Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

Just past a small chapel the road went up at a steep angle and after making a half-hearted attempt to negotiate it Sophia refused to go any further. I changed down through the gears until she was in first, but even then she didn't have enough power to conquer the rise, and she came to a stop with an undignified 'urrggh'. I applied the brakes but they weren't up to the task and the bike started rolling backwards. I shouted for Sally to jump off before I lost control of the bike.
Sally is quite slight - the scales barely reach 52 kilos when she is on them - but once she jumped off I was able to coax Sophia up the hill to a point where the inclination wasn't so steep. As Sally struggled up the hill to catch up with us, Sophia purred contentedly, as if nothing was wrong.
"I'm sure that bloody bike did that on purpose," gasped Sally when she finally arrived. "Lazy cow!"
Vroom With A View  Peter Moore  pp195-6

[Biggles]

I remember reading an interview with Tony Brancato, a Vespa mechanic in Leichhardt, the heart of Sydney's little Italy, who said that men who drove big, loud motorcycles were just trying to prove their manhood. "Vespa riders," he said, "are content with what they have and know how to use it." And discerning women knew that, he claimed.
Tony has been riding Vespas for close to fifty years so it's probably safe to say that he has his own barrow to push. But there was a kernel of truth in what he said. Thanks to movies like The Wild One, starring Marlon Brando, a Harley Davidson was seen to be the domain of the  dangerous  loner.  But there was something refreshing, reassuring and eminently likeable about Vespas. And it wasn't a disadvantage. The girls did dig them. On every Vespa poster, in so many movies, you'd always see a gorgeous girl on the back. And not some troubled little vixen trying to get back at her parents by going out with a bad boy, either. She was always a well dressed, well adjusted beauty with brains as well as large breasts. At least, that's how I saw it.
Vroom With A View  Peter Moore  pp211-2

[Biggles]

Federico introduced himself cautiously, still not sure why there was an Australian in his bar asking for him by name. He had a shock of black hair that looked like he had stuck his finger in a power point.
When I told him Marco had sent me and gave him the brown bag with the points in it, he put his arm around my shoulder and laughed. "Ahhhh Marco!" he grinned. "Bastardo!"
I filled him in on my story and his eyes lit up in astonishment. He told me I was crazy, which I thought was a bit rich from a guy who used to hurtle souped-up Vespas around racetracks. He said something to the girl behind the bar and then beckoned for me to follow. We went down some old stone steps to the cellar. He flicked the light on and there, among the cases of wine and beers, were two more Vespas, a 1960 180 SS and an early PX 125. He had parts for both bikes hidden among Super Tuscans and Brunellos, including another 180 SS in pieces.
"I love Vespas!" he said with a grin.
We went back to the bar and Federico plied me with free drinks for the rest of the evening.
Vroom With A View  Peter Moore  p261

[Biggles]

On my return I found two women admiring Sophia. One woman was considerably older than the other and wore a scarf on her head. When she realised the bike was mine she spoke to me in Italian, hurriedly and excitedly. I explained that I was Australian and couldn't speak much Italian. Her daughter translated what she was saying.
"She says it is the Vespa of her youth!" she explained.
I told the daughter my story - how I found Sophia on the Internet, how I was riding her from Milan to Rome - and she translated it for her mother. Her mother reached up and squeezed my cheek with a smile, tears welling in her eyes. Seeing Sophia had transported her back to a time when she was young and free and when the boys wanted her. I can't imagine a Holden Commodore having the same effect in forty years' time.
Vroom With A View  Peter Moore  pp276-7

[STeveo]

 

[Biggles]

I'd thought that on my first day in Rome, too. The traffic on Via Cavour had looked like a scramble of ants after their nest has been disturbed. But after an hour of being honked at and told what to do with various intimate parts of my anatomy I discovered there were rules or, rather, one simple rule. If you had a scooter you could ride wherever you damn well pleased. You just made sure you did it with a confidence that told every other driver on the road that's what you were doing.
The realisation was quite liberating, actually. I started riding on the inside of cars, the outside of cars and anywhere between them. If there was a queue of traffic, I'd ride a couple of hundred metres down the wrong side of the road to get around it. The abuse stopped and the people driving cars became more courteous, giving me a few millimetres more to squeeze by. I got where I wanted to go quicker and arrived in a less rattled state. Basically, I had to forget everything that I'd been taught at the Motorcycle Riding Centre in Sydney.
Vroom With A View  Peter Moore  pp291-2

[Biggles]

In the beginning I didn't choose. I drifted between two worlds, my Pagan family's and my citizen friends'. The two groups knew little of the other and I preferred it that way. The distance was closeness. By the age of twelve I was already a regular at Pagan pursuit of pleasure (POP) parties, raucous affairs that sometimes lasted for days at a dilapidated barn on five acres of farm hills outside Allentown. My job at those events was to scout for the cops who sometimes prowled the grass taking names and license-plate numbers and setting up road blocks leading into the Pagans' special encampment area.
Mostly, the cops gathered intelligence on the Pagans hoping to catch them participating in bigger organized crimes. Not that the cops would miss an opportunity to arrest the bikers for drunk disorderly conduct or possession of illegal drugs and paraphernalia. They would and did, but the Pagans were careful to cover their tracks even as they teased the cops by having pizza delivered to their patrol cars and spray-painting the freeway ramps with the invitation "POP this way". The Pagans used me as their scout, their scapegoat, their decoy.
Prodigal Father, Pagan Son  Anthony Menginie  pp32-3

[Biggles]

Later that morning, I mounted the back of the Harley of the club president, Jerry Fox (whom some affectionately called Slow Poke), and headed to the Atco Raceway. Speed transformed the world around me into a shiver of color and shapes without definition. City lights flickered like candles. Buildings flattened. Brass bells shook like gold dust. The road was a black tongue filled with cracks and pits and pedestrians. Cars blurred beside me, the people inside suffocated by glass. I thrust my hands into the wet wind, leaned into the turns, a light drizzle splashing my cheeks. The bike's tires slipped beneath me and I rocked side to side. Exhaust seared my shin. The smells of the street hit me full force, sewage like rotten eggs, bread rising from an Italian diner, road salt, tar, humid wind, burning rubber, the potent odor of tobacco flicked from an open trucker's window. Blasts of hot mixed with cool pockets. Oil streaked the road behind me. Bugs smacked the windshield. Slow Poke's ponytail whipped my eyes. Wind rushed into my nostrils, made my eyes tear. I felt weightless as if I were flying. I closed my eyes. Sirens sounded in the distance, deafening like the roar of a train. Like the first time I ever rode a motorcycle.
Prodigal Father, Pagan Son  Anthony Menginie  pp35-6

[Biggles]

As the sirens approached, Gorilla pounded on a stranger's apartment and startled the young woman who answered the door. I plastered myself against the wall and struggled for air, careful not to expose my shadow to the window. There were no rules for this kind of thing, just adrenaline. Deuce had defended me. My loyalties were with the club. At the time I lived in mad rationalizations. I didn't ask Deuce to stab the transvestite, but he did. I didn't ask for his help, but it didn't matter, he helped. It wasn't as if we ever discussed whether the punishment fitted the crime. Disrespect necessitated reaction. Sometimes overkill. Sometimes just kill. Part of me felt grateful that the club would go to such lengths to prove a point for me. That's what members of a family did for one another, whether right or wrong. That was the power of the club, the allure of loyalty. Nowhere else had I evoked that kind of immediate and unconditional response, and it felt good. It felt great.
Prodigal Father, Pagan Son  Anthony Menginie  p99

[Biggles]

I didn't sleep for the rest of the week. I tossed and turned, practiced loading and unloading my pistol in the dark, not really sure yet how I planned to execute the hit or who, if anyone, I would drag with me. I felt a bit like a chameleon, assuming different personas as the job demanded; before long, I became the hard-ass I portrayed, tough and steely. The part of me that wasn't tough cracked and died inside a little each day as fear gave way to violence. I felt most alive in the moments I thought I might die. There was great relief in terror.
A cold rain spat against my window. My heart raced. I tossed back the sheets. Pain shot up my neck. Out of habit, I dozed fully dressed in my jeans and boots, in case I had night visitors. I padded to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face. Dark circles framed my eyes. Dirty, wild hair clumped together. Grizzle sprinkled my chin. I looked as if someone had run me over with a truck and left tire tracks across my face. Get a hold of yourself. You haven't even killed anyone and you're a mess.
Prodigal Father, Pagan Son  Anthony Menginie  p250

[Biggles]

I expected retaliation; it was the natural order of things. Gorilla settled his scores. No one ever really leaves this club. The Saint's Words haunted me even as I deflected invitations from the Pagan Jersey chapter, Chubs and Rooster, who found my invisible qualities impressive. But I wasn't like them. I could afford the luxury of change. I spotted Gorilla and a chill coursed through me. Marshall flanked Gorilla as new bodyguard. Son of a bitch isn't a cop after all. The former prospect was now a full patch and carried a knife and a gun strapped to his waist. Marshall's oily gaze rested on me and his fingers grazed the hilt of his blade.
"Gorilla wants harm on you," a Pagan whispered under his breath to me. His voice was scratchy, almost muffled. He leaned against his motorcycle, wiped his hands with a chamois cloth. He had a full red beard and a long braid down his back. I recognized Nail. His warning slid like ice down my back. I knew he was right. I knew I would never escape the vibration. Marshall's knife glinted in its sheath. He stared at me with the cold, empty gaze of someone broken. Not a killer exactly. Not even someone who wanted to kill. But almost robotic; he would do it because he was told. Because if he didn't, he would be killed. I'd seen that look before in biker women, hazy and half-drugged. The look of a soul snuffed out. It was easier to kill, to take orders, to abuse, when something no longer looked human.
Prodigal Father, Pagan Son  Anthony Menginie  pp261-2

[Biggles]

First, I love riding a motorcycle. It beats the heck out of an automobile, bus, train, or airplane. I might get cold and wet, but those are minor inconveniences when contemplating the raptures I derive from the experience. Motorcycling is not for everyone, but it is a passion for some of us.
Second, a motorcycle can go just about anywhere. A regular street motorcycle is far better than any four-wheel-drive vehicle. A bridge is out, find a boat to carry the bike across the river. The road goes from two ruts to a footpath, a motorcycle can continue. A bike can get on a train or a ferryboat without prior reservations. It can get hoisted onto an ocean liner like a big suitcase, or loaded into the belly of a DC3. Try that with your Coupe de Ville or Cherokee.
Third, and this may be the most important, it is the friendliest way to travel. You pull up in front of Parton's Grocery & Dry Goods, where three good ole boys are sitting on the porch bench, chawing and whittling, and chances are you will soon be engaged in a conversation. If a sedan or motorhome arrives, this trio might get wondering if there aren't a bunch of extraterrestrials with ray guns hiding in there somewhere, waiting to pop out and zap everybody. With a motorcycle nothing is hidden, everything is out in the open. No Martians in the trunk, no machine guns under the seat. A motorcycle creates a very different atmosphere as you come in contact with strangers, and it is a nice one. The motorcyclist displays a certain vulnerability which is appreciated by those he meets along the way.
101 Road Tales  Clement Salvadori  pp9-10

[Kev Murphy]

  agree!

[STeveo]

 

[Biggles]

I like going to these places which the government has set aside as national preserves. I find them interesting, edifying, often beautiful. But I also like getting home. I was rushing. I knew I was rushing. And it did not matter a whit if I got home early in the evening or late at night. Or even the next day.
Then my great-aunt Agatha's advice came to remind me, "The time to take the tarts is in the passing." Take advantage of the opportunity. Somebody rather more forcefully said, "There comes that moment once, and God help those who pass that moment by."
This may sound like a curious problem I have, not to be able to stop, but I have it. It was a struggle to break that directional inertia, that destination fixation that I had. It was a beautiful morning and all I had to look forward to were hundreds of miles of super-slab. Not an overly pleasurable ride, but if I kept going the sooner it would be over.
There was the exit. At the last moment I put on my directional signals and headed down the off-ramp into Bowie. Not much there!
101 Road Tales  Clement Salvadori  p25

[Biggles]

I met a man back in 1980 on a ferry in British Columbia who was riding a BMW R75/5 with an odometer that had flipped through its five digits and was working on the second 100,000. The motorcycle looked terrible, but he had been doing some serious traveling- probably covering half the roads between the Yucatan and the Yukon. He did not care that the Windjammer fairing was pop-riveted together, that the gas tank was bashed, that the saddlebags needed to be strapped on, or that one of the mufflers had been patched with a coffee can. He had seen the pyramids at Palenque on a full-moon night, the skyscrapers of Manhattan looming across the Hudson River at 5 a.m. on a June morning, and the midnight sun on the road to Inuvik.
He had been places. He had the traveling bug. Had it bad! And his Beemer was his magic carpet. When the wallet got too thin he would head home to Des Moines, pick up his old job fixing agricultural equipment, get a few hundred bucks ahead, and be gone again. The engine worked perfectly, he reasoned, so why buy a new motorcycle? The money would be better spent on gas and food.
101 Road Tales  Clement Salvadori  pp35-6

[Biggles]

Some time later I sold my ultra-reliable NSU 250, with its very good front brake that I had learned to use, and bought a very used, very flashy Indian Chief, Bonneville model. It was one of the last out of the factory door, in brilliant sunshine yellow with saddlebags and spotlights and all the trimmings of a 1950's machine. Basically my teenage reasoning (an oxymoron?) was seduced by the sheer size and glory of the machine, and did not consider how I would slow those 600 pounds.
The rear wheel had a skinny drum, rod operated, that would lock up under an authoritative foot, and the front wheel had an equally skinny drum which worked poorly, and often the brake cable snapped. Which it did one day, and I didn't fix it immediately. The next afternoon I was riding along Crescent Street on the flanks of Round Hill, the residential street having a low concrete wall on the uphill side, an unbroken line of parked cars on the downhill. My attention wandered; I looked over my shoulder briefly, then forward again to see a high school Driver Education car suddenly appear broadside in front of me. The instructor was teaching the hapless student how to turn around on a narrow street.
With the wall on one side, a row of cars on the other and minimal braking available, I locked up the rear wheel, skidded sideways, and gracelessly tipped over onto the crashbars, sliding all the time toward the vehicular barrier. The bike stopped six inches from the driver's door, with me still attached by virtue of having a foot entwined in some of my chrome fixings. I still remember the student's face, staring not at me, but straight forward, mouth agape, with the pallor of an overly dead fish. I wonder if he ever did get his license.
I was unhurt, but saw fit to sell the Chief and buy something that stopped in a more normal fashion, and made sure that the brakes were always functioning properly.
101 Road Tales  Clement Salvadori  pp60-1

[Biggles]

I'm talking about when you presume there will be a functional gas station with gas, and it is either closed or out of gas. Or burned down.
Like Red Hill, New Mexico, on US Highway 60. Tearing along westward on a Kawasaki KZ750, the bike went on reserve just after passing through Quemado. No problem, Red Hill was just 20 miles further along, marked on my map like a regular town. To my thinking, on a Monday morning a regular town should have a gas station. Sure enough, it did. Except it hadn't sold any gas or oil, candy bars or soda pop in quite a long time. Closed up tight. As a matter of fact the whole of Red Hill did not have much of anything, including inhabitants. Maybe if I backed off to about 30 mph I could make it the 28 miles to Springerville.
Not a chance. The engine faltered just as I got to the top of the long grade that winds down to the Little Colorado River; I killed it and coasted down to the valley floor, restarted and got about one mile before it quit for good. And three more miles to town. Fortunately I was close to a house where the fellow had a can of gas for his mower and he volunteered a gallon. But he also seemed to think that I was seriously dumb for not knowing that Red Hill had been shut down for years. Everybody knew that.
Except me.
101 Road Tales  Clement Salvadori  pp74-5

[Biggles]

I followed the back roads that I had so often seen from the car, but everything was different. The towns and villages looked different, the scenery was different and the road was very, very different. I had no idea that a car's windshield could distort reality so much. And there was no cranking the steering wheel over, just leaning. I was impressed. I was also hooked.
Since then I have chosen a thousand other destinations. I can spend hours looking at maps, making a list of places I want to see. Or thumbing through an address book, figuring which friend from long ago I want to visit. I have chosen a national park as a turn-around for the summer's ride... Voyageurs, in Minnesota. I've gone north to Norway to see the midnight sun beyond the Arctic Circle, and south to Panama to see if mangoes grow on bushes or trees.
There is no precise way to come up with a destination; there are probably as many different reasons as there are riders.
101 Road Tales  Clement Salvadori  p94

[Biggles]

In my first week I was sure I would never be able to control all those two score and 10 raging horses. Too much for the likes of me. Scotland, Ireland, Wales, England, France... by the time I got to Madrid I had those half-hundred ponies well corralled.
Well, more or less. I crashed in the Scottish Highlands, running off the road to avoid a startled sheep. And I'd put myself in a ditch in Ireland one soft summer evening, on a level, lonely country lane. Temporarily forgetting which side of the road I was supposed to be on, I went over to the right side when I saw an oncoming motorcycle... exactly as he did.
While I was trying to figure out why this fellow was dead set on hitting me head-on I went onto the grass verge and into the ditch. My presumed antagonist stopped, looked down, and asked, "And now why'd you do such a stupid thing?"
He and his passenger helped me pull the bike out; no harm done.
101 Road Tales  Clement Salvadori  p105

[Biggles]

When I was 17, I was tearing through a French village on my NSU 250. I had one helmet on my head, another hanging off the side of the gear on my luggage rack.
I turned onto a cobbled road going out of town, and a big truck was chuffing along at about five mph. Another big truck was overtaking about seven mph, with a great big orange arrow sticking out from the cab; that was before blinking turn signals. Heck, I'll just run down the gutter on the left and take them both.
I was up alongside the cab of truck number two when I realized the front wheels were actively turning to the left. He wasn't overtaking, he was making a left turn! And I was in the way! I didn't want to brake on slick cobblestones, and I couldn't make the turn at my speed. But I headed that way, hit the curb, bounced up onto somebody's lawn, ploughed through a flower bed, and came to a stop. The truck was standing in the road, my extra helmet hanging from his front bumper.
I walked back to pick it up. The driver looked ashen as he took the helmet off the bumper and gave it to me. "Vous avez de la chance, mon ami" he said, "vous avez de la chance." You're lucky, my friend, you're lucky.
I went down the road a mile, parked, and sat there for an hour, shaking. Close call.
101 Road Tales  Clement Salvadori  pp120-1

[Biggles]

I was reduced to focusing on the Botts dots, the reflectors down the middle of the road. Bless Mister Botts.
If a deer came out in front of me, we would both be history. If something had fallen off a vehicle, like a spare tire, I would never see it until I hit it.
No sign anywhere of hospitality alongside the road. Nothing. I could pull off and spend the night shivering under some water-soaked fir tree; I thought about that. This was not fun, this was dangerous. I was riding virtually blind. I was stupid. I could have stopped back in Garberville, gotten a nice room, had a good dinner, and called Cookie to say I'd be an hour late meeting him in San Francisco.
Not me. Oh no. I had to push on regardless. Regardless of what common sense would dictate. I wished Sue were with me; she wouldn't let me get into this mess. We'd be watching the evening news at the Humboldt House Inn, having a steak at the Waterwheel Restaurant, washed down by a bottle of California merlot.
Instead of riding down a rain-soaked road in the dark at 40 mph, slowing to half that when cars and trucks came in my direction, hoping that nothing was in my way, that some drunk local in a speeding frenzy wouldn't run up my tailpipes.
I was completely frazzled as I got to Laytonville. One gas station, one cafe with no liquor license, three shabby, aged motels. Heaven on earth takes many forms. The old-fashioned motel cabin had a heater that worked, and an attached garage to keep the Harley in. The tough steak and overcooked veggies got washed down with a glass of water, but I was happy. I was alive.
And I'll never let this happen again... Wanna bet?
101 Road Tales  Clement Salvadori  pp150-1

[Biggles]

The first reality of traveling by motorcycle is that there is never enough room to pack everything you want to take. Especially if you are going two-up.
Long ago I met a couple who were traveling overland across Asia from England to Australia on a Suzuki 125. Everything they owned, personal effects, clothes, motorcycle gear, camping equipment, was all strapped and bungied on, using large, home-built pannier bags, a rugged luggage rack stacked high, and a monstrous tankbag. The bike was so overloaded that the sidestand did not work, and the rider had rigged up a little triangular stand that he carried on top of the tankbag and then would lean down and fit to the left footpeg when he stopped.
And I had been complaining about the lack of packing space on my BMW R75/5. How does that moralistic story go? "I was unhappy that I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet."
101 Road Tales  Clement Salvadori  p166

[Biggles]

The King had some 14,000 miles on the odometer, as it was being used as a test bed; I did not know when the current tires had been mounted, but they seemed to have a reasonable amount of tread left. The Harley has 16-inch wheels, shod with H-rated MT90 bias-ply tires, which equal a 130/90.
I rode it home, and several days later headed due east across the Mojave Desert. It was a nice day, but I had a press conference to make at five o'clock and a lot of miles to go, so I hung into the fast lane on I-40 going across the wasteland, where the accepted speed seemed to be about 85 mph.
After the run I headed to Palm Springs, going down old US 66, a little trafficked road with rather rough pavement. I wanted to do mountain loops around Mt. San Jacinto and over the San Bernardino Mountains, so I signed into a motel. In the morning I took out the tire-pressure gauge to check the tires- and noticed that my rear doughnut had very, very little tread left. The grooves were barely a shadow, about 1/64th of an inch. Oh, dear. Dusted again.
I'm not a rider who is gentle with his tires, but I do play fair. I check the pressures regularly, and keep them inflated to the recommended psi. I don't do burn-outs, but I do ride hard. A lot of Montana work, as we like to say, in reference to that sensible state which places no limit on one's speed in daylight hours.
101 Road Tales  Clement Salvadori  p199

[Biggles]

When I was young and unattached, I traveled for the sheer bliss of riding down an unknown road, to an unknown place, to meet unknown persons. I was open for anything. No ties, no need to go to any specific place. It was the kind of travel that few people ever get to enjoy. I could fold my tent in the morning and point the wheel in any direction I wanted. I had no limits, other than what was in my wallet.
In Livingston, New Zealand, a gentleman made a very strong effort to get me to stay, offering a house, a job, and he even had an eligible daughter. I chose to move on. No particular reason, just itchy.
Then I got a staff job with a motorcycle magazine, and while it enabled me to travel a lot, it was only in two or three week stints; there was always that office with a desk to bring me back.
And then Sue came along. Falling in love with her did change my parameters, but before we married we discussed this fully. She likes to travel, and we take at least one trip a year together, sometimes two. Usually she is on her own motorcycle, but if finances are tight, she'll pack two-up.
But she also likes to have her fingers deep into her gardening soil, or pushing a piece of wood through the table-saw. She has created quite a wonderful place for us to live in, and has absolutely no problem with my being gone a good portion of the time. All it takes is love and trust.
101 Road Tales  Clement Salvadori  pp210-1