Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

Australian roads turned out to be different from those anywhere in the world, except perhaps Texas. For the most part the country is flat. The roads barrelled forward for hundreds of miles without a curve. We put our rubber on the asphalt- the roads here were paved- and made terrific time. The first time we went to pass a large truck we were taken aback. We were going around it- and going around it and going around it until we realized it was a vehicle called a road train. Essentially it was a tractor with three long trailers attached, each fifty to sixty feet long. Road trains shot down the highway because there was no reason not to, another example of mankind adapting to its circumstances. We had to goose up our motorcycles to get around them.
Investment Biker  Jim Rogers  p280

[Biggles]

We loved Sydney, putting it on our list of cities in which we would like to live. My top three are New York, Buenos Aires, and Tokyo, followed by Sydney, Bangkok, and Rome.
Sydney was a dynamic capital, bursting with life and vitality. Melbourne sported old money and old gentility, the difference between brassy New York and Boston's reserved stony demeanour. When a traveller arrived in Perth, the joke went that people asked him, "Where are you from?" In Sydney they wanted to know how much money you made; in Brisbane, if you wanted a beer; and in Melbourne, what public (private) school you had attended.
Investment Biker  Jim Rogers  p285

[Biggles]

If a traveller wants to drive in Australia and New Zealand but has time for only one, New Zealand is the country to choose because it is so compact and beautiful. For the sports-car driver, motorcyclist, or ordinary traveller with a yen for breathtaking scenery, snug New Zealand has sprawling Australia beat hands down. For a motorcyclist, New Zealand's roads are better because they wind and twist through exciting vistas and constant change. In Australia we often drove a thousand miles without change, days and days of breathtaking sameness.
New Zealand's pleasant climate and geographical features are similar to and as varied as California's. It's not a big country, but for sheer variety it's hard to beat.
Investment Biker  Jim Rogers  p286

[Biggles]

When I was a kid, I thought border posts were always back to back, that as soon as you left the States you were obliged to deal with the Canadians or the Mexicans. In many parts of the world there are miles between posts, with only an isolated sign saying you've crossed the border. Governments don't want to maintain posts in extremely remote areas; guards don't want to work there; and in the desert or then mountains, there might not be water. People leaving Argentina could only go one way, along this road, which led right into the Chilean border post a few miles away.
We took advantage of this extended no-man's-land to change our license plates. We had new plates and new numbers to replace our out-of-date registrations from the States, and we'd had to get new carnets. Just as we had done in North Africa, we had a local shop make up new plates with the correct numbers, and naturally they were in the Argentine colors. As we had several more war zones to go through, we didn't want to be easily recognized as Americans. Since we had to make our carnets conform coming in and going out with the same registrations and plates, it made sense to change them between borders. This is an example of the sort of thinking we had to do, planning ahead, thinking through the details of each step.
Investment Biker  Jim Rogers  p316

[Biggles]

A truck pulled up and five guys piled out, all with AK-47S, the revolutionary weapon of choice. Since they weren't in military uniforms, she knew at once it was the Shining Path rebels. As they filled up the truck, a guy cradling an AK-47 drifted over and started flirting with her. Tabitha leaned over to wipe off her Argentinian tag and immediately formulated another essential rule for travelling around the world: If a guy with an AK-47 flirts with you, flirt back. Don't say, "Mind your manners," or "Don't be fresh"; giggle and laugh. She flashed her wedding band and said her husband- her big husband- was inside. All the while she laughed at his jokes. His chums filled up with gas and paid the attendant with cash, as the Shining Path didn't issue company credit cards.
Finally the AK-47 asked, "Which way are you going?"
She giggled again and asked, "Which way are you going?"
"South."
She looked disappointed. "We're going north. It's too bad."
When I came out, the tail of the truck was rounding the corner. She was white with terror.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Thank God you took so long," she said and told me the story.
"I had to show the owner- " I stopped short. Had my life been saved by the slow processing of a credit card? "Let's get out of here."
She shivered. "Nothing I want more."
Investment Biker  Jim Rogers  p333

[Biggles]

Throughout this trip we encountered many societies with varying social structures that had accomplished amazing feats. We stood now in the ruins of a theocracy, but we'd travelled through socialist, Communist, fascist, and democratic systems, with every gradation in between, along with any number of monarchic ancient civilizations, from the Carthaginian to the Aztecs. What struck me was that in every one a hierarchical structure had prevailed. Whether the system was organized by priests, party bosses, barons, kings, capitalist owners, or ward heelers, somebody was on top and somebody else was on bottom. Even if you could magically start out on the proverbial level playing field, no matter what the system, it wouldn't take more than a day for those who were ambitious and those who were smart to figure out a plan for getting a bigger grass hut or even two grass huts. The fellow who was both ambitious and smart would shortly have himself a dozen grass huts, and the next thing you knew, he'd crown himself king and have his sons and daughters called princes and princesses.
It looked to me like a law of social dynamics.
Investment Biker  Jim Rogers  p367

[Biggles]

We hit the road once more, heading on our bikes for the ferry that would take us across the water to the smallest of Canada's ten provinces, Prince Edward Island. After a hard day's fishing, it was good to be able to doss around on a BMW for a while, weaving in and out of the traffic, sliding the back wheel and doing pirouettes standing on the seat. I'm particularly keen on side-saddle these days, one hand on the throttle, legs crossed, enjoying a good cigar. There's something about the GS1200 that just fits me - it's a touring bike that's comfortable enough for the long run and yet still so much fun.
Extreme Frontiers  Charley Boorman pp25-6

[Biggles]

Our few days of R&R meant I had a chance to visit the bike shop on Yonge Street in downtown Toronto. We met a cool guy called Nathan with a great mop of curly black hair, who played in a band called Midway State, and spent much of the evening trying to persuade him to do the music for the TV show. He'd been a fan of Long Way Round and joined me at the shop to get a feel for the bikes. I suggested he hop on the back and we'd do a couple of blocks of Yonge Street; it's the longest street in the world, according to the Guinness Book of Records, running from the shores of Lake Ontario to Lake Simcoe, 1,896 kilometres further north. Nathan had never even swung a leg over a bike before but he soon got the hang of it. We cruised the streets for a while, and when we were done he said he'd work on some music for us.
Extreme Frontiers  Charley Boorman pp47-8

[Biggles]

So it was back on the highway, with the railway and a massive freight train on my left and the tarmac unravelling under the wheels. The Atlantic was behind me and the Rocky Mountains ahead. So far the only boundary we had pushed was the Atlantic, and that left both the south and the north before we rolled into Vancouver. We passed through small towns beyond which the land seemed flat and featureless, and the traffic grew less and less until it seemed I was the only person out there. It was mind-blowing to think I'd been on the same stretch of highway all the way from Toronto. I was contented, really deep-down happy. This was my signature, it was what I did: the road unwinding as I winged my way west on a GS1200 with off-road tyres, panniers and top box.
Extreme Frontiers  Charley Boorman p58

[Biggles]

Thankfully, after all that excitement, I got plenty of much needed sleep that night, and on the morning of 9 July we started out on one of the most glorious drives you can make anywhere in the world. I say drives, but of course I was on two wheels as we rode from Calgary up the Icefields Parkway. It is like nowhere else on earth. The road twists and turns through forests and open grasslands into a panorama of lakes and glaciers from Lake Louise all the way to Jasper and the Columbia Ice Field beyond. I was delighting in the fact that I wasn't on a horse or a cow but a motorbike; two glorious wheels under me, or just the one now and again when I had a mind to pop a wheelie. I wasn't halfway up Mount Fable, clinging on for dear life, or in a narrow mineshaft thinking about the squeeze. I was in the great outdoors, doing what I like doing best, and I was revelling in it. Mile after mile just unfolded in front of me, and I was really in the zone, until a sudden movement in the valley caught my eye. Something was moving down in a grove of maple trees deep in the canyon - some sort of animal. Pulling over to the side of the road, I took a moment to figure out what it was. A black bear foraging for berries.
Extreme Frontiers  Charley Boorman pp145-6

[Biggles]

By the time we rolled into Kamloops, I felt really refreshed and was itching to get back on my bike. Throwing on my jacket and helmet, I set off, beetling along through the heart of one of the most majestic mountain ranges anywhere on earth. It was poetry. With the road unravelling in delicious twists and turns, I was really enjoying this opportunity to mess about on the bike. It was only when we pulled over for a breather that I started to wonder what it would be like to view this amazing landscape from above.
I mentioned to Russ what I was thinking, and in the next town we stopped at a petrol station to ask whether anyone knew of anywhere we could hitch a ride in a glider. As luck would have it, about fifty miles further down the road there was an airfield with a gliding school run by a Czech guy called Rudy.
Extreme Frontiers  Charley Boorman p182

[Biggles]

We were on perfect roads, delicious tarmac, with the kind of mountains you only find in Canada all around us. This country has everything: sea, snow, mountains, ice roads and waterways, as well as mile after mile of rolling prairie. As we got closer to Tofino, the road edged up against the most beautiful lake, and beyond the trees lay the Pacific Ocean. I could smell it; we were here. From Cape Spear to Vancouver, we had crossed a continent.
Just a few minutes left now, but enough time for some seat-standing, some side saddle, some Boorman posing on the bike and a second-gear wheelie that I confess I almost got wrong because I drifted a little too close to the gravel. That could've been a disastrous ending to a staggeringly beautiful journey. The words 'don't try this at home' came to mind, and thinking of my daughters, I rode the final thirty-one kilometres with both wheels firmly on the tarmac.
Extreme Frontiers  Charley Boorman p200

[Biggles]

Now it appears to me that your average long-term motorbicyclist is an individual of more than passing fair sensitivity (albeit sometimes cleverly disguised behind a gruff exterior) and generally is of more than average intellectual capability (necessary for the understanding of British electrics, Italian camshaft drives and Japanese manuals).
I also am convinced of said individual's high levels of taste and perspicacity, as evidenced by their continually restrained and personable behaviour.
Well, now that the drugs have worn off I'll say what I really meant...
Jeez, don't us bikies (or whatever you reckon we should be called according to the whims of the current American bull-sheets) have a ball when we "Sally forth in search of fun" (to quote Eskimo Nell). I am continually amazed by the way in which we lay down our livers for our country's grand reputation in the twin spheres of carousing and enjoyment. Why, just a few scant weeks ago I was "hooting and roaring" (to quote the famed Doctor Spooner) at the Newcastle Bikers Ltd Annual Bike Show and Debauch, and what a hoot and a roar it was too. Allow me to expand briefly upon the subject...
Every year the above event occurs with great community support from sponsors and the press. Motorbicyclists of all varieties gather to squiz at each others' motorised devices, listen to the sound of loud music, drink beverages, relate scathing lies, and bewail the sad fate of the average two-wheeled vehicle user.
Peter Smith  Mr Smith  p24

[Biggles]

How Fate and the Muses play games with us mere mortals! Only three miles (bugger metric) from The Old Homeplace the rain increased considerably and the experience was akin to walking through a waterfall. Except that it doesn't take long to get through a waterfalfall.
Visibility was down to a few scant yards (bugger metric once more) when the vehicle travelling ahead of me decided to take advantage of the slippery conditions and effect a Torville and Dean into the side of a truck. My gingerly attempts to brake met with mixed success. The wheels stopped turning but the bike kept moving, albeit with a slightly differing aspect and at an advanced angle of inclination.
"Mmmm ... " I thought, brain working at the blinding speed inherent in that bio-chemical inter-reaction, "If I do not arrest the untoward actions of this finely-engineered motorcyclic device I will find myself and it coming into contact with the Vehicular Altercation I espy ahead."
I placed one shod foot down and attempted to return the machine to an upright position in the manner of the great Bluey Wilkinson... a la Speedway.
Unfortunately, the Polish Desert Boots offer excellent ankle support and protection from their thick leather uppers, but are somewhat lacking in the sole department, that being manufactured from sponge rubber. The friction from the road surface removed same with great alacrity. We came to rest in the upright position a few inches from the entangled vehicles with only the mighty Holeproof Explorers between the sole of my foot and the surface of the thoroughfare. I left the drivers to argue in the gathering gloom and soldiered on with a knot in my Tucker Pit and considerably damper in the region of the sinister pedal extremity.
Peter Smith  Mr Smith  pp39-40

[Brock]

Polish Desert Boots offer excellent ankle support and protection from their thick leather uppers, but are somewhat lacking in the sole department, that being manufactured from sponge rubber. The friction from the road surface removed same with great alacrity. We came to rest in the upright position a few inches from the entangled vehicles with only the mighty Holeproof Explorers between the sole of my foot and the surface of the thoroughfare. I left the drivers to argue in the gathering gloom and soldiered on with a knot in my Tucker Pit and considerably damper in the region of the sinister pedal extremity.

Excellent use of the English language and understatement...
 

[Biggles]

Excellent use of the English language and understatement...
 

He's very wordy, but has a great vocabulary.  More to come.  If you liked that, you'll love his book, available posted for $29.95 from his website.

[Biggles]

Being as I spend most of my time on, under, dismantling, dreaming about, scheming about, lying about, lying next to, sliding next to, sweating over and swearing at motorcycles of one variety or another, Editor McKinnon has asked me to enlighten all of you tourers- prospective, current or past- with a few of the famed Mr Smith-type tips on touring. I have obliged by churning out the following load of guff which covers a fair range of stuff. Now remember, Class, some of this stuff's serious and some isn't but none of it's dangerous so today's practical class is to try them all until you find the ones that both work and suit you. Let's get into it.
I figured I'd kick off with a bit of advice on what to carry along with you, but in order to decide what to carry one must first know where one's going and for how long one will be away. This can be a little confusing so I'll let you in on a couple of true tales and let you work out things from there.
Peter Smith  Mr Smith  p95

[STeveo]

And?
Keenly awaiting the next installment please.

[Biggles]

And?
Keenly awaiting the next installment please.

Hold your horses, this is the daily drip feed here.
And often the next quote is completely unrelated...   

[STeveo]

 

[Biggles]

Several years ago, young Dorf (my little big brother) and I were standing beside the Great Western Highway heading toward Bathurst for the Easter weekend and the racing. We had been taking a short break and were enjoying observing the various two-wheeled devices which came rolling past. In the distance we espied a huge blob making its way toward us on two slow and uncertain wheels. As it passed we saw that the machine was a Bavarian Ural, absolutely festooned with tank bags, pannier bags, bed rolls, back-packs, side bags, billy cans, stuff strapped to the crash bars and even a couple of small coils of stuff taped to the tail light. The barely visible number plate indicated that the machine's home state was New South Wales.
Dorf looked at me. I looked at Dorf. Both of us stared back to the Munich M.
"Just the essentials?" ventured young Doorfiller as we both burst out laughing. We later decided that the Deutch Dneipr must have been the backup vehicle for a group poor four wheel drivers away for the weekend.
"Just the essentials" has become my motto when I start thinking about loading up for a trip. If you're only going away for a few days and your destination is at all civilised then all you'll probably need to take away is a toothbrush, a toolkit and ten twenties.
Peter Smith  Mr Smith  p95

[Kev Murphy]

The above reminds me of a trip to Bathurst for the racing many years ago, I loaded the bare essentials for a week away camping and traveling, and had ready cash if anything else was required.
Met a guy there who had so much stuff strapped, tied, taped and screwed to his bike, that it was difficult to even ascertain what brand of bike it was? ...  he wore a full backpack, and carried a sleeping bag on his lap between the tankbag and his belly! Even the pockets of his jacked were crammed with god knows what. From a distance he looked like a fat bundle of junk with part of a tyre extending front and rear, and a helmet balanced on top.

[Biggles]

Let's start off with a tale which illustrates the great advances made in the mechanicing business, a game which is dear to my heart since I very nearly became a real mechanic many years ago (before I figured out that there was more money to be made in lying for a living... look at the House of Reps).
While I was living at the Star Hotel in Macksville NSW I made the acquaintance of a fellow Triumph rider and owner (a subtle distinction) whom I shall call Chris... basically because it's his name. Now, Chris dearly loved his very nice Trophy and delighted in showing me a clean pair of wheels on several occasions, particularly at night on the back road to Taylors Arm. I was therefore distressed to learn one day that he had blown a head gasket and that the head of his beast was warped. "What should I do?" he pleaded, knowing that I had ridden and fixed a Triumph or two in my time.
"Simple," I informed him. "There is a time-honoured method for removing the warp from the joint face of cylinder heads such as those found on the magnificent Triumph twin. Get yourself a sheet of thick plate glass about eighteen inches square and some valve grinding paste. Spread a little paste on the glass and start grinding."
Peter Smith  Mr Smith  p106

[Bodø Glimt]

The Wymah Ferry is my favorite of all the Murray River ferries.  I pushed the button for service and could see the operator walking down the hill from his house on New South Wales side of the border so shut down the bike.  The serenity of the place was awesome.  There is something mesmerising about the sound of silence. 
Duån Miyazaki 2017.

[Biggles]

Oh how distant seems the day when I first became absorbed by the mystique of our mutually beloved form of transport, the sublime Motorbicycle.
How many are the years which have passed since I made that fateful first decision- conscious or unconscious- to allow myself to include those wonderful devices in my life, and, despite a few years in various Institutions For The Partially Buggered, what a fortuitous and fruitful decision that was. However, I have found myself wondering over the past few days just when it was that I became a Real Motorcyclist. You see, it all started when I saw my first Triumph...
It was Robert Lancaster's birthday party and I was a mere child. Robert's mother had been divorced (or so I believe, due to the reluctance of my parents to discuss such matters those days) and Robert was blessed (or, perhaps, cursed) with a succession of uncles. The one who was present at the time of said Celebration of the Natal Anniversary owned a Triumph twin (I remembered the machine so well that I recognised the model as a Thunderbird when I later saw it in a 1955 sales brochure) and, as a treat for all of us wee whelps, Uncle Anonymous took us for a spin around the block.
When my turn finally came, I stood beside the idling machine with Trembling Trepidation, my height allowing me to stare directly at the Triumph logo on the handsome tank. I had been literate for a few years so I read the name aloud.
"Triumph. Isn't that when you win something?"
"Blood oath," laughed Uncle Whoever, looking down at me with obvious interest and amazement in his eyes.
"You've done better than winning the bloody lottery if you own one of these!" They were powerful words. My father's entire future seemed to revolve about winning the lottery. I accepted the hand he reached down to me and, with the ease which comes with practice, he raised an eager youngster onto the pillion of his pride.
I'll never forget that ride as long as the Gods allow me to draw breath. The thunder of the engine, the wind in my face as I peered around Uncle Nameless' back, the smell of hot oil, the spectacle of the horizon tilting as we made the turns, the aroma of a well-worn leather jacket and the feeling of emptiness as I was finally lifted down remain with to this day.
Peter Smith  Mr Smith  p115