my body tensing for the inevitable collision. Miraculously, when I opened my eyes again I was on the other side of the road and puttering along. Trucks and cars and other scooters darted around me, but there were no horn blasts or aggressive shouts of vaffanculo. I had made my first foray into Italian traffic and survived.
I pulled up beside Gianni at the first set of lights, grinning with pride.
"Bellissimo!' he said. "Remember: when you you ride like you own the road you do own the road!"
Vroom With A View  Peter Moore  pp30-1

[Biggles]

The Bedo was also a restaurant, and when I rang the the counter in reception the manager emerged from the kitchen in a blood-stained apron. He wiped his hands on his apron to take my passport, and looked perplexed when he saw that I was Australian.
"Not Milano?" he said, pointing to my Vespa with its Milanese number plates parked just outside the door.
I told him my story about buying the Vespa on the Internet and my plan to ride it to Rome and he gave me a hearty slap on the back. "Fantastico!" he said. With that he took back the key he had given me, replacing it on its hook in the little wooden key box, and gave me another. On the way to my room, he pointed out the room he was going to give me, a tiny shoebox at the top of the stairs. He screwed up his nose at it, and when we passed a room where a group of Muslim men were praying he screwed up his nose again. Then he led me down the corridor to a double room. The window had its own flower box, and looked out over the town to the vine-covered hills beyond.
"Bella vista!' he said proudly. He had given me the room with the best view. Travelling on a 1961 Vespa, even a temperamental one like mine, certainty had its advantages.
Vroom With A View  Peter Moore  pp57-8

[Biggles]

"It is a good solid example of the marque," he said. "You got it for a good price." I felt chuffed. It meant a lot coming from an expert like Marco.
I pointed out the splotch of oil on the front wheel and Marco declared that the front shock absorber had blown.
"I have one here," he said. "I can fix it now if you like."
Marco didn't wear overalls when he worked. He simply plucked a pair of surgical gloves from a nearby dispenser and snapped them onto his hands like a doctor about to do an anal probe. He wheeled Sophia onto a small purpose-built stand and quickly removed the old shock absorber and replaced it with a new one. He called out the name of tools as he needed them and Filippo grabbed them off the wall, where there were all methodically hung, each in its own special place, and handed them to him. I noticed that there was a cork screw among the spanners. I liked the way this guy worked.
While Marco had Sophia on the stand he checked the electrical system and decided to change the coil and the condenser as well. They were old and worn and only emitted a rather sad orange spark to the spark plug. Once they were replaced a big blue spark leapt from beneath the spark plug cap even if you held them a couple of centimetres apart.
"A tempest of electricity!" Marco announced proudly as he put the appropriate covers back on.
Vroom With A View  Peter Moore  pp131-2

[Biggles]

Carrefour's success in Italy is considerable. At the end of 2002 they boasted 203 supermarkets, eighty-six convenience stores, twelve cash-and-carries and thirty-four hypermarkets. If the number of cars fighting for parking spaces at the one in Pisa was anything to go by, they were doing rather well for themselves.
As a scooter rider I didn't have to worry about such tiresome things as finding a parking spot. I simply parked Sophia on the footpath near the entrance door like every other scooter rider in Pisa. There seemed to be a competition going on to see who could park closest to the sliding glass doors without triggering the automatic opening mechanism. Try as I might, couldn't better the effort of the owner of an old green Cosa. He'd parked his bike within a millimetre of the range of the electric door's eye.
While the motor scooter parking arrangements gave the Carrefour a distinctly Italian ambience, it ended abruptly once I entered the store. With its harsh neon lighting and insipid piped music it was like every other hypermarket in the world.
Vroom With A View  Peter Moore  p163

[Biggles]

Late on the afternoon of our third day in Montopoli the mechanic rang to say that Sophia was fixed and ready to go. The mechanic's workshop was 15 kilometres away, in an industrial estate beside the freeway. The cranky old farm-stay manager drove me there, sucking on a cigarette and not uttering a single word the entire way. When we arrived, the young mechanic apologised for taking so long, and when I asked how much I owed him he looked at the manager for a hint. She raised her eyebrows and he said €30, an extraordinarily low amount considering he had come out to the agriturismo to pick the bike up. I suspect the Montaito put a lot of business through him and expected a good deal for their guests in return.
I rode back to Montalto exhilarated, not just by the price but also by how well Sophia was going. She powered up the final steep ascent to the farmhouse like it was a gentle slope.
Vroom With A View  Peter Moore  pp188-9