Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

You see, TE Lawrence had also learned the invaluable lesson that "He rides fastest who rides alone". And very few of us will ever be as lonely as Lawrence was.
My Dear Departed Daddy used to say to me often that "a motorcycle is the transportational device of the selfish and the lonely".
Well, I'm not sure I don't disagree with him these days, despite the fact that, at that time, I wasn't real keen on his giblets. If it's selfish to want to enjoy oneself along some deserted road with only the wind and the sun for company while, as Omar Khayyam once said, the speed "... clears your mind of past regrets and future fears," then I suppose I am selfish.
And, if the faster I go then the clearer my mind becomes, then I must be lonely since "He rides fastest who rides alone". And, on some days, I ride, as Lawrence rode, very fast indeed.
Sometimes I think it would be admirable to have a companion with whom to traverse life's hills and vales and to share the riding as we blast along mortality's version of Bell's Line Of Road. But then I remember CJ Dennis' admonition: "Why should I be rooked for half my tucker, just to get it cooked."
Peter Smith  Mr Smith  p123

[STeveo]

Good one. 

[Biggles]

Some time later that particular Triumph spat me off after picking up a nail in its rear tyre, thereby rendering its linear stability somewhat suspect in a certain bend, which was, most fortunately, in very close proximity to one of Sydney's major hospitals. This, of course, made a severe physical wreck out of yours truly and, acting under the laws of probability, I became another of those "major accident in the first two years" type of riders.
The way I look at it though is that if I hadn't been injured some other poor sod would have been, and much better me than him/her since, due to my massive psychological instability, I am much more able to shrug the entire episode off as some sort of bad dream (although my Pseudo-leg continually reminds me that its not a bloody dream, let alone a flamin' dress rehearsal).
Now, the point I'm getting at (believe it or not) is that, despite all the trauma of severe injury and the struggle of recovery and rehabilitation, I still love motorcycles with a bright and burning passion. I also find that the gods have allowed me to continue to suffer from the dreaded psychological disorder of contrasuggestability.
You see, when Dear Pater came in to visit me where I lay in the emergency department of St Levi's (the Jewish-Catholic hospital) he grunted at me "You ought to get a hitman onto the bastard who sold you that bike. He's bloody ended your life."
Well, contrasuggestability has caused me to continue to strongly consider Michael "Cycle" Collins as one of the most sincere blokes to walk the surface of this glorious orb. And as far as ending my life's concerned, I reckoned he started it for me when he introduced me to the wonders of ownership of large sports/touring motorcycles. 
Thanks Mate!
Peter Smith  Mr Smith  p135

[Biggles]

Not long after the eye-opening antics of Mr Andrews I was offered the use of a DT250 Yamaha for an extended period. After solemnly vowing unto myself that I would only use this machine for commuting, I found myself one day on the newsouthwales Central Coast among roads that I had known from my youth and in an area honeycombed with trails. Surely it couldn't hurt to explore a little. A quick squirt up some hard packed dirt roads led me to becoming a little more adventurous and I gradually found myself rattling along trails I wouldn't normally contemplate at speeds I couldn't quite accept. Just as I thought I had reached the level of a Roger De Coster I was passed by a young lad of no more than ten years on a YZ80. He was obviously not mucking about but, with my newfound confidence, I knew I could blow him into the weeds, especially as I had 170cc on him.
The next mile or so was a little hair-raising as I battled to reel in the YZ's distance advantage, gained, so I informed myself, by the underhanded tactic of surprise. With much effort I pulled alongside my diminutive opponent with my heart in my mouth and my throttle in my hand. He looked across at me with a scowl that said "What are you flamin comin at, mug?" opened the throttle on his glorified edge-trimmer and disappeared into the distance so fast that I thought that the DT's engine had seized and stepped off to see what had gone wrong.
I swore blind I'd never ride another rooster-racer. Seems a pity really. I'd hate to have to leave my new secondhand XL250 in the shed because of a promise I made to myself when I found I'd never be a Jim Airey. I guess I'm stuck with being Mr Smith, lousy dirt rider and bull artist.
Peter Smith  Mr Smith  p176

[Biggles]

Mate: "G'day. We need a choke lever for a Boxer Many Worries."
CJ: (Counter Jumper): "What model?"
Mate: "R-sup 90/6."
CJ: "I'll check the fiche." At this point we assume that perhaps they are cooking lunch for us but the Parts Peddler is actually referring to the microfiched parts listing.
CJ: "No worries, I think there's one of 'em in stock." (Adjourns to the cavernous interior of the storeroom and returns only minutes later with a handlebar assembly which contains a whole bunch of switchgear and a lever marked 'Choke'). "Thar she blows!"
Mate: "No, that's not the bit I'm after. I'm actually after one of these" (produces remains of deceased choke lever from pocket.) "I've fitted an old Victa lawnmower throttle instead of this bit and it fits good and works okay but I want the original bit".
CJ: "I'll check the fiche" (looks at display screen.) "Your bike was never fitted with this part".
Mate: "It was on there when I bought it new".
C.J.: "Let me have a closer look at it." (When mate's outstretched hand is within reach, grabs busted choke lever.) "I'll keep this. Blokes like you shouldn't be allowed near these machines! You'll have to buy the correct assembly and fit it".
Mate: "Aaarrrggghhh!" A short altercation ensued during which my associate retrieved his 'non-standard' and broken choke lever. The sales chappie was himself left a little non-standard, broken and choked also.
Let that be a lesson to you. Never stuff around with anyone who's spent more than a couple of years at sea and owns a Bavarian Money Waster. Oh, the Victa throttle lever's still on the bike some nine years later.
Peter Smith  Mr Smith  p178

[Biggles]

So as I approached immigration in Anchorage I fully expected to be stopped and strip-searched. How dare someone come to America on a one-way ticket with his life savings and a motorcycle. He must be a terrorist.
"Morning, sir. Can I see your passport?"
"Good morning. Here you are," I replied.
"Here for shooting?"
"Er, pardon?"
"Are you here shooting, or fishing?"
"Er, no. I'm riding a motorcycle."
"OK, that's unusual. Most people come here to shoot."
And that was it. I was through customs, although it seemed it would have been more conventional if I'd had a gun with me instead of a crash heimet.
Welcome to America.
Gone Riding  Dom Giles p4

[Biggles]

Although I hadn't started the very front of the convoy I soon found myself there. As the paved road turned to gravel, I passed the Harley Davidson bikers with ease. Their bikes are just not set up to cope with anything other than pure American asphalt and I found it quite amusing how they would overtake me on the tarmac but fall back embarrassingly quickly as soon as there was a sniff of gravel. I was also amused by their attire. They really lived up to the caricature- stylish boots, blue jeans, leather jacket, neck-tie and a small open-faced helmet, none of which would help you as you skidded down that lovely American asphalt at even fifty miles per hour. Sometimes the helmets were so small they looked more like the kippah or yarmulke worn by devout Jews. These minimalist 'helmets' were designed more for nominal law abidance than head protection. Again, something I couldn't really understand. What makes you more concerned about fashion than saving your life? (No doubt those Hog riders would have said, "It's all about freedom. Man!")
All of this gear seemed to be worn without the slightest hint of irony. And then there were the accessories. The girlfriends on the back (all Harleys seem to come supplied with a small female pillion), typically would have no protective clothing at all. A pair of boots, jeans and top designed solely for fashion not protection and the ubiquitous backpack designed to look like a squashed sheep or dog or something. I've always taken motorcycle protective clothing seriously (which, I like to think, is partly why I'm still here).
Gone Riding  Dom Giles pp32-3

[Biggles]

When we got back to the campsite it was still raining and we were not 'happy campers'. The tent was looking rather sorry for itself and inside, the floor of the tent was getting damp. We had good quality sleeping mats so I knew we wouldn't get wet but I wasn't really looking forward to the long night ahead. Reluctantly we climbed into our damp tent soon after six. Trying to keep the dry stuff dry and the wet stuff as far away from us as possible we settled down in our sleeping to watch a film on the Netbook, do some reading and try to get to sleep before we could feel the rain. The floor of the tent was a bit damp but the sleeping mats would keep us dry, I assured Tracy. Trusting my word (she's a slow learner), Tracy got to sleep quite easily; she has a wonderful knack for being able to sleep anywhere. I tossed and turned a bit, listening to the rain and wondering whether my old tent would stand up to three metres in one night. I also worried about the bike, sinking into the wet earth on its side-stand and keeling over in the night. Eventually I managed to sleep but the patter, patter of rain on the canvas seeped into my dreams, and into my bladder. The one thing I absolutely hate about getting on in years and camping, (especially in the cold and/or rain), is having to get up to pee in the middle of the night. I pulled on my soaking bike trousers and damp shirt, slipped on my wet bike boots went outside. Standing outside in the dark and wet, in soaking clothes, I doubted that things could get any more miserable, but I was wrong, they most certainly could.
Gone Riding  Dom Giles pp95-6

[Biggles]

Next door was the town's bar, The Buckhorn. I had to go in. The interior was exactly as I had hoped: neon Budweiser signs, big TV, long bar with stools and trophies of dead animals all over the walls and ceiling. For someone brought up in the UK this was a surreal experience. It was all so familiar but in an unfamiliar way. I'd only ever seen this on TV before. I ordered a Bud and watched the ball game- I'd been looking forward to finding this America and I was having a great time. All was going well until I looked up and nearly choked on my beer. Behind the bar there was a big handwritten sign: 'Win a gun- and help the needy kids at Christmas. Ask our friendly staff how.' I know I should have asked. I know I should have. I just couldn't- not with a straight face anyway. I moseyed on back to my tent (I felt I just had to 'mosey'). What a day it had been. It had started, freezing cold in Glacier National Park and ended camping under the enormous Montana night sky, on grass and away from bears. I'd ridden the Going-to-the-Sun Road, learned about Plains Indians and especially about their sign language, and I'd found real small town America. Talk about ups and downs. This was what it was all about. I'd witnessed more in one day than I'd normally pack into a whole holiday. As I drifted off to sleep, surrounded by food, with no idea where my pepper spray was, I was simply the happiest, most contented biker on the planet.
Gone Riding  Dom Giles p61

[Williamson]

Next door was the town's bar, The Buckhorn. I had to go in. The interior was exactly as I had hoped: neon Budweiser signs, big TV, long bar with stools and trophies of dead animals all over the walls and ceiling. For someone brought up in the UK this was a surreal experience. It was all so familiar but in an unfamiliar way. I'd only ever seen this on TV before. I ordered a Bud and watched the ball game- I'd been looking forward to finding this America and I was having a great time. .....

Helen and I visited the Buckhorn Bar when in Laramie WY, around 12 months ago.  It matches the above description in many ways.





Another Helen (an Aussie friend from Melbourne) married Corey, a guy from Cody WY (of Buffalo Bill fame) they lived in Laramie.  After Corey died a couple of years ago, Helen stayed on in Laramie.  When we visited, she took us to the Buckhorn because it was Corey's favourite bar.  Helen knew most of the locals, and introduced us, we talked, chatted for hours, they wanted to know about Malborrrne, Australia - Middle America, and the people were very special.

I don't remember the sign about "Win a gun ....... " though, but it does not surprise me.

[Biggles]

We chatted for a few minutes about motorcycles (I could only manage a few minutes). JW had a KTM and ran a motorcycle lodge a few miles up the road. had been travelling a lot abroad and I hardly had to say a thing as he told me about his trips, his lodge and a charity he was working with saving cats somewhere in the world. He was one of those overpowering Americans who loves the sound of his own voice, but is super-friendly with it. Although he knew I was British (he'd spent a year in Leighton Buzzard) and I was riding an Alaskan-registered motorcycle he didn't ask me anything about my trip, but kept me entertained with tales about his KTM. And then he said: "Look Dom, it's been great chatting but I need to run. I'm J.W Everitt, guitarist with Crosby, Stills and Nash. Here's my card. Ride safe."
And with that he was off, out through the swing doors and away. I was left stunned. What had just happened? It felt as if a whirlwind had passed through the sleepy diner. Had I just met a musician, biker and traveller or a total bullshitter? Later that day I logged on and checked his name on Google images. He certainly was J.W. Everitt: professional musician and biker. And he really had played with Crosby, Stills and Nash.
Gone Riding  Dom Giles p75

[Biggles]

It was only on my last night, over a mojito or two in Hotel California, that I learned that Maria wasn't her real name.
"No, Dom, never use your real name if you don't have to. My travelling name is Maria. Everyone should have a travelling name. I've been thinking what yours should be, seeing as you're on this amazing trip."
"Oh, I don't know about that. I don't think I could look someone in the eye and lie about my name."
"It's not lying. You're just using a different persona. I never lie to people."
Gone Riding  Dom Giles p126

[Biggles]

Tracy got off the bike and walked ahead of me clearing away some of the bamboo and other flora from the path. Gingerly I rode along the edge. The first few feet were easy, after all, the tarmac was two feet wide. But as soon as I started contemplating what I was doing I began to panic. I was navigating a big heavy machine along a wet narrow path. I thought it would be best to go as slowly as possible with both of my feet down on the path walking myself along. But the tarmac wasn't quite wide enough and although my left foot was firmly down on tarmac my right was hovering dangerously over the edge, slipping on some mud which was sliding down into the hole. The drop to both my left and right was several feet and would cause major damage to the bike and, more importantly I realised, to me, if we toppled over. If I fell to my right I would fall more than ninety degrees into muddy water with the bike on top of me.
This was not helping me keep the bike steady. I needed to be positive. I tried my best to forget what could go wrong and concentrate on what I was doing. I had to take control of the situation and speed up a little. All I had to do was ride in a straight line. I told myself that this was easy. I focused on the front wheel, revved the engine a little, lifted my feet up and trusted myself. I made it across. It was only afterwards I realised that it would have made a wonderful photograph.
Gone Riding  Dom Giles p143

[Biggles]

The Panamanian side of the border was chaotic. There were no signs telling us where to go and when I joined the back of the queue to get our passports stamped it didn't move an inch for thirty minutes. I finally got them stamped and then went to the window labelled Aduana to start the process for importing the bike. They told me I first had to go and get insurance and when I asked where that was they just pointed vaguely down the road. We got on the bike and rode off. After a few hundred metres the road opened up and we were clearly heading out of town. I stopped at a police hut to ask and they sent me back to the aduana office, claiming it was somewhere nearby. We rode back and found a side road and optimistically headed down it. I stopped the bike near a small row of shops, a man came over and without me even asking, told me that the insurance office was upstairs in the building I had stopped next to. I went up the stairs and found myself in a huge hardware shop.
Just as I was about to turn around to leave, presuming I'd got the instructions wrong, the lady behind the counter gestured to me that I should walk through the shop and out onto the balcony! I did as I was told and there indeed was a tiny office tucked into the corner of the balcony with the word Seguro (Insurance) hand-written on the door. Unbelievable. Here was the office where everyone who brings a vehicle into Panama must come to buy insurance. It consisted of a woman with a computer and a printer. Why she couldn't be in the aduana office, or next to it, I had no idea.
Gone Riding  Dom Giles p174

[Biggles]

Now in South Africa.
"Steve. It's Dom again. Yeah, the guy from Alaska. I've broken down again. I'm on the M6 coast road, nine miles south of Cape Town, heading for Hout Bay. Any chance you can come and pick me up?"
"Sorry mate. I'm on another job and the traffic is crazy. It's Friday night man... It'll take me at least two hours to get to you. Sorry. Try ringing Johnny at
Atlantic Motorrad, he may be able to help if he's still there. If he can't help, ring me back."
Not only was it getting dark but the battery on my phone was looking dangerously low as I rang the bike shop. It rang and rang and I was just about to hang up and phone Steve back when I heard Shane's voice. I explained the situation to him.
"Sounds like your fuel controller. Hang on, I'll be out with you soon."
I just love blokes who know about motorcycles. Shane turned up at 5.45 pm with a spare second-hand fuel pump controller. He changed it over (it took seconds) and the bike fired back into life again.
"Fantastic. Thanks Shane. How much do I owe you?"
"Oh, don't worry. It's nothing, just enjoy your trip. I'm going home."
Gone Riding  Dom Giles p207

[Biggles]

At the small Isandlwana museum I found a list of all the British men who had died in in the battle. (We Brits may not be good at winning things but are bloody good at keeping score.) I don't really know why, but I just had to look down the list to see if my name was there. I know that Giles is only my father's, father's, father's surname and over one hundred years ago I must have had eight different grandfathers' surnames, but I looked down the list and found one: Sergeant Edward Giles of the 1st Battalion, 24th of the 2nd Warwickshires. I guess it made it personal and I was overcome with a feeling of deep sadness - and guilt. Here was I, having the time of my life, selfishly riding a motorcycle across South Africa, just for the hell of it. And yet only a hundred years ago another Brit with the same surname had fought and died on that very spot, doing his duty.
Gone Riding  Dom Giles pp229-30

[Biggles]

There was no way it was going to come back in line and I just knew we were going down. I had a millisecond to decide how to get off in the least damaging way for both me and the bike. I was just about to throw myself to the left while trying to push the bike to the right when the rear suddenly decided to come back in line.
Perhaps I could hold this bloody thing up after all. I gripped the tank with my knees and gave her a little gas. If I'm going to come off I was going to do it at speed and in style. If only Daryll were here with his head cam.
Somehow Heidi stayed upright and I managed to hold on. Speeding up a little had helped and I made it through the soft sand and pulled up next to Pat. He had a huge grin on his face.
"That was tough. I got into a bit of trouble and stopped to warn you."
"Yeah, I wasn't sure why you had stopped but I guessed it wasn't good news. I really thought I'd lost it there. I was fishtailing all over the place."
"I know. I thought you were going to drop it. You did well to hold it together."
I rode back to the others proud that I'd made it through the sand and excited that I'd finally been to Duwisib and seen Baron Captain Hans Heinrich von Wolf's castle. Another great day on the bike and yet another great adventure to rack up to the memory banks. With everything I'd done since arriving in South Africa I was finding it hard to process it all. I was experiencing new things all the time, learning about the world, myself and others. It might sound daft, but I simply felt aiive.
Gone Riding  Dom Giles p260

[Biggles]

When we stopped at one camp for the night on the edge of the Caprivi strip there were two German bikers on KTMs camping there. We greeted each other like old friends and spent a few hours comparing notes on roads and swapping advice on where to go. All the 4x4s in the campground stayed in their own area and didn't talk to one another. It struck me that adventure motorcyclists seem to belong to a huge worldwide family. Many bikers use or at least know of the Horizons Unlimited website and it wasn't unusual to meet another biker and then realise that you'd been reading something they posted just a few days previously. Being exposed to the elements, vulnerable and with limited space for luggage, I guess bikers are more willing to share and help one another. There seems to be a camaraderie which I don't think exists among other overlanders. People in their 4x4s would almost seem to be in competition as to who had the biggest truck, or best tow rope but bikers seemed friendlier.
Gone Riding  Dom Giles p267

[Biggles]

An hour later, riding down a long straight section of road with Pat about fifty metres in front of me I saw two men out of the corner of my eye running from under the shade of a tree. One of them was waving a red flag. Pat sped past them just as they made it to the road and they both pointed at me! For a millisecond I thought of ignoring the frantic officer with the flag and riding past but with Tom, Daryll and Angela behind me I decided it wouldn't be the right thing to do.
Angrily, I pulled over and flipped up my lid.
"Sir, this is an 80 zone and you were doing 86," said the out-of-breath official, still waving his red flag.
"But officer. What about my friend in front. You didn't stop him?"
"He was going too fast. It would have been dangerous."
"How fast was he going?"
The officer looked down at his speed gun, "93 kilometres per hour."
I just started laughing and, amazingly, so did the policeman. I didn't need to say anything and neither did he. We both saw the absurdity of the situation. I really think the fact that I had a flip-front helmet, so he could see my face, helped. It was so ridiculous I couldn't help but laugh and he saw the funny side too. He told me to slow down and said I could go. I'm not sure I could have taken being stopped and fined by the Zimbabwe police twice in one day.
Gone Riding  Dom Giles p283

[Biggles]

The plan was to head on to Namibia and then South Africa before finishing their route by traversing Australia. They should have been over the moon but their achievement was tinged with immense sadness. Just a few weeks previously, in Malawi, a stolen car, being chased by police, had careered into their party killing the third rider, Valerio de Simoni.
I spent the evening talking with Kristopher and Jamie. They were very positive about the whole experience and were determined to finish what they had started.
They told me that Valerio had said, before they started, that if any of them had a serious accident, or even died, the others should still finish. They had just never expected it to happen. Initially I thought this was almost callous but thinking about it, what other option did they have? Giving up and going home wouldn't bring Val back, and continuing with the trip (they were sponsored and raising lots of money for charity) would probably help them deal with the tragedy. Chatting with them reminded me how fragile life is, how much of a lottery it is and how much I needed to have my wits about me as I headed north through East Africa. But it also reminded me how short life is. Whether it's twenty years or eighty years we're not on this planet for very long and it really is a crime if we don't all live life to the full and seize every opportunity.
Gone Riding  Dom Giles p296

[Biggles]

While we were conferring, a couple of armed police spotted us and came over to see the bikes. By now we were used to people coming over and had well prepared answers to the usual questions. In Southern Africa these questions usually revolved around how much the bike cost. I had a theory that the type of questions I was asked about the bike and my trip reflected the culture I was travelling through. In North America people were amazed that I had given up my job and was travelling for so long. How could get the time off work? Why would I voluntarily give up a job to travel? Why was I travelling alone? (as it's dangerous) and where was my gun?
In Central America most questions revolved around the top speed of the bike; a particularly tricky question to answer when it was asked by the police. They always seemed a little disappointed when I said that I kept to below the speed limit.
In Africa money was on everyone's mind. How much did the bike cost? Again, difficult to answer. If I gave the correct answer it was such a huge amount to most people I feared they might decide to rob me. But if I lowered the price, which I sometimes did, I was confronted with a look of disappointment. It was always hard to please the punters.
Gone Riding  Dom Giles pp318-9

[Biggles]

All of this was racing through my mind as we cruised past a line of cars waiting at traffic lights in the centre of Rabat. I pulled in front of the lead car to take up pole position, ready for the lights to go green, quite normal behaviour for a bike.
Whack!
I could not believe it. We were over, on the ground. At this stage of the trip everything was perfect, the kit so organised, the rear pannier boxes shiny and new.
Not any more. The box was dented but that was nothing compared to my pride. Sadly, the driver of the car we had wafted in front of had taken offence and decided to ram us. Totally unrepentant he then calmly drove around and alongside of us, smirking all the while. You b..tard I thought. I was seething with anger but had pledged not to rise to provocation. We would undoubtedly be subjected to stupidity on the roads unseen and unimaginable in Europe. To indulge in road rage would be lunacy, especially given our vulnerability. Well, that was the plan, as I swore at the man and cursed riding a motorcycle we could barely lift.
Bearback  Pat Garrod  p7

[Biggles]

We narrowed it down to the CDI unit, an expensive and un-mendable 'black box' which controlled the electronic ignition. I suddenly remembered I had a spare. Four years earlier, prior to setting off on our first big bike trip across Africa, John of Bracken Motorcycles in London, had tossed a second-hand CDI unit at me saying "you should take one of these, it might come in handy, you can have it for twenty quid." I didn't really know what it was at the time. Looking at it now I had little faith. It had been shaken about in the tankbag for 20,000 miles on African roads back in 1995, with no guarantee that it was sound in the first place.
We gingerly connected it. Using Stuart's battery for power the starter motor turned in its now familiar way with not even the promise of a spark.
I'd had enough. "Bloody thing," I cursed, walking away.
"Give it one more go," encouraged Stuart gently.  Again... nothing. Then, suddenly, a huge puff of black smoke as petrol in the cylinders ignited. The bike was running. It had started. The girls stopped their chattering for a split second and looked over, unsure whether it was good news or bad as the smoke cleared and their boyfriends came into view.
At last we were back in business. The next day we bought a car battery, strapping it to the right hand pannier. It would have to do for the time being.
Bearback  Pat Garrod  p24

[Biggles]

"I love it when you put your jeans on," said Ness dreamily a couple of days later as she watched me dress. "It means we're moving on."
I knew what she meant. Both of us craved days on the road - an open horizon, new places to see. Just the sheer pleasure of riding, in the dry, in the warm, was enough. But to actually be headed somewhere, along a path of discovery... you just never wanted it to end.
Every day you get on a motorcycle there is a tiny part of you that wonders if it will be your last, but a much larger part that almost doesn't care - because of what it has given you, how it has allowed you to live, what it has enabled you to see.
Bearback  Pat Garrod  p28

[Biggles]

John explained that today's leg was from Tidjikja in Mauritania, to Nioro. The first of the competitors, probably the bikes, would start arriving around 5pm, followed by increasingly exhausted entrants throughout the night. Some would not make it at all, to be picked up by the 'sweeper truck' hours, or possibly even days, later. We heard stories of desperate competitors utterly lost in the desert, kneeling by the side of their vehicles praying, hugging the sweeper team in delirious gratitude when they were finally saved. Such is the loneliness of the Sahara.
Throughout the day we gained an inkling as to just how tough this race was. The day before we had ridden two hundred and fifty kilometres in similar terrain over twelve hours, albeit two-up and loaded with kit. These guys cover six hundred kilometres, day after day, at breakneck speeds, navigating themselves with the help of a roll-map and GPS. If they slow, break down or get lost they are likely to be riding into the night. Arriving at midnight or beyond they are expected to put up their own tent, gobble some food and collapse into sleep before it starts all over again at dawn. Only on certain days do they have the benefit of a team of mechanics, and in the seventeen days that the Rally lasts only one is a rest day.
Bearback  Pat Garrod  p47