Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

Still, with the youngest traditional bike by then 30 years old, and a wealth of more practical machinery available from elsewhere, why was I still pursuing the Impossible (Brit bike) Dream? It was not quite patriotism (we were all caustic about Sixties' build quality, worn-out production machinery etc), and not quite nostalgia (although a big component was that the familiar, simple and strong Brits in some circumstances contrasted well with the unduly complex, though much more reliable, rice-burners). In the end it got down to quasi-religion: that for some of us, the Brits were just the Righteous Path. And for a writer, a trip on one certainly made for a better story.
Back on the Island, the one thing that Gary Brown, Ginty and his pal Alan Obst all insisted on was that doing the African trip on one's own would be unwise in the extreme. So the next steps were to select a mount then find a companion.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  p29

[Biggles]

The laden bike (a 1954 Ariel) was fine as I remembered to relax, grasp the bars only lightly, anticipate to avoid braking, and take the bends in slow swooping curves, with great, attentive pleasure. I thought the vibes were not so bad, but they were there, as my right hand eventually began to get sore. We passed a couple of seaside places, but there were no roadside halts, you had to drive into the little towns with their pastel-shaded houses and seek them out, wasting time. Then we cut away from the sea. I had told myself to stop every 50 miles and we had done more than that already, with the bike perhaps feeling a little unhappy on the long straights. I certainly was. On those straights I began getting a first inkling of the scale of the journey and started to wonder if I could do this. All right, it was after 1 o'clock, I needed food and my diabetic pills - but was I or the bike going to be robust enough? That morning was truly a roller-coaster ride, from the anxiety of getting out of Cape Town, to the exhilaration of the switch-back coast road, to the first daunting insights after that.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  p80

[Biggles]

Another two BMWs pulled in. The Bavarian machines were definitely the weapon of choice hereabouts. The second most frequent question I would be asked was, "Why aren't you doing it on a BMW?" The superficial riposte was to point out that Ewan and Charley's BMW sub-frames had fractured both on their West-East trip and on the first day off-road in Africa. The real reason, the path of righteousness, was harder to explain, even to myself, though I had once owned a BMW R100CS airhead twin, but couldn't get on with its handling. These BMW arrivals were a pleasant couple on a twin, and a bulky bald Boer on an F650 single, friendly but uncommunicative as Afrikaans was his main language. They were from Pretoria, and gave me their card, asking me to stay on my way north.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  p86

[STeveo]

 

[Biggles]

I pushed on north. I had filled up, topped up the oil and checked the bike over after lunch, noticing it was giving too much oil from the cylinder head and tightening down there: some had reached the rear tyre, which you don't want. Later, accelerating from a stop, the speedo needle suddenly bounced round to 120mph, then settled back again. After the stop I had wiped petrol from the top of the tank; it was back again when I next stopped - was this a split in the tank? If so, the Ariel boys had recommended sealing it by rubbing soap in, and I had a bit ready in the tank bag. But luckily it was just imperfect sealing from the petrol cap, again.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  pp162

[Biggles]

Early in the afternoon, I reached my intended stop of Aliwal North, where a metal bridge takes you into the Orange Free State, but I didn't like the look of the place so I pushed on the 40-odd miles to Rouxville and Zastron. One thing I had noticed all day was how good (and traffic-free) the roads were. Along the way there were maintenance crews, litter pickers, verge cutters, a couple of roadworks. Now, beyond Rouxville, there were signs warning of pot-holes, but these had usually been temporarily filled in with yellow dirt and rubble, which at least made them easily visible, and avoidable by a bike. Overall they were nothing compared to the state of the roads in Oxfordshire.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  p163

[Biggles]

When I came out, a ragged boy trying to sell me oranges said seriously that the Ariel was beautiful. But Jerry, ever-wilful, had not been starting as reliably as usual (the change of altitude?) and now, with our admirer plus four of his mates and a large guy in the next car watching, several kicks brought forth nothing, and some of them had lacked compression - that pesky valve lifter again, I hoped.
The crowd grew. The large guy, and a security man, kindly offered a push, but curiously I was sure that this felt like just a temporary glitch, and kicked on. There was now someone giving a running commentary. This should have been Embarrassment Hell, but somehow it didn't get to me. When the bike finally fired up I gave a (one-handed) et voila gesture and roared off with as much style as I could muster.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  p172

[Biggles]

The road was monotonous, but then began to be fringed by the forest of the National Parks, though the only animals I had to keep an eye out for at first were goats and donkeys on the road. It was warm, and the bike wasn't sounding quite right. I told myself off for paranoia, and though I knew I should stop, droned on intending to do it in one hit. And then it happened - the engine note deepened, and with an audible metallic rattle, the engine died.
Words cannot describe... with 3,165 miles on the clock, I only had 25 more to do to get to Zambia. I was so near! I had no back-up plan for Botswana, bar the number of one biking lady who lived outside Gabarone, at the other end of the country.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  p185

[Biggles]

Ginty was a short, thickset 69-year-old. His wrinkled, sun-darkened face had a cluster of tiny warts round one eye, and a discoloured patch. His hair was unfeasibly bright for his age, and from time to time over the next few days I'd look at it and speculate, until we later had a haircut together at the Intercontinental Hotel and seeing it shampooed convinced me the colour was all his own. That day, after a 120-mile ride out to greet me, he was instantly friendly, but impatient. He had already been bitten on the boot by a blue heeler dog, and slipped on a mat on a veranda, bruising his knees and badly grazing his right hand, which would give him grief the following week as he took the spanners to Jerry. He claimed to be slowing down. He still had three or four British bikes, but had sold his Norton twin cafe racers after a series of get-offs - in favour of the 600 Ducati. We set off down the track. I was still new at dirt roads, though I would find that well-graded ones held few terrors. I was leading, and mercifully doing OK, when the red Monster twin, which was hardly a trail bike, came by and disappeared ahead, with Ginty riding smoothly and as fast as on tarmac.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  pp197-8

[Biggles]

I tried a bump start downhill. No dice. The engine just chuffed without a hint of ignition, and something hit my leg as it fell off. I stopped, walked back and found it, a 4-inch long cylinder of metal with a threaded end. Looking at the engine I realised it was the whole shaft for the inlet rockers. This was a disaster, but I tried to stay calm and, surprisingly enough, succeeded. I wondered about re-inserting the shaft. At first I tried from the wrong side, the off-side, even trying to tap it in with a spanner. I realised my mistake and slipped it in from the near-side, wiggling it to get past an obstacle, and then tightened the threaded end until part of it protruded from the oil banjo on the off-side, where studying the other, exhaust rocker box, showed me that the nut to hold on the shaft had gone AWOL. I now had two problems: how to keep the shaft from unthreading and falling out again; and what to do about the oil feed, which was intended to lubricate the inlet rocker, but would now be discharging all over the bike.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  p212

[Biggles]

As I was applying it, a metallic dark blue Land Rover drove up, stopped, and out got my guardian angels, the Swiss couple, Daniella and Martin Haenz. With the "Angels" bit, I am not speaking entirely metaphorically. I had been the beneficiary of too much good luck to think it coincidental. The couple had taken a year off to tour Africa and, being Swiss, were carrying every conceivable mechanical aid, "and yes, we also have Swiss Army knives!" laughed Martin. They were very friendly, and Martin quickly began admiring the Ariel! Since I had applied the "putty" I suggested we ride on a bit to see if it worked and, kitting up after a reluctant start I roared off in spirited fashion, bend swinging on the curves of the mountain road. But four miles later there was oil everywhere. I stopped and so did the Swiss, with Martin saying I had been going so well through the bends that it had made him want to come back and do it on his BMW GS1100. Then he got out a tap and die set, carefully tapped a thread on the inside of the hollow oil-leaking orifice, and stoppered it with a suitable screw and PTFE tape. Amazing.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  p216

[Biggles]

I positioned the little box to catch the gearbox oil, undid the different length screws fastening on the outer casing and laid them in order on the rag, removed a nut so I could take off the gear lever indicator, then the kickstart which, when loosened off, whanged forward, so there was a spring involved. I worried briefly about the box's gasket, but the outer casing, though partly off, still wouldn't come all the way free. Meanwhile I had pushed the big screwdriver, which had a magnetic tip, down through the gap and probed about, hoping to pick up the threaded bit of screw. No luck, and I realised that it was the right-hand footrest that was stopping the outer casing coming off. The big adjustable spanner was too long to use in the available space, but the second largest one from the double-ended set did, with difficulty, enable me to get the footrest nut loose. But by then I had realised that the exhaust was going to have to come off as well, in order to get the footrest removed.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  pp257-8

[Biggles]

I did not like the thought of that. So I levered the outer casing out as far as I could, hoping something would drop out of the bottom, although part of me by now had worked out that the threaded portion was likely to have dropped out into the gearbox proper, behind the outer wall of the inner case. Then, as the outer casing came a little further out, there was a sickening Boing! It was the sound and feel of springs unwinding and thrusting outwards, and that meant game over for me. I invoked a quote from W. C. Fields which I had been holding in reserve: "If at first you don't succeed, try, and try again. Then give up. There's no need to be a damn fool about it."
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  p258

[Biggles]

There were frequent roadside police checks, but I took my cue from Jimmy Young and rode on through, on one occasion doing the wave to a guy who was holding up his hand.
At the next one I came unstuck, as I hesitated a little too long behind a stationary bakkie full of Africans. A very tall, closely-shaven African officer, with a pistol on his belt and a sharp face beneath his peaked cap, stalked over and asked for something which I took some time to understand was my licence. I pulled over, stopped the engine, and extricated it. He asked what I was doing and I told him I was a tourist from Britain. What had I brought with me? I paraphrased Oscar Wilde and replied, "Nothing, just myself". I sketched out the journey and he snorted, gesturing at Jerry,
"You do all that on this thing?"
"Certainly."
"Aah, because you love cycling!"
"Exactly, yes!" On this note of mutual comprehension, we parted.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  p283

[Biggles]

By then I had half-convinced myself that I could have made a mistake, and that it might turn out to be valve seat trouble, and maybe remediable. So it was a shock when Mike returned shortly and confirmed decisively, even with slight satisfaction as his prediction was fulfilled, that it was the big end letting go. He lowered a screwdriver into the oil tank and showed me how clean and golden the oil still was, i.e. in nearly 1,000 miles it had not circulated properly round the engine. I was in shock because if he was right (and later Stewart Fergusson would confirm that the crank-pin was mis-aligned in the flywheel and its cutting off oil circulation had finally taken its toll), that was it, my journey was over.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  p312

[Kev Murphy]

That bike sounds as tho it was a complete lemon!

[Bodø Glimt]

That bike sounds as tho it was a complete lemon!

You know what they say... if life gives you melons you're dyslexic.

[Biggles]

That bike sounds as tho it was a complete lemon!

It's an ancient bike designed to ride around town that had been poorly rebuilt.  Then asked to ride hundreds of kilometres through harsh conditions.  Wrong bike for the journey ridden with sheer pig-headedness.

[Biggles]

I love the speech of scholars, but in fact I rarely felt like a "twin soul" with the Ariel, which was mostly just a Bad Bike, end of story. Afterwards I did try to remember Jerry's strengths and his finest moments: riding fully loaded down into the muddy trench and onto the Zambezi ferry. Or the time on the Bad Road when we powered up out of the deep ditch. But then I would recall how Cycle World's Peter Egan, spot on as ever, had cautioned against complimenting a British bike, even mentally, on its reliability. "I swear," he had written, "an old bike can sense patronising approval. Especially if it's not backed up with the required hours of meticulous maintenance. Even a trace of sloppy sentiment turns the bike instantly into a lightning rod for trouble." Amen to that. Although it was hard not to  remember riding the road beneath the mountain ramparts of Lesotho, or through the forested slopes beyond Luangwa Bridge, those moments had been few and far between.
Short Way Up  Steve Wilson  p314

[Biggles]

Then the first little hailstone hit my windshield and another hit my helmet. They were small, but they always start out that way. It wasn't long before they began to fall harder. There was plenty of lightning and thunder as well. 
The hail was beginning to hurt, even through my rainsuit. I pulled over to the side of the road, but there was no shoulder and I hate to be that close to the roadway during a storm. Oncoming traffic would probably not see me until the last minute. So I pulled off the road onto an area that had some hard, rocky ground and a few clumps of grass.
I turned off the engine and put the motorcycle on its stand. Then I knelt down beside it and ducked my head. This exposed my back to the storm, but I felt I had no other choice. The hail reached a size that I determined was between a nickel and quarter size. My back was taking a pounding, but I couldn't move.
Motorcycle Memoirs  Bob Allen  p41

[Biggles]

Most of the roadside parks stay pretty busy, with travelers pulling into and out of them on a regular basis. On this occasion, I was the only person in the park when the Bandidos pulled in. Other travelers, seeing nothing but motorcycles in a roadside park, will pass it up for the next one. So I knew it was going to just be me and them in the park. I was hoping they were all in a good mood.
After they pulled in and we said our hellos, I thought maybe it was a good idea if I resumed my trip. As I approached my motorcycle so did they. I was suddenly surrounded by them and they didn't look friendly.
Motorcycle Memoirs  Bob Allen  pp71-2

[Biggles]

Several of them made comments about people who would dare to ride a rice-burner. A couple of them made reference to some rider they had encountered in the past and how they had "taught him a lesson". By this time, some of them had cans of beer in their hands and were trying to drink it down in a hurry. A couple of them began to get a little too close for comfort. I thought of the 38 Special I had in my fairing and that if I needed it for self defense, I probably wouldn't be able to get to it before they got to me.
They were speaking in a derogatory manner and laughing and I found myself laughing with them, to ease the tension. Several cars slowed down and drove into the roadside park, but drove right back out again when they saw all the motorcycles. I finally mounted my motorcycle and started it up. Luckily, they parted and let me go and I rode out of the park, waving and wishing them a good trip. I breathed a sigh of relief as I rode. I thought that it probably could have been a lot worse.
Motorcycle Memoirs  Bob Allen  p72

[Biggles]

In daylight, too, you know there is no point in regretting the past or worrying about the future, since worrying never does anything except make you worried. But logic does not live in the dark, and there is nothing quite so dreadful as lying in bed in the middle of the night, your nerves taut and icy sweat on your brow, listening to the dock tick away the hours yet not bearing to look at it.
Because if it says only three or four, a small part of you will be glad that you still have half a dozen hours left in which you are at least safe and warm, and no harm will come to you. And yet another part of you fears that for those hours, you will be lying as you are now, your mind racing with a thousand anxieties, until the clock strikes the rising hour and with a superhuman effort you get up like a dead man, dress and make your way to work with dread in your heart and a knot in the pit of your stomach.
The Road To Gobbler Knob  Geoff Hill  pp5-6

[Biggles]

I opened my email to find a comforting message from a mate called Paul Wilson to say that was he just back from playing golf in the Himalayas before being chased off the course by furious monkeys.
"Just thought I'd wish you good luck for the trip. The Rough Guide to Travel Survival says if you get attacked by a guerrilla the best thing to do is go for the eyes or try and stick your finger up its bottom... Sorry, that was a gorilla I was thinking of. What it actually says is that to avoid kidnapping you should vary your routine, stay out of the local media, hire a bodyguard and get kidnap insurance. However, if you are kidnapped:
Take a deep breath and flex your muscles when being tied up. When you relax, you may be able to struggle free (and face the 1000km barefoot jungle hike to civilisation, alone).
The Road To Gobbler Knob  Geoff Hill  pp40-1

[Biggles]

And apart from almost falling off several times through admiring my new Roof helmet in the mirror, I was enjoying the smooth powerful balance of the Triumph. Compared to the Enfield's single-cylinder engine, which sounded like a heartbeat, and the Harley's big V-twin, which was like two flatulent hippos making love underwater, the Triumph's triple sounded like a giant sewing machine, which was rather appropriate, since it would sew the thread of my destiny over the next three months. But, like all bikes, it had this glorious truth about it- it forced me to exist in the moment; the perfect endless moment of the wind rushing past, the road beneath my feet, the smell of the green woods and the sights all around of roadside milk churns waiting for collection and farmers making hay while the sun shone.
The Road To Gobbler Knob  Geoff Hill  p61