Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

I rolled into Nizip for the night with the intent of taking a run at the Syrian border in the morning. Failing to find a hotel right away, I stopped every hundred metres or so for directions until I found a young man who knew a place.
"We go together," he said. Before I knew what to say about that, he hopped on the bike. Squished together in the space between my gas tank and duffel bag, we rode to a cheap hotel where the man got off, tipped his hat and walked away.
Through Dust and Darkness  Jeremy Kroker  p83

[Biggles]

Afram stopped the car at an intersection. In North America, we look past the junction to traffic lights on the other side, but Syrian traffic lights are on the
near corner where our stop lines would be. In theory, this should force drivers to stay back in order to see the light, but it only works that way in Europe. In the Middle East, the first row of cars stops right at the intersection, ahead of the signal. They wait there until motorists lined up behind them - motorists who can see the light - start honking when it goes green.
"Why do they do that?" I asked.
Afram shook his head, "I don't know" he sighed. "It always causes a delay. First the light changes, then they honk. Then the cars in front react to the honking. Then they move. It's stupid."
Through Dust and Darkness  Jeremy Kroker  p92

[Biggles]

To avoid the distinction of becoming the only tourist in history to visit Palmyra without seeing the archaeological marvel of its colonnade, I rode past the ruins in the morning on the way out of town. I had intended to park the bike and walk around for a few minutes, snapping ho-hum obligatory photos, but my eyes lit up when I saw two locals and their tiny motorcycles on the ancient path. Suddenly I had a better idea. Backtracking a bit, I found a spot where I could just squeeze the Oscillator between two boulders to access to the site. I rode along the gravel walkway between limestone pillars before parking beneath a towering archway.
Perhaps I'd find archaeology more interesting if I could view every site in this manner, especially the museums.
Through Dust and Darkness  Jeremy Kroker  p119

[Biggles]

I poked at the neutral sensor below the shift lever until the green light flickered on. The engine didn't want to start at first, but it finally sputtered to life. After that it rose in pitch to healthy idle. The exhaust came in metered bursts, making the leaves jump on a nearby bush. In the cool air you could see the smoke. Sometimes the Oscillator puffed out a smoke ring just for fun. As the bike warmed up, I looked it over.
"I know I've been ignoring you," I whispered, patting the gas tank, "and I'm sorry." I strapped up my helmet, still talking softly to the machine. "It's just that I haven't left Beirut much these past few weeks, and when I did I had company. You know. It's easier to take a taxi."
Through Dust and Darkness  Jeremy Kroker  p159

[Biggles]

One thing I never cared for, though, was that you could not flush your toilet paper, because of the narrow plumbing it would plug the system. Instead, you placed it into a plastic basket for someone to come in and empty later. What I liked even less were the bathrooms like this one that had no baskets. No toilet paper. Just a hose.
In time, I would come to appreciate this system, too, but for the moment I found myself on the bottom of a steep learning curve. When I had finished, I remained squatting while I reached for the coil of hose on the floor. Beads of water collected on its surface from a previous user. It had a waxy coating of some kind that transferred to my hands when I handled it. At least this one had a nozzle with a trigger to start the flow. A nice touch, I thought. Some of them free flow like a garden hose. With one hand, I bunched up my pants to keep them dry; while aiming the hose with the other.
Having shot water pistols at targets in a summer fair, I knew that direct hits are rare. A clean hit would be especially difficult in this case because the target was behind me. Positioning the nozzle by feel and intuition, I paused for a moment before pulling the trigger. It required commitment. Then, at the last second, I bowed my head, craning my neck between my legs in an effort to see where the hose pointed.
That's how a ricochet of water hit me square in the face. Even then, the stream carried enough force to hit the door and splatter throughout the room, raining down on me in a fine mist. Apparently, the hose could also be used in an emergency to scatter an angry crowd.
Through Dust and Darkness  Jeremy Kroker  pp202-3

[Biggles]

This would be a perfect motorcycle ride, I thought, clearly missing the Oscillator. I shifted in my seat, trying to find a position to alleviate the
discomfort in my back. Crossing my legs helped, but only momentarily, and every time I moved them I bumped the seat of the person in front of me. With all the shuffling around, I risked irritating the young man seated next to me as well, although he seemed preoccupied. I never looked at him to verify, but I'm fairly certain he was sobbing.
Man, I hate buses, I thought. If I had my bike I could pull over for a rest, maybe even set up camp in the desert. The more I thought about this, the more claustrophobic I became. It was the lack of control as much as the confined spaces that bothered me.
Through Dust and Darkness  Jeremy Kroker  pp235-6

[Biggles]

I wondered if he might have had a point. Maybe, like all the others - the potential sponsors who never replied, the bike manufacturers who shook their heads, the accessory makers who shrugged awkwardly, the shipping companies who patronised me, the officials who rejected my visa applications - he sensed that I was out of my depth.
After all, I was leaving with little more than a vague plan to fly to New York, where I intended to pick up my bike from the docks, ride to my aunt's home in Detroit, then continue west to California, where I hoped to ship my bike to New Zealand or Australia and see where the road took me next.
Apart from buying a standby ticket to New York and packing up my bike for its passage on a cargo ship, I'd done very little preparation, certainly none of the years of research, fund-raising physical training and logistics planning that I'd noticed other serious travellers had undertaken. I'd spent the previous months working in a pub to amass some savings and when I wasn't working I'd practised repairing my bike using the instructions in a Haynes manual.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  p8

[STeveo]

I've just finished that book, quite a good read.

[Biggles]

A few months later, I took off on a tour of Europe with Rick on his Norton Commando, which looked great and sounded wonderful but convinced me never to ride a British bike. It vibrated so much, bits regularly falling off it, that I had to ride behind Rick, picking up the parts that his bike shed in its wake. The indicator, the backlight and the number plate all shook themselves free, some of them more than once. I would have found it funny had it not been such a lesson in why British bikes no longer led the world.
We rode down through France, crossed the Mediterranean on a ferry from Marseille to Corsica. After spending several weeks riding around the island we took another ferry to Pisa, then rode down to the heel of Italy, before turning back for home via Austria and Germany, by which time I was fully convinced I'd made the right choice of bike. Whereas Rick could hardly walk at the end of each day, I arrived back in London feeling like I'd barely left home.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  p21

[Biggles]

I've just finished that book, quite a good read.

Just finished it a minute ago myself.  Powerful book!  You'll possibly be interested to see the excerpts I've chosen.  As usual I've focused on the motorcycle aspect, but that's only part of her life's adventure.

[Biggles]

Just as I was reassembling the final parts of the bike, a guy pulled up on a Honda Gold Wing. Like my friends, I wasn't a bike snob, but there was something Gold Wings that irritated me and many other bikers. It wasn't so much the bikes as their riders. Compared to BMWs, Gold Wings looked like motorized easy chairs, often attracting riders who were rash and flash as their transport.
In his early thirties, reasonably good-looking and far too smooth, the Gold Wing rider who'd pulled up beside me was a perfect case in point. Dressed in a leather flying jacket with a sheepskin collar, walked with a swagger that said he thought he was something rather special.
He made a few remarks as I reattached my tank to my BMW, offering tips that were of little help to someone who knew their bike considerably better than him, but other than that, he said very little until I'd finished.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  pp49-50

[Biggles]

But the riders on either side edged ahead, the two flank riders to my rear moving forwards to take their spaces. They'd done this before, I realized. And I
wondered what usually came next. I had to get out of there before they boxed me in.
I accelerated up to 70 mph. They matched my speed. I twisted the throttle some more, glimpsed at my speedometer, saw the needle push past 80 mph... 85... 90 mph.
Still they stuck to me. But I could sense they were struggling to keep up. I twisted the old girl's throttle further, spied an escape in the distance.
A corner.
If I could make it to the bend before they pushed me off the road, I'd be safe. Their big ugly choppers and Harley-Davidson hogs could match my BMW for speed in a straight line, but cornering was another matter.
I twisted the throttle further, edged slightly then watched three of the bikes - two on either side; one behind me - match me for speed. But now, only a few hundred yards from the bend, they could see what was coming. They started to slow and I moved ahead of them, taking the corner as fast as I could, glorying in the superior handling of my BMW over their dumb meathead hogs. Another two bends followed in quick succession and I watched them in my mirror, dropping back fast, knowing the game was over. With a further twist of the throttle, I left them far behind me, turned them into dots. The race for the corner had shown them up for what they were - five idiots who wanted to frighten a lone woman rider.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  p54

[Biggles]

Weekends became increasingly frantic as my departure time ticked ever closer. One late September Saturday, I rose at 6 am to ride through torrential rain to a BMW garage in north Sydney to get the bevel drive in my rear hub replaced. I then rode to John Todd in west Sydney to work on my panniers until late afternoon, when I rode to the pub, where I worked until closing time, long past midnight. In early October, I rode to John Todd to finish my side panniers and top box. At last they were complete, but when I looked at my bike with its aluminium luggage system, which protruded about a foot either side of the bike with the top box eighteen inches above the rear seat, I wondered how on earth I was going to ride it. Normally I'd swing my leg over the seat, but the boxes made that impossible. After several attempts, I realised the only way was to goosestep up onto the bike and then slide myself in between the tank and top box.
Even though the panniers were empty, my BMW felt very different; huge and unwieldy. My leg movement was limited and paddling forwards on the bike was difficult. But, it worked well and the panniers felt very secure. Like me, John was a perfectionist and insisted on several final touches, including two aero-flaps that folded out from the side of the top box; an attempt to make the vast contraption more aerodynamic.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  pp86-7

[Biggles]

It was nearly 1,500 miles from Port Augusta to Perth. In between lay the Nullarbor Plain, 75,000 square miles of virtually uninhabitable scrubby desert along the south Australian coast. Crossing the Nullarbor was one of those quintessential traveller experiences celebrated on bumper stickers and backpack patches, and now it was my turn. I'd been told that over a distance of 500 miles or more, I'd see no sign of human life at all. No water, no roadhouses, no petrol stations. Nothing.
The next morning, I started the long ride west, laden with extra petrol canisters in my top box because I'd been told that roadhouses across the Nullarbor were spaced far further apart than in other parts of the outback. With a full tank I could do around 300 miles before going onto reserve, which gave me another 30 miles. The extra gallon I was carrying would give me another 60 miles. With a range of nearly 400 miles I should be fine, provided I took it steady and didn't ride too fast. A couple of hours later, I was fully enveloped in the climatic challenges of the infamous desert, but instead of dehydrating in the stifling heat as I had expected, I was shivering with cold beneath my full winter gear.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  pp109-10

[Biggles]

Panic set in, but having never seen a bike fire before, I didn't know what to do, how to douse the fire safely. I grabbed my jumper, jammed it into the space beneath the tank, hoping it would smother the flames. To my surprise, the smoke died down, almost as quickly as it had appeared, then stopped altogether, leaving a nasty stench of burnt plastic and rubber.
I crouched down to see if I could work out what had happened under the petrol tank. Hoping the flames wouldn't reignite if I pulled out my jumper, I tugged the singed material out of the gap and peered into the space beneath the tank and the seat. No flames. No smoke. Just a messy congealed mess of matted plastic.
"Oh shit."
"Bad?"
"It doesn't look good," I said. "I think all the wiring has completely burnt out and melted itself into one big lump."
"But you know what to do, don't you?"
"I can fix just about anything on this bike, but I'm not much good when it comes to electrics."
Simone's eyes were big. "What are we going to do?"
We hadn't passed anything for more than 100 miles; I didn't have a clue. Gazing forlornly down the road, my eyes focused on a small shack about quarter of a mile away. Behind it was a bungalow; in front of it was a blue sign. I could just about read it. I squinted into the sun. Auto-electrician.
"I don't bloody believe it." I pointed at the sign.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  p113

[Biggles]

I turned on the ignition and pointed at the red alternator light, which was on. I started my bike, opened the throttle, pointed at the red light, which was still on. It should have gone out, so I waved my hands, palms pointed downwards, hoping he'd understand what I was trying to convey: 'That shouldn't happen'. We hadn't spoken a word, but the Thai man seemed to understand and turned to walk away, beckoning me with his finger. With nothing to lose, I climbed on my bike, rode it slowly behind him, around a corner and down a street for about 300 metres to a garage that was open to the street.
He pointed at my bike, then at the garage, so I rode inside and watched as he explained my problem in Thai to two overalled men in the workshop. Head scratches, pointed fingers, shrugged shoulders all followed. Eventually, working together, we figured out that one of the diodes no longer functioned correctly.
If I'd been at home, I would have replaced the whole diode board, but in a tiny Thai town there were no BMW spare parts. Instead we unsoldered the faulty one, soldered a new diode in place and reconnected the board above my alternator.
I twisted the BMW's key, started her up. The red light went out. He'd repaired the fault and saved my skin. And still not a single word exchanged between us. His cobbled-together diode board is still working on my BMW today.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  p141

[Biggles]

On 17 April, the day before the Madras boat was due to sail from Penang, I felt ready to leave. I packed up my things, then went to say goodbye to all the family. I found the mother in the kitchen and wandered over to thank her for her extraordinary hospitality. Clutching her small bottle of 'curo', she extended a creased hand and offered me the antiseptic. I was very touched and leaned towards her, intending to hug her, but my eyes were drawn to something extraordinary behind the woman, on the table.
The dog I'd run over.
Most of the animal was missing, but it was unmistakable. The knife marks were straight and clean, the work of a skilled butcher. Well, that explained the generous portions of meat with every meal.
For a few moments, not knowing what to say or do, I hesitated. Then I accepted the offer of the curo, clasping my hands together in front of my chest and bowing my head with a smile to show my thanks. Once I'd got over the thought of what I'd been eating for the last week, I realised I felt comforted to know what had happened to the dog. I had killed it and provided food for the family. No wonder were so welcoming to me.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  p148

[Biggles]

After dinner, Sanatan returned to take me to the airport to cash some travellers' cheques. News of my arrival in the city had clearly got around; Sanatan was now accompanied by ten bikers and we picked up many more along the route. Riding pillion on Sanatan's bike was the first time I'd been on a Royal Enfield. We bumped along potholed streets through slums and backstreets. The old decrepit houses, once handsome, fascinated me. The streets, alive with huge crowds of people, let bikes move freely through the throngs. It was the first time I'd really seen India and it was a great way to spend my birthday evening. But once we reached the edge of Calcutta, the mood changed.
Accelerating to 60 mph in total darkness, I realised Sanatan and his two dozen mates regarded themselves as the Calcutta equivalent of Hell's Angels, giving every impression of having little interest in surviving the night. Buses and trucks were passed on blind corners.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  p168

[Biggles]

I stopped under a tree in a deserted spot to allow us both to recover. I'd been there for less than a minute when a small group of Indian men appeared. I looked around. The landscape was empty, yet somehow they'd appeared from nowhere. More people arrived and soon I was surrounded by about thirty Indian men, all of them staring and pushing closer for a better look.
I wondered if maybe they'd never seen a bike like mine before and guessed they'd never imagined one being ridden by a woman. After a few minutes I realised I wasn't going to be left alone, so I dipped my eyes and ignored them until a faint murmuring started to spread through the crowd. Looking up, I noticed one of the men pointing at the two large cylinders that stuck out from the sides of the BMW engine.
"Oooh... double engine... double engine," the man was saying. A second man, his head poking over the speaker's shoulder for a closer look, took up the chant. 
"Oooh... double engine... double engine," said the second Indian, turning to a third man at his side.
Aware that thirty pairs of eyes were watching my every move, I put on my helmet and gloves, slid myself onto my bike and pressed the starter motor. When the engine burst into life, the entire crowd gasped and jumped back.
"Oooh... selfie start... selfie start."
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  pp171-2

[Biggles]

The key was badly bent and broke in half when I tried to straighten it.
I found a blacksmith's workshop down a back alley in Kathmandu and showed the remains of my key to a kid no more than ten years old who was crouching at its entrance. Using sign language, I indicated that I needed a replacement.
From a strip of metal about 1.5mm thick, the boy cut out a key shape, round at the top with a long, straight section. He filed the straight section so that it was the correct length and width, then put the round part in a vice and bent the long section over. Working entirely by eye, he used a hacksaw to cut grooves into the long section, then flipped it over and cut the grooves on the other side.
There's no way this will ever work, I thought to myself, but I wasn't going to stop him. Anything is worth a try and it's amazing to watch him, even if the key doesn't work.
Continuing to work entirely by eye, the boy fashioned something that looked like a very convincing facsimile of my BMW key. Although unconvinced that it would work, I paid him $2, a small price to pay for watching the boy's extraordinary craftsmanship. Back at Cosy Corner Lodge and with little expectation of my new key actually working, I put it in the ignition. It slipped in easily, a surprise in itself. Then, with no hope of it actually working, I twisted my Nepalese approximation of a BMW key.
The old girl's ignition lit up. Astonished, I grinned from ear to ear. The bloody thing worked.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  p196

[Biggles]

A short day's ride took Robert and me to Pushkar, a pilgrim destination beside a small lake in the middle of a rocky desert that had become a magnet for hippies. Although the journey was short, the road was littered with crashes. Most days we'd see eight or ten accidents, but on this short stretch of road, we saw two or three times as many. Some of them were totally bizarre - a lorry lay overturned in the middle of a field; a truck that had collided with the only telegraph pole, ending up perpendicular to the road, blocking it completely.
When vehicles were damaged or broke down, the drivers never moved them to the side of the road. Instead, they repaired them in the middle of the carriageway, jacked up and supported on rocks they'd collected from the surrounding area. Then, when they'd finished their repairs, they drove off, leaving the huge rocks in the middle of the road, ready to cause another accident.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  pp210-1

[Biggles]

After a week on the houseboat, Robert and I knew we needed to get back on the road, which was when we discovered that someone had stolen my penknife and my BMW lighter. I was furious. My lighter was of sentimental value, but my penknife was absolutely essential to me, on a par with the three plastic bags that I'd carried and carefully looked after all the way from Australia to wrap up belongings that needed to be kept dry in my tank bag. Like decent plastic bags that wouldn't rip or tear, a proper penknife with sharp blades was a rarity in India.
At the police station, I braced myself for the same old routine of official indifference to any crime reported by a Westerner. To my astonishment, the Srinagar police were amazingly efficient and actually threatened to put the owner of the houseboat in prison if he didn't find the thief, but then Robert noticed one of the officers shouting down the wrong end of a telephone earpiece and my hopes were shattered.
"It's all an illusion," said Robert. "Nothing will happen."
He was correct.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  p232

[Biggles]

Knowing that Iran was not included in the list of countries which were typed on the front cover for which my carnet was valid, I handed it to the official, fully prepared to do whatever was needed - a bribe, a vaguely plausible explanatory story - to get my bike into the country. But the official didn't even look at me as he shook his head and tapped the list of countries for which it was valid. Every country along my route was on the list - except Iran.
Hoping to appeal to his good nature, I beamed my widest, friendliest smile, but the expression on the official's face didn't soften. Instead, he tapped the list of countries again, this time a bit hard harder, raised his eyebrows and handed the carnet back to me, leaving me trying to fathom meaning from his silence.
I thanked the official with a nod of my head, stepped away and huddled with Robert. "I think he's suggesting that I add Iran to the list of countries on my carnet."
"You sure?" said Robert.
"No - but I've got nothing to lose if I do it."
"Except being thrown in jail for forging documents."
It was a good point, but I was convinced I could talk myself out of trouble if necessary. "I'm going to give it a go."
Turning around, I smiled at the official and pointed at a biro lying on his desk, thinking that if he lent it to me, I could suggest that he had condoned my alteration of my carnet. The official nodded and handed me his pen as he looked away. With 'Iran' carefully added and my heart in my mouth, I handed my carnet back to the official.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  p259

[Biggles]

There was a knock on the door. I reached for the door handle, started to open it.
Crash!
The door slammed open and I was pushed aside. Four uniformed policemen burst into our room. One of them went straight for my tank bag. Another officer targeted Robert's pannier, while a third policeman picked up my diary from the desk, flicked through it. In seconds, they were everywhere.
I looked at Robert. "Watch them... watch them! Or they might plant something on us."
Maybe my paranoia was unwarranted, but ever since Midnight Express, a 1970s book and film about an American student caught smuggling hashish out of Turkey, the Turkish authorities had gained a disproportionate reputation for corruption and ruthlessness regarding drug trafficking. We had nothing to hide and should not have had anything to worry about, but I knew that didn't guarantee the police wouldn't emerge with some form of contraband that they would triumphantly claim they'd found in our possession.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  p270

[Biggles]

At about eight o'clock, my mother came downstairs to collect the papers. "Elspeth! You're here!" We hugged and after a few comments about my appearance, I felt her interest wane. Life had returned to normal for my mother. "Why hasn't the Sunday paper been delivered?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"Hmm." Mum looked annoyed.
While she disappeared to solve her newspaper crisis, I went upstairs and found something to eat in the kitchen. Emerging from the kitchen, I bumped into my father on the landing. "Oh hello," he said, showing no surprise or excitement at my arrival. It was almost as if I'd never left home. I hadn't expected bunting, streamers and banners to herald my return, but some kind of minor celebration wouldn't have gone amiss. Upset and confused, I tried to rationalise my family's indifference, telling myself that this was because my parents had always expected me to do what I'd set out to do. Their apparent disinterest, I told myself, was a tacit vote of confidence in my abilities.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  pp287-8