Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

Hyderabad is arguably India's fastest growing city and with such a display of western identikit commercialism, it was a credible claim. Leaving the gas station I just managed to climb on the bike and freewheeled onto the road, unable to remember when riding last felt so bad. It was really difficult to ride. Hands swollen, aching all over, I wanted to collapse but what would that serve? Who would look after me then? Why hadn't anyone taught me to look after myself, because this suffering need not have happened. Each journey takes everyone to a place that is hard to get to and harder to get back from. Suddenly, across the road and through the fumes I noticed a chemist and elbowing my way across four lanes of belligerent traffic, I pushed my way inside and pointed to the sun. The chemist knew exactly what was needed and gave me a box of powder. I mixed three sachets in a bottle of Coke and carried on. I felt so strange and kneeled down on the ground beside my bike and lay on my back twice more before I left the city limits and already it was dark. I'd got it bad. So far this journey across Hyderabad had taken four hours when it should have taken one. The only reason there was no vomit was because I hadn't eaten anything. Then my nose started to bleed.
Journey Beyond Reason  Nick Sanders  p84

[Biggles]

The worst thing you can do is have nothing going on in your head. So I have a discussion going on in my head - I ask myself why do I do this journey? Does it have any meaning?
You're a prisoner in your helmet. I can't stop riding, I can't afford to stop concentrating. So my mind becomes my freedom - your body and mind will always find ways of expanding.
You get to the point where you think you can do anything - it might be endomorphins, a physiological high. It only comes after several hundred miles. Towards the end I float.
Psychologists might say that it's dangerous, that I'm fooling myself- but how can they possibly know what it's like? They haven't done it.
Journey Beyond Reason  Nick Sanders  p96

[Biggles]

Apart from having enough skill to stay upright, the most important attribute needed to successfully complete a project like this is endurance, which is simply a question of dislocating from the pain. If part of that pain is physical, we are told to visualise the opposite, so in my mind I imagined what it was like to float. When you hear of winners heading towards the line, they tell you it no longer hurts. They say you fly like the wind and everything is clear. At such rare times, it's almost other worldly and it becomes impossible to fail. There are times when any biker feels like this. When in your helmet you are smiling so much your cheeks cramp. In your helmet you are laughing with the joy of riding and although it sounds unbelievable, every real motorcyclist knows it to be true; that in between all the hard times, when it doesn't work out, when all around you is grey, there are those few occasions when absolutely nothing is better than riding your bike and you ride on automatic, while thoughts about your life fly past in your head.
Journey Beyond Reason  Nick Sanders  p102

[Biggles]

I'd never intended to ride so much in the dark, but once again the development of this journey seemed to take on a life of its own. The concentration needed to avoid animals at night exhausted me and I drew from reserves I never knew I had. Wildlife on the road was a consideration for everybody driving at night. Big trucks have been forced into the gutter by hitting large kangaroos. It was much more of a problem for motorcyclists. The risk of serious injury was very high.  Truck drivers warned me that the chance of a collision could be as high as 80%. Under exceptional times of drought or when a herd was in the area. they all said to me that a motorcyclist might not get through. A small 'roo would bend the forks, smash a fairing or throw you off the bike; a large one would write it off. A small one would perhaps break your legs, a big mother would kill you. Wombats tense instantly prior to impact and people who have hit them and survived say it's like hitting a boulder. Dead road kill that hasn't been picked clean by the crows will still be fresh and their organs something on which to slip. I have lost count of the number of times I have missed a swollen carcass by inches and a fraction of a second.
Journey Beyond Reason  Nick Sanders  p125

[Biggles]

The 650 miles to Auckland was very important but it was essentially a linking part of the project, connecting the 5000 mile journey around Australia to the 7000 mile ride around North America. In one sense, the whole thing was ridiculous. Its meaning would soon be fossilised into some abyss of forgetfulness. Some poet or wit would have it relegated to stupidity before the ink was dry. Did I care? Of course not. From where I was, it was easy to imagine that no one would be interested in this event for any longer than the time it took to read about it in the papers, if it even got in them. And I expected the number of days to be miscalculated and my name to be spelt incorrectly. Apart from a few family members and friends and some genuine, enlightened others, it was a fair bet that no one would care. Except, I did.
Journey Beyond Reason  Nick Sanders  p144

[Biggles]

I was also tiring. It had rained heavily for a thousand miles and while it wasn't cold, it added resistance against progress through the air that my weakening body had to overcome. In the traffic during the day, plumes of spray obscured everything beyond a twenty metre radius around me and ironically, the busier the route, the less traffic I could actually see. If there was a pile-up ahead I would not know until it was too late. If I went down I would certainly be driven over by following traffic. From what I'd seen of North American car drivers, very few would have the ability to take avoiding action. The size of the roads and lumbering nature of most of the vehicles did not provide people with the need of any practice of thinking and reacting quickly. There are stories of motorcycle victims surviving a fall on the interstate only to be run over and killed by ten vehicles that failed to brake. Slow reaction time makes for murderous roads.
Indian drivers wave wildly and want to chat as you pass whereas Americans stare straight ahead with a look that suggests they'd prefer it if you weren't there. With their rebellious clothing adorned with patches and their de rigueur bandanas, motorcyclists here present a more intimidating presence than their European counterparts. On bikes the size of small cars, the greasy biker brigade have long since been replaced by middle aged people trying to recreate a time in their life when the surfer / biker look represented freedom.
Journey Beyond Reason  Nick Sanders  p172

[Biggles]

Then, as the family got bigger he moved on to a motorbike and sidecar. We didn't get our first family car until I was a teenager. Even then I remember thinking that driving around in our pea green Ford Prefect was never going to be as much fun as standing on the seat in the sidecar with the roof rolled back as we raced across the Yorkshire Moors. I can still remember the sheer breathtaking feel of wind in my face and the effort needed not to laugh out loud or scream with joy because having your mouth open meant flies for dinner. My dad was not a fanatic though and saw motorbikes merely as a means of transport, that could easily be replaced when cars became more affordable. One of my early boyfriends had a small machine, I don't remember what make it was, but it was dirty and noisy. He took me out once on the pillion and my only real memory of that occasion was when he dropped me off and said "I'm not doing that again, you're hopeless at leaning - you have to lean with me." It might have helped if he had explained that before we set off and then when the bike leaned to one side I wouldn't have been leaning to the other, trying to be helpful and act as a counterbalance in case we toppled over!
Missus On A Motorbike  Jackie Hartley  p8

[Biggles]

In the meantime I was getting on with getting out on the road. Just as I had spent days riding round the car park opposite, I now spent about a week riding round my left hand looping circle. Although this route was only about four miles long it had plenty of hazards to get to grips with - roundabouts, traffic lights, left turns, big main roads, country lanes, hills and bends and changing speed limits. Every time I wobbled back onto our drive I felt like I had just done a lap of the Isle of Man TT races, whatever they are. It was exhilarating. I always chose my time to go out very carefully and found that six o'clock in the evening was the best time because the rush hour traffic had gone and the roads were quiet before people started coming out for the evening. Nevertheless I still managed to make a real fool of myself on regular occasions. The thing I had most difficulty with was roundabouts. As I started to ride a bit faster I would find myself approaching roundabouts in third gear hoping they would be clear and I could keep going but then if I had to stop I was always in the wrong gear for starting off again. So I would then spend ages trying to get into first gear whilst the bike was at a stand still and, worrying about kangarooing off. I would also want to check it was in neutral before re-engaging it in first gear. All this took time and the cars around me were probably fed up of waiting for me, though in fairness, none ever gave me any trouble. Thank goodness for L plates that's all I can say.
Missus On A Motorbike  Jackie Hartley  p58

[Biggles]

There I was, trying to look all cool and confident but as I pushed the bike forward energetically, it slammed to a halt with me nearly going over the handlebars. Talk about uncool. Then one day I was in the local petrol station and noticed that one of the biking magazines had a free gift on the front called a disk lock reminder. It was a bright lime green coiled stretchy thing with a key ring loop at one end and a loop of cord at the other. The key ring loop fits over your disk lock and then you have to stretch the coil and loop the other end over your handlebar. In fact, reading the article about the free gift and why they had included it, I learnt that my experiences were fairly trivial. Some bikers have tried to ride off at speed and ended up with damaged brake calipers, cracked mudguards, scratched wheel forks and twisted brake disks. Others ended up dropping their bikes causing all sorts of damage and in some cases, the riders and their pillion passengers were badly hurt as bikes fell over or collar bones were broken when their shoulders were badly jarred as as their bikes hit the kerb. So in spite of the fact that when it is in place my bike looks like it is being attacked by a bright green slinky, I started to use it all the time and never forgot to take the disk lock off again.
Missus On A Motorbike  Jackie Hartley  pp90-1

[Biggles]

I decided to go looking for a magazine that specialised in cruisers but they did not seem to be as readily available as the magazines that were for fans of sports bikes. Then one day in W H Smiths I spotted a magazine with a cruiser on the front but unfortunately it was heat sealed inside a plastic cover so I couldn't get a look at the contents. I bought it anyway and took it home to read. When I opened it up it was full of customised easy rider type motorbikes mainly being used as props for practically naked women to loll all over. Captions like Cindy loves the feel of this hot rod between her legs and Suzie knows she will get the ride of her life on this were everywhere. I was embarrassed. Did anyone I know see me buying it? I showed it to Mike in disgust and he spent ages checking it out "You don't need to read it from cover to cover" I snapped. "I'm not reading, I'm looking" he said. I threw it away much to his chagrin. "There were some really interesting bikes in there," he said. Yeh, right.
Missus On A Motorbike  Jackie Hartley  p114

[Biggles]

Norman came out to take a look, limping heavily on his newly fitted artificial leg. He looked at the bike and said "That's a nice little bike you've got there, you've kept that nice," so I waxed lyrical about my little dream machine. Then Norman asked me if he could sit on it.
I said "I don't know Norman, can you sit on it?" He looked carefully at it and then asked me to hold the handlebars whilst he swung his good leg over the very low seat. There he sat, the biggest grin on his face.
"Do you know, I think I could manage one of these, it's so low you see, I can get my leg over and I can flick the side stand down with my hand whilst I'm sitting here. Mind you, it would have to be adapted with the gears on the handlebars but I bet it could be done." He looked so excited it brought a lump to my throat. I turned to Anne who was standing nearby looking quite nervous.
"Anne, he's going to want one now, don't blame me, you asked me to bring it round," I said knowing I would be in for some stick later if he did get it into his head that he wanted one and Anne was against it. However, Anne just smiled. I think she was pleased to see Norman so happy and if he wanted an adapted bike, well they'd face that hurdle when they got to it.
A few weeks later I watched a man with a terrible wasting disease being interviewed on the local news, about a medical breakthrough that might lead to a cure for his illness. As he struggled to get his breathe he said "If I could just enough breath to have one more go on my motorbike I would be a happy man." Now that did make me cry because I think I partly understood what he was talking about. This motorbike thing gets under your skin.
Missus On A Motorbike  Jackie Hartley  pp119-120

[Biggles]

As I had suspected, Mike was waiting for me in a lay-by halfway down the other side, a big grin on his face. He gave me the thumbs up sign and we set off again and made our way down through the dales. Many of the villages in the Derbyshire Dales are incredibly pretty clusters of lovely old stone cottages with hanging baskets, village greens and duck ponds, and it was a delight to slowly ride through them with our visors up, taking it all in. I don't remember enjoying seeing them this much through the windscreen of a car. On motorbikes you feel much more immersed into your surroundings, you see things more close up and you get all the smells of new mown grass and summer crops, as well as muck spreading of course. It all just feels somehow closer and more real.
Missus On A Motorbike  Jackie Hartley  pp146-7

[Biggles]

Later that morning, as my hangover began to subside, I decided to photograph my bike and then make up an advert to put up on the wall at the bike school. I had seen a few adverts up there and my little bike was so lovely that somebody doing their Compulsory Basic Training was sure to see it and want it. So I got the bike out and gave it a really good clean. I used to think that people who spent a lot of time cleaning their motorbikes were very sad and should get a life but I do exactly the same now. Bikes are not like cars, they cannot just be run through the car wash once a week. They need to be cleaned down carefully, every exposed part wiped clean and lovingly polished by hand so that they gleam. All that chrome looks just beautiful when it is glistening in the sunshine. Some motorbikes look like they have, in the words of Annie Proux, been 'ridden hard and put away dirty' and I hate to see that. Besides which my bike is designed to be cleaned and shown off, it is not one of the drudges of the bike world so I have to get my chrome polish out like the rest of those sad people who spend part of their weekends making their machines look as good as new.
Missus On A Motorbike  Jackie Hartley  pp196-7

[Biggles]

We chatted away for about ten minutes, at the end of which he knew all about my life as a would-be biker and I knew all about the bike. He had bought it from someone who hardly ever rode it but kept it in a garage and spent time adding accessories to it. Apparently this happens quite a lot with Harleys. People love the idea of owning one, so buy one, then dress them up in accessories but don't actually get round to riding them much. In our street, rumour has it that the bloke on the corner has a brand new Sportster in his garage which he cleans every weekend but never rides! If I had known that then I might have approached him to see if we could do a deal. I ride the bike, he garages and cleans it! Anyway, Jim the seller, sounded trustworthy and friendly so I arranged to go and see the bike on the Saturday afternoon, after I had delivered the Virago to Les in the morning.
Missus On A Motorbike  Jackie Hartley  p234

[Biggles]

Bella soon began to feel like I had owned and ridden her all my life. I could now keep up with Mike everywhere except on the motorway where the V-Rod just took off into the distance. I found that a steady 60 mile an hour felt fine but much above that and the bike began to vibrate all the way up through the footpegs, my feet, my legs and into my bottom. Mike thought this was hilarious and began to call her my Sporting Tractor! I could reach higher speeds if I needed to, but long journeys without a windscreen and at bone shaking high speeds always left me feeling like I had been beaten all over with sticks so I preferred to look for slower, more scenic routes. Riding through the dales, shattering the peace and scaring the wildlife, I began to realise that it took real skill to ride Bella well. I couldn't always rely on the extra power to get me out of trouble. Riding at the higher speeds I had to learn to read the road more quickly and give more forethought to gear changes.
Missus On A Motorbike  Jackie Hartley  pp261-2

[Biggles]

There is something about a trip that takes over the mind. The crew foreman, dark and deeply wrinkled by 23 years on roofs, told us about an automobile trip he had taken across country when he graduated from high school. He could have been talking about last summer. To save money, he had slept in the car, washed up in gas station restrooms, and eaten bread and cheese he bought at grocery stores in the little towns. He worried about the car because it used a quart of oil between fill-ups but it made it fine and continued to run for two years after the trip. If he could get another one like it today, he'd buy it in a minute.
One of the younger men told us about his brother, who had gone with a friend on a cross-country motorcycle trip. They had run short of money several days from home and started sleeping in public parks. One night it had rained, but they found a picnic shelter and slept on the tables, wearing their rain gear. They arrived home with their gas tanks on reserve and less than a dollar between them.
The stories were always of hard times. Of going to places made more beautiful by the glad harshness of the road. Of meeting people and walking with them on the edge. Experiencing life.
Purple Mountains  Notch Miyake  pp18-9

[Biggles]

The Norton rider came to my table after I sat down. He had come to the restaurant for a cup of coffee, but it had been just an excuse to ride the Norton.
"The bike's in restoration," he said, "but it's rideable." It was an unnecessary apology, made to establish his standards.
"Looks perfect to me," I replied.
"Nah, the handlebars and controls are screwed up. The guy that owned the bike before changed them. He thought he was upgrading the machine. Damn parts are hard to get now-a-days, so I left the old bars on so I can ride."
I thought of the stark honesty of the Norton. Real motorcycling. Noisy, unreliable, uncomfortable, dangerous enjoyment. I was momentarily ashamed of the BMW I was riding. It electric starter and a small fairing that kept the wind off my chest.
Then I recalled the British bikes I rode in the '50s and the vibration that numbed every part the body that touched the bike. It was so bad it even numbed my adolescent sex drive. The BMW is smooth and quiet, and I get off at the end of the day feeling fine.
Besides, these days I need all the sex drive I can get.
Purple Mountains  Notch Miyake  p43

[Biggles]

Bill came back in and invited me to join him at his table. "I really want one of those new GSs," he said, turning over a pile of motorcycle magazines. "Look, it was reviewed in Cycle World this month."
I leafed through the magazine but it really didn't interest me.
"I went on a diet once and got to be just as slim as you," he said. I was dubious, but said nothing.
"I knew it wouldn't last so I got a small bike, a Honda 350, while I could enjoy it. I really had a good time with it. Now, of course, I'd need a big machine."
His knowledge of motorcycles was broad and accurate, so I had to take him seriously. We talked about motorcycles long enough to establish our mutual respect, then turned to other subjects.
"You know," he said, "People are afraid when they first look at me. But when I tell them I am a nurse, it's okay." Bill was a nurse at a mental hospital. His size was an asset with some of the more unruly patients.
It turns out that Jackson is really best known for its mental hospital and maximum-security prison. So much for its history as the original capital of Mississippi.
Purple Mountains  Notch Miyake  p65

[Biggles]

On the way out of Jackson, the rain forest abruptly opened into cleared fields, some partially flooded. Cattle grazed on the high spots and there were no trees to break the view. A steel mesh fence topped by coils of razor wire ran next to the road. Another similar fence stood behind it, and finally a long wall. The prison. The open areas between the fences were live fire zones for shooting escapees. I stopped along the road. The plain walls, fences, and open fields seemed to darken the already grey day. It was a malevolently desolate place. A community of outcasts, raging together. A van full of prisoners passed. All of them turned to look at me, freedom on every mind. They had the same look that ended almost every encounter I have had on the trip. If I could have heard them, they would have said, like almost everyone else, "I wish I could do that."
Here, criminals were imprisoned by walls and the force of arms. Nearby, there were people imprisoned by their minds. And everywhere, there were people imprisoned by their lives.
Purple Mountains  Notch Miyake  pp66-7

[Biggles]

Steve bought his BMW the year before from a dealer in Albuquerque. He'd had the head ported and had installed lightweight wrist pins, dual plugs, and Mikuni carburettors— more than $1,800 in modifications. He said he had blown away a mildly hopped-up Harley in one of those classic midnight drag races.
You know the kind.
Harley Owner to Steve: Why did you buy that piece of shit? It would have a hard time outrunning a donkey.
Steve: Oh yeah? Well, it will outrun that piece of shit you ride.
Harley Owner: Oh yeah?
And so on. The Harley owner looked over Steve's bike after the race and noticed the dual plugs and Mikunis. "Hey," he said, "This bike ain't stock." He immediately tore down his bike and went very radical. Their second time out, the Harley blew up.
There are three forms of motorcycle fanaticism. Steve's buddies were cruisers, guys with attitudes and a love of chrome. I am a touring type, a travelling motorcycle cheapskate for whom distance is everything. And then there are the speed freaks, the guys in racing leathers you sometimes see on Sunday mornings bent over crotch rockets flying down deserted canyon roads.
Purple Mountains  Notch Miyake  pp83-4

[Biggles]

The next morning I left before anybody else was awake. I stopped at the Shoreline Market for breakfast. There were two motorcycles and a tractor-trailer parked in front. I walked in carrying my helmet and one of the motorcycle riders asked me to join them at a large table. The two truckers on the rig outside were also at the table. There was nobody else in the restaurant.
We talked about travel. The truckers spent all but two weeks of the year on the road, and had been doing it for years. They slept in the rig, alternating driving to keep moving, and stopping in truck stops to shower and refuel. Both of them were divorced.
"It comes with the territory."
They both agreed that trucking was a tough way to make a living, but they didn't think they could do anything else. Whenever they were not on the road they usually got drunk, holed up with some woman, and regretted it later. The road imposed a discipline they knew they needed to survive.
The two bikers were travelling together on a five-day vacation trip up the coast. They stayed in motels because they found the campgrounds were usually crowded and had lousy facilities, as I had discovered.
Purple Mountains  Notch Miyake  p115

[Biggles]

I was passing RVs almost all day. None of them seemed to go the speed limit and staying behind them meant riding in a muddy mess of dirt and small stones. I had to wipe my face shield with the back of my glove every few seconds to clear off the mud so I could see. In the open, the clean rain and wind keeps the shield clear.
It began to rain seriously after lunch. I was wearing my longjohns, regular riding clothes, a sweater, and my leather jacket under my rainsuit. It was cold. My gloves were soaked and my fingers got so numb that I had trouble pulling the clutch and front brake levers.
I stopped at Haines Junction for coffee and to warm up after crossing Boulder Summit. I wasn't tired, but my senses seemed dulled, as though I were feeling things a few seconds after they happened.
If I kept going, I could get to Haines today. But the border closed at 5:00 and I might not make it. That meant camping overnight by the side of the road or in a primitive campground. In the rain.
The restaurant I had stopped in had a small motel attached.
The Cozy Corner.
"How much is a room in the motel?"
"$60."
Only $45 US, I thought.
"I'll take one." The room was clean and spartan. It had a portable TV, low stand and an armchair next to the bed. There was a tub and plenty of hot water. I soaked in it until the chill was replaced by a warm glow. That was worth the price of admission.
Purple Mountains  Notch Miyake  p166

[Biggles]

Harry was a retired farmer, still farming, but retired. He was lean and agile, still looking like he could muscle big bags of seed into the planter. Alice was white-haired and matronly, even in her leathers. She was a passenger on this ride, but she usually rode her own bike. All of them had a solid Midwestern goodness that their biker disguise could not overcome. The kind of goodness that rushes to open doors for old ladies and cuts the neighbour's lawn while they are off on vacation. Decent people.
Jean was the oldest of the bunch but looked the youngest, probably because she dyed her hair. Al had a few medical problems. Seventy years old and a sugar diabetic.
"This might be his last big ride," said Harry. "He had a serious problem because he stopped taking his pills. He had to go in the hospital, so we delayed our trip.
"As soon as they let him out, he wanted to leave. He's supposed to go for outpatient treatment, but he just took off. And when he got to feeling better, he stopped the pills again. I sure hope he makes it home."
Harry said all this, understanding that Al was dying and needed to experience the road one last time. I almost understood. But would I be willing to ride alongside someone committing suicide?
Maybe. If he rode tall through the Frazier Valley and felt the hope in the desert. If he rode into the mountains and felt the air richen and cool. If he knew this part of the world was blue because he didn't look at it through tinted glass. If he didn't have to open a door to experience a place because he was always outside. If he didn't come out of the rain and cold because he couldn't anyway. If he forgot that he was 70 years old and a little shaky from the pills. If he laid down on the grass and slept when he was tired.
Sure I'd do it. Even though they would say I helped kill him.
Purple Mountains  Notch Miyake  pp172-3

[Biggles]

Sandwiches here are either sold alone, meaning without extras, or "In a basket," meaning with fries and coleslaw.
Ordering lunch was an adventure.
"I'd like an egg salad sandwich and french fries."
"In a basket."
"A plate is okay."
"It comes on a plate."
"Good."
"Do you want coleslaw?"
"What?"
"Do you want coleslaw or a side of fries?"
"I'd like an egg salad sandwich and french fries."
"In a basket?"
This was getting repetitious. "Okay. However you serve it."
"Okay. Egg salad in a basket."
"With fries."
"Okay."
I waited expectantly for my lunch basket. It came on a plate with a mound of fries and a tiny paper cup of coleslaw. Like the waitress said, no basket.
Purple Mountains  Notch Miyake  p194

[Biggles]

When we were settled at a table I asked Kate why she rode such a tall bike.
"My old boyfriend said I should get a BMW because they so reliable. I got a good deal on this one, so I bought it. I'm getting used to it. I still drop it a lot, but there is usually somebody around to help me pick it up."
All BMWs are tall motorcycles, so I asked, "Why don't you get a Honda or something like that?"
"Oh, no. I like owning a BMW and meeting all the BMW people. There are BMW riders everywhere I go. I just don't see many Hondas except for Gold Wings." True. Honda sells a lot more motorcycles, but I had seen more BMWs on the road than anything else. Of course, that could be because I was on a BMW myself. Still, would I ride a bike that was way too tall just because of brand loyalty? We're not talking Chevy people vs Ford people. We're talking falling down vs staying upright. Luckily, I wasn't as short as Kate. It would have been a real problem.
Purple Mountains  Notch Miyake  p214