Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

In Iran…
But those first few minutes on the freeway were just a warm up act ahead of a mad main event as the half-crazed drivers of cars, buses and trucks all jockeyed for pole position in this deadly drag race across the desert. And it wasn't long before we passed the first of many fatal accidents; a crumpled mini-van and a battered family sedan lay near each other upside down on the rocky desert floor some fifty yards from the road, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers, emergency workers and distraught survivors. And it was difficult to understand how such an accident could occur on such a long straight stretch of one-way traffic across an empty desert; speed and driver error the only obvious reasons. But witnessing this carnage didn't seem to deter anyone, as our procession continued on at a breakneck 120kph (and this was in the slow lane). I could barely keep up, but, more afraid of the consequences of slowing down I pushed my bike even harder. And, with all the aerodynamics of a refrigerator, even a gentle cross breeze caught me like a wet sail and blew me around dangerously across, and then outside my lane. My arms began to ache from wrestling with the bike as I tried to maintain a constant heading into the teeth of the wind. I had never ridden so fast. I was in top gear and climbing through 6000 rpm, approaching the engine's red line - unchartered territory for both of us and, despite the emphatic assurances of the inscrutable Mr Shu - whose face I could see clearly now in my mind's eye - that nagging feeling that I was sitting on an time bomb that might explode at any minute filled me with a deep dark fear.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p352

[Biggles]

But darkness descended quickly over the desert and it was a sprawling web of twinkling lights under an indigo sky that ultimately resolved into the large and surprisingly modern city of Shahrud. It also had a modern, well equipped and aggressive police force, most of whom greeted me at the end of the freeway explaining that it was in fact illegal to ride a motorcycle on an Iranian motorway. But with the cultural and language barriers just too high and too wide to bridge tonight, I was pardoned on account of my own ignorance and allowed to proceed. Navigating by instinct I negotiated a series of large roundabouts and found my way onto a bizarre avenue of pulsating neon palm trees, before finally emerging into the throbbing heart of Shahrud along a narrow dog-legged street clogged with traffic.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p354

[Biggles]

"You want us to open up the engine?" he said bewildered.
"Ah... .yes... please" I said, a little perplexed, wondering how I could have been any more explicit. "But what if we find something wrong?" he shot back.
"What do you mean?" I said - a little exasperated. "My clutch has been re-built with scrap metal by a little Chinese man who lives in a closet and works on the pavement under a beach umbrella. I've ridden thousands of kilometres across deserts, along rutted mountain tracks, through rivers and been bogged knee deep in sand dunes. My bike needs to be examined and repaired properly! That's why I came here!" - I was ranting now.
The office manager listened politely and with great restraint, sensing my growing frustration, and said calmly, "Well, you know, the clutch, it is a complex piece of the motorcycle."
"You're telling me... I stuck a wrench in there two months ago and almost killed myself!"
"You know, it is illegal to ride bikes larger than 250cc in Iran; we have never actually serviced a bike like this before..." he confessed. The Mexicans looked away.
"But I saw a bike like mine in your showroom!"
"Shipped here in error... it's only on display because we have nowhere else to put it and can't afford to return it. We don't know how it works."
"No problem, just do your best," I said cheerfully.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p363

[Biggles]

Depressingly, I could now trace my remaining journey on a single map and could count the days left until I finished with my fingers. Whether the road actually got better from here was almost a moot point now; for I was certainly going to finish. The roads were all well made and paved, people spoke English, there was solid and reliable infrastructure, and barring any mechanical disaster or traffic accident, nothing really stood in my way anymore. The goal that had seemed so far away when I set out from the Pacific shores of Russia up near the Arctic Circle and had then became a pipe dream, as I broke myself and my bike in the bogs and marshes along the Road of Bones, was now becoming a reality. It was a strange sensation that left me feeling melancholy.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p385

[Biggles]

And I knew it was time to finish when, just a few days before the end of my journey, I came to a fork in the road where a muddy unmarked dirt track led off in one direction and a neat sealed and signposted roadway continued on. Where once I would have instinctively taken Frost's “road less travelled” I now craved the certainty and reliability of the big, wide easy path - the bigger the better - for sadly, the highways and freeways had now become my preferred domain; I had simply lost the desire or gumption to explore and take risks anymore.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p395

[STeveo]

Be sad to see this one end.

[StinkyPete]

Be sad to see this one end.

I bought the book.

[Biggles]

I paid only $22.46 for the 400 page illustrated book from Book Depository, post free, arrives in under 2 weeks.

[Biggles]

Upon reflection, the great joy of my trip had revealed itself slowly, delivered in a complex and seemingly unrelated series of events and encounters. But now, suddenly, all of these fragments resolved themselves in an epiphany: the source of my quiet elation and deep tranquillity was absolute and fundamental: the simplicity of life on the road (eat, sleep and ride), the spontaneous generosity and genuine camaraderie of the people I had met, the immense, diverse beauty of Nature and the wonder of Man's achievements.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p396

[Sabie]

 Get your motor runnin'
 Head out on the highway
 Lookin' for adventure
 And whatever comes our way
 Yeah Darlin' go make it happen
 Take the world in a love embrace
 Fire all of your guns at once
 And explode into space

 I like smoke and lightning
 Heavy metal thunder
 Racin' with the wind
 And the feelin' that I'm under
 Yeah Darlin' go make it happen
 Take the world in a love embrace
 Fire all of your guns at once
 And explode into space

 Like a true nature's child
 We were born, born to be wild
 We can climb so high
 I never wanna die

 Born to be wild
 Born to be wild

[Brock]

If you put that to music, you could have a hit song.....

 

[Biggles]

I picked a lane at random, dodging buses, trucks and cars and edged forward to the little booth where the Greek border official reached out nonchalantly to take my papers, not even bothering to look at me as he did so. He flipped the pages of my passport deftly but without emotion, like a bank teller blankly counting cash notes, as he looked for a suitable place to land his stamp. And then something strange happened; I watched him closely as his eyes bulged and his expression changed from one of casual interest to deep astonishment, as he slowly pieced together my entire route from the jigsaw of visas and entry and exit stamps that littered my tattered passport - from the remote gulag town of Magadan in Siberia, a world away, across the entire continent of Asia. The cogs inside his head turned and ground as he computed what stood in front of him now. And then, finally, with some obvious emotion, he thrust his hand through the small window and shook mine vigorously, saying over and over again “Congratulations! This is incredible!" And that's when it started to register with me: my journey had ended, but it had indeed been extraordinary. But it would take a long time for me to fully process this.
The Road Gets Better From Here  Adrian Scott p397

[Biggles]

The downside of motorcycles is that they have the capacity to scare me absolutely rigid, so it is hard to explain to anyone who has never ridden one why I would want to do it. Perhaps it's some latent masochistic streak in my personality that I need to frighten myself as a reminder of my own mortality. Or maybe I am just plain stupid.
 On the other hand, riding a bike on an empty winding road on a warm summer's day without another human being around is simply exhilarating. Riding a motorcycle and riding it well heightens my senses and somehow makes me feel more alive, allowing me to focus on just staying upright and staying safe and nothing else. There is no time to worry about money, friends, whose birthday I have forgotten, taxes or what needs to be done around the house. All the trivia and cares of modern life disappear as I struggle to maintain my balance and control 1,584cc of engine slung beneath a fuel tank on a two-wheeled missile that is guided by handlebars, has two brake levers and a throttle so sensitive that I can go from walking pace to 60mph in just a twist of the right wrist.
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p7

[Biggles]

My quick-fix solution to all my troubles was to go out and buy myself a Harley-Davidson. I have no idea why I bought it, but I found myself consciously pretending that I wasn't having a mid-life crisis - indeed, that it was perfectly normal for a man of my age, experience and responsibilities to go and do just this, it was back to an old mantra that has dogged me all my life: it seemed like a good idea at the time.
There were a couple of other issues I had not quite thought through properly. For instance, I had not ridden a motorcycle since my teens; I had no motorcycle licence; and I knew I was the epitome of the middle-aged biker trying to recapture his lost youth. I was trying to make my mark in life, which to all intents and purposes might probably be a hideous bloody mess at the first road junction that I came to.
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p14

[Biggles]

Our family house was surrounded by farmland and I rode for hours with my Jack Russell terrier balancing on the fuel tank. I loved that BSA, but there was another motorcycle that had already caught my young eye in the form of my stepfather's Triumph 750cc Tiger. It was definitely off limits to a teenage boy, but I seized my chance one weekend when my stepfather and mother went away leaving me in charge of the house, some fine classic cars and the motorcycle.
My stepfather rarely used the Triumph but I found it fascinating. It looked fast just standing still and was painted in metallic orange that sparkled seductively in the sunlight - a splendid combination of speed, amazing looks and danger. That weekend I decided I would try to ride it. No insurance, no licence and absolutely no on-road motorcycle skills: the perfect combination for an idiot teenager. And it was the start of that mantra - it seemed like a good idea at the time.
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p15

[Biggles]

My motorcycle, being all black, was heating up nicely in the fiery desert sun. The matt paint was absorbing all the sun's rays while the air-cooled V-twin engine, which relies on the bike being kept moving to remain cool, was slowly cooking the lower part of my body.
I had also learned early on this trip to read the road signs. In a car I tend to ignore the suggested cornering speeds at the side of the road. On a motorcycle they are invaluable. The road surface through the desert was excellent, but it had some odd cambers that threw you off balance in the middle of a corner. I really had to begin concentrating and spend less time admiring the landscape.
The bug population seemed to have increased dramatically and my screen was now awash with debris and the remains of insects. I was having a hard time looking through all the blood and guts that were smeared across it, and I found the only way I could see the road ahead was to stand up a little on my bike's footpegs and peer over the top of the windshield.
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p60

[Biggles]

It was also freeway riding at its worst for me. My hands were numb again from a combination of the engine vibration running up through my bike's frame and still holding on to the handlebars too tightly. I couldn't feel my fingers, which made it difficult to use the brake and make turning signals, and I was constantly being buffeted by hot gusts of turbulent air as trucks and cars tore past me. I just hung on to my motorcycle for dear life for the next two hours as we headed towards Yuma and Arizona.
Right behind me was Anne. She had absolutely no problem with freeway bike riding and was running rings around me. If she was frustrated with her scared and pathetically slow husband she didn't show it, instead keeping up a constant conversation via the intercom on things that she had just seen or wanted me to look at as we rode along.
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p64

[Biggles]

The gauge had gone rapidly from an optimistic 150-mile range to just 70 miles in the space of 20 minutes. And I was sure there was at least another 90 miles to ride until I stood any chance of being able to fill up the tank again. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I have an unquestioning faith in modern technology and while my Harley-Davidson had not let me down I was beginning to discover that its fuel gauge had some serious estimation problems. I had been too trusting of its abilities. It's always tricky trying to guess how much fuel you have left in a motorcycle tank, and if you take the fuel cap off and peer inside you can't see anything except a black empty hole.
I began playing out scenarios in my head as to what I would actually do when it finally spluttered to a halt, literally miles from anywhere, watched by the opportunistic vultures that were waiting for an easy meal like me. You can die in the desert out there in Arizona and I had, of course, forgotten to pack any water. It was mid-afternoon and the temperature was well into the upper 90s. If I stopped I would use up precious fuel restarting. Despite the intense heat I was starting to break into a cold sweat. I was very concerned.
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p76

[Biggles]

Every morning, when I swung a leg over the motorcycle, was like the start of a new adventure. It may sound a bit of a cliche, but I found the thought of the miles ahead and what I might find there a very exciting prospect. I had grown in confidence on the bike and now, with close to 2,800 miles on the odometer, it was feeling a lot more comfortable to ride. Something had gelled. I wouldn't go so far as to say I was at one with my bike, but I definitely had a better understanding of how to ride it. Consequently, I had relaxed my grip on the handlebars and was starting to lose the numb sensation in my hands so that I found I could actually steer and ride better. Who would have thought it?
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p94

[Biggles]

The one thing I could not find a solution for were the bike's standard 'mini-ape' handlebars. On our previous long trip the riding position had killed my arms, and for some unfathomable reason whenever I rode on interstate freeways there was such bad vibration that my hands and arms went completely numb so I could barely tell if I was touching the indicator buttons or squeezing the brakes.
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p117

[Biggles]

I had read somewhere on the internet that by taking off a few bolts and moving things around I might find a more comfortable riding position so, armed with a small Allen key, I started undoing a few things, thinking how easy this was going to be. When the entire top end above the bike's forks fell backwards with the mirrors resting on the tank and the indicators pointing at the sky I realised I was out of my depth. Again. I had created a motorcycle that looked as if it was controlled by a handle from a baby's pram. Furthermore, if I adopted this interesting steering rake, I would have to lie stomach down on the bike's fuel tank with my legs stretched out behind me, unable to reach the rear brake or gear shifter.
I also appeared to have an extra bolt that did not fit anything and what looked to be a very important cable was now pressed hard up against the fuel tank. It was a mess. What had taken me four minutes to take to pieces took the best part of two hours to put back together again and even now I am not sure what that extra bolt was for. But I still carry it around in my pocket today, just in case I should ever need it.
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p118

[Biggles]

I have lost count of the number of times I have been asked the question 'Are you riding a motorcycle?' in the US, when I am standing before the person in full motorcycle riding gear. The sarcastic English streak in me always wanted to reply in the way I wished I could have done to Pat – “No, I am an exceptionally nervous passenger and the only way you will ever get me to ride in a car is for me to wear a leather jacket, big boots, gloves and a crash helmet” - but of course I didn't have the gumption, and took the lower road with her. She was much larger than me anyway, and she had tough look in her eye. I just nodded and mumbled and said that I hoped the weather was going to hold out for me.
Pat's reply was perhaps unexpected: “The weather ain't nothing. What you have to look out for is the 26-mile mark out there on the highway. That's where they always go down on their bikes. It's very dangerous, real twisty, and it's also annoying for the emergency services as it's midway in the county and it can take a long time for them to get to you and then scrape you off the road.”
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p161

[Biggles]

My confidence on the bike was at an all-time high when I was out on the open road. Mile after mile of straight roads stretching ahead through empty places were an absolute breeze and a pleasure, embodying to my mind what motorcycle riding is all about. There was a constant sense of freedom that I had never experienced in any other walk of life; not even the expensive Ferraris or Aston Martins that I'd driven ever came close to the way a motorcycle made me feel.
It wasn't even a question of speed -I have paid the price for driving too fast in a car both in court fines and in personal injury. A good steady 70mph on my bike was more than sufficient, giving me the opportunity to focus on riding the machine well and concentrating on the road ahead, which cleared my mind. But every time I returned from the vast open spaces of the US to more populated areas my brain went into overload. I couldn't cope with the traffic signals, the other vehicles, or pedestrians and intersections. It completely fazed me, after eight hours on open roads, to be thrust back into everyday town traffic and have to locate the nearest motel. I forgot to look over my shoulder when overtaking, became a nervous twitchy mess and went back to riding like a beginner.
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p180-1

[Biggles]

I am a bit of a sceptic at heart and have never felt inclined to give names to mechanical objects or refer to them as 'her' or 'him'. Nor did I believe all the stories about bonding with your motorcycle. Lots of people had told me about how attached they had become to their bikes for various reasons and how they could never, ever bear to sell them. I liked my bike very much the day I bought it, but I felt then that I could quite happily sell it for another. After all, it was just a motorcycle - a means of transport, albeit a fun, exciting and sometimes downright dangerous way of getting about.
But something strange was happening. I definitely looked at my bike in a different way in Idaho. I felt more comfortable and at ease with it now, with several thousand miles behind us. I knew its limitations and it clearly knew mine, it had taken me up mountains, across vast plains and through deserts and it had been 100% reliable.
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p218-9

[Biggles]

There was a proper 'biker bar' in town called the Sage Brush, though, with darkened windows facing Vale's Main Street and motorcycle paraphernalia up on its walls. A number of motorcycles were parked outside. The bar was staffed by a friendly woman who appeared from a multitude of different doors every few seconds as she moved furniture around the bar, served drinks, cooked food and talked everyone who came in. She insisted on giving me a ton of literature about local motorcycle enthusiast groups and bike rides; I didn't have the heart to tell her I had no intention of passing this way again for some considerable time.
There was nobody else in the bar except for a trio of motorcyclists from California, among them a loud, annoying woman who seemed very pleased with herself. She had spotted that our bikes were from California too and she started to interrogate me about what I was doing there, but she quickly lost interest in me when her meal arrived. She and her two male travelling buddies were to reappear after lunch as we rode alongside the beautiful Malheur River on Highway 20, overtaking Anne and me three times at crazy speeds as if to show they were extremely proficient motorcycle riders and we really should pay attention to them.
There And Back Again To See How Far It Is Tim Watson p226-7