Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

Pendleton now lay 26 miles to the southeast, with no sand enroute, according to the natives. We found plenty, however, but that was not the worst of it. I ran out of gasoline eight miles short of the town when Bob was a mile ahead. The only thing to do was to walk ahead a mile and a half till I found him waiting for me, send him back to pour some from his tank into mine via a Tuxedo can, and to trudge back again to get my "hoss". Soon after, we discovered we were both completely out of oil, but were fortunate to be able to graft some off a Ford that happened along just then; and in spite of all our troubles, rolled into the city of Pendleton before dark.
Motorcycle Adventurer  Gregory Frazier  p253

[Biggles]

After the weary hours had dragged themselves away, the train hove in sight down the track and I manfully flagged it with an old flour bag. At first the conductor refused to take my Henderson into the baggage car, but my pleadings soon took effect, and with the aid of the brakeman and an obliging passenger we boosted and heaved the awkward machine up the slight embankment and through the door of the car seven feet above the ground. I was mighty thankful when it was loaded, I tell you, especially when I saw the fearful roads that lay ahead.
At the second station, as I expected, there was Bob waiting on the platform, he too, having been conquered by the mud. He joined me in the smoking car and the words we spoke were few and far between, as we rode through a great wheat country on to Walla Walla.
Motorcycle Adventurer  Gregory Frazier  pp256-7

[Biggles]

Two o'clock saw us bumping along the ties of the single track road, off for Livingston, but the spaces between the ties, except for occasional stretches, and the zinc-covered trestles made our progress slow and agonizing in the extreme. Moreover, we experienced great difficulty in getting through the cow-guards placed at every cross road, and over the rails on turnouts. After three miles Bob gave it up for the road bad as it might be- but I hung on, bumping and shaking across the ties for two miles more before also giving in to the vibration. The road necessitated the use of chains, however, and even after I had put them on provided little better going than the railroad track, which I resumed again at the foot of a long grade.
But now the track was worse than before, and nearly shaking machine to pieces and hammering myself to pulp, and beyond the hill, when I wanted to resume the road again, a stout fence and grass-grown field precluded the possibility. With no choice but to continue the torture, I kept on down the track- and then the frame of my saddle broke, to double my agony. Whack! Thud! Down I came solid on top bar of the machine for every one of thousands of ties I had to cross during the mile I had to cover before I could get back into the road (through a field) again; and then I was fairly sick with the punishment thereof.
Motorcycle Adventurer  Gregory Frazier  p280

[Biggles]

I may say in passing that a party of two or three riders can derive much more enjoyment from a world tour than a single. I was accompanied throughout much of the journey, of course, but I was also called upon to make some long and trying jumps alone. These experiences convinced me that much of the fascination of the motorcycle lies in the spirit of companionship that it encourages. There is so much to be seen and discussed along even the most ordinary foreign route that the rider travels alone soon finds that he is missing something. He needs a congenial partner.
American riders are already pretty well posted on touring conditions in eastern European countries, but they know little or nothing of riding conditions in the Far East for the very simple reason that in practically all of this territory the motorcycle is a newcomer.
Motorcycle Adventurer  Gregory Frazier  pp293-4

[Biggles]

One day to go and I was finally clear that this was indeed going to be a solo trip. I felt a mixture of excitement and fear but it had heightened my sense of adventure in making the trip. I would be travelling alone for 5000 miles with no-one but myself to answer to. This was what real adventures were made off. I am comfortable with my own company and have to be in my line of work, but to take over two weeks out in a leisure context was a new experience for me. It would be an interesting experiment.
On Thursday the 28th of June I said my goodbyes at work. I was working down south at a client in Swindon and wandered out excitedly to get my taxi. There had been a lot of interest in my trip from those colleagues who had asked where I was off too. The Arctic Circle gets their attention and doing it alone adds to the package. A common reaction was a look of puzzlement/ horror/ envy followed by the words "What does your wife think?"
Ride To The Midnight Sun  Stephen Mason  p5

[Biggles]

I then go about my fairly well-rehearsed process of preparing to disembark. Bags loaded, Air-Hawke seat pad fitted, neck scarf on, gloves tucked behind the screen, Sat Nav mounted and route selected, helmet sitting on the mirror, jacket across the seat and key in the ignition. All ready waiting for signs of the gangway lowering. When that happens it's on with the jacket, helmet and gloves, mount the bike, ready for the off.
I have my moments, and don't always get it right, but I am streets ahead of my friend Raymond. His idea of bike preparation is gloves on, gloves off as he cannot fasten his helmet. Helmet and fastened. Helmet off as he has forgotten his earplugs. Earplugs in and helmet on and mount the bike. Dismount the bike and remove gloves to take off the disk lock. Gloves back on and ready to go. That's on a good day.
Ride To The Midnight Sun  Stephen Mason  p10

[Biggles]

I walked into the Pizza place, and found it to be of a kind of fast food style. I ordered the Burger menu with a beer which sent the waitresses into overdrive. How can you enter number 4 with a beer instead coke? I imagined they were saying. I was given a ticket 124 and told my number would be called. The young girl must have read my mind as I wondered what 124 is in Norwegian. Brought my £6 beer straight away and after a while she delivered number 124 by hand, to the annoyance of the other patrons. It has its advantages sometimes being old and uni-lingual. The burger was interesting as it's the first burger I've had smothered in prawn Marie sauce, but hey I was hungry, and wasn't for complaining. I did think to myself that I would have to review my eating habits as the trip progressed.
After that I picked up a lighter, some bread and cheese for breakfast from a supermarket next door then walked back to my tent. I slapped on some 'Skin so soft'; if it can repel the Scottish midge the Norwegian mosquito had no chance I reckoned. I sat on my camping chair, smoked a cigar and sipped some wine, reading about the next day ahead in the Arctic Highway book. I then came upon the hints and tips section. Always carry a spare key it said. That was a good point I thought, and it continued to worry me throughout the rest of the trip.
Ride To The Midnight Sun  Stephen Mason  p23

[Biggles]

I know it's an old cliche, but the policeman did actually look very young as he finally approached me. He explained very politely that I had been caught doing 95km/h in an 80 km/h zone but as they had a tolerance it was reduced to 92km/h. He advised me that equated to a fine of 2600 Norwegian kroners.
"Do you want me to convert it to pounds?" he said, with his movie star smile beaming at me.
"Yes please" I said.
It turned out to be ridiculous £275.1 mean we're talking 60mph in a 50mph zone on a country road. I was livid.
"What happened to the pick-up driver?" I asked.
He looked a little troubled and walked over to his speed gun touting mate. He came back and told me that his mate didn't get an accurate reading. I stared at him and shook my head- it didn't stack-up. I mulled it over in my head for a second or two, but decided to cooperate and not push it any further, just in case they were able to come up with some other issues. To this day I wish I had pushed it harder, as I am sure there was something wrong going on.
Ride To The Midnight Sun  Stephen Mason  p54

[Biggles]

The next morning I brewed some coffee, but decided I would stop off somewhere for breakfast, knowing I was facing another mega ride. There was a middle aged English couple in the kitchen where I cleaned my coffee pot. It was strange to hear native English being spoken again. Soon I was packed up and off once again before most other campers had stirred.
I came upon the large town of Sundsvall which had a McDonalds, and decided that would do me nicely. It proved to be the start of a bit of a McDonald's fest. I pulled up beside another fully loaded motorcycle, and after inspecting it, wandered in. The place was empty of customers except the other biker, who was in his twenties and sat eating breakfast in the corner. I ordered my Egg and Bacon McMuffin meal, and noted my sense that being there somehow marked my return to mainstream civilization like the mountain man coming back into town. I asked the biker where he was off to, and it turns out he was Swedish, and a local, just about to set off on a tour of Germany.
Ride To The Midnight Sun  Stephen Mason  p62

[Biggles]

I was buzzing with excitement as I pulled back onto the highway and accelerated hard to get to autobahn pace. I suddenly heard an unusual clunking noise, and looked down only to discover that my Sat Nav had fallen off its mount, and was somewhere behind me on the highway. I was absolutely gutted, stunned in a way that shut me down. I was in a trance-like state as I continued along the road. I knew it was a defence mechanism, so I happily stayed with it.
After ten minutes or so I went through a very slow and logical thought process. Is it worth turning back I queried, considering it would be a least a twenty mile round trip and the chances of safely finding my Garmin in a working state would be more than slim. It's not so bad I ruminated, I mean its only my £450 Garmin that was going to lead me not only to the dealership, but also to accommodation for tonight, then the ferry port tomorrow. I was gutted and just to add to the mood the heavy rain returned.
Ride To The Midnight Sun  Stephen Mason  p71

[Biggles]

Only two other women gained that award, Beatrice Shilling on an 490cc ohc Norton at 101.85mph on 24th August 1934, and Theresa Wallach on 1st April 1939, riding at 101.64 mph on a borrowed Francis L Beart prepared 348cc Norton. Though several other women riders gained considerable fame on the racetrack, it would be many more years before they too would achieve the same celebrity status as their male counterparts. But lady riders did particularly well in trials and the Six Day events, sponsored by the motorcycle manufacturers. One such was Marjorie Cottle who rode for Raleigh alongside Jessie Hole's brother. Jessie also enjoyed trick and stunt riding and, being intrigued by an American stunt rider who used to ride through plates of glass, decided to do this same trick in England, with the help of her brother. The first time was with one pane of glass and on another with two! They hoped that the panes of glass would survive the journey to the venue! Needless to say, few others were keen enough to try the trick for themselves. It is fair to say that most lady riders excelled because they enjoyed riding and taking part, although Theresa was much more forthright about her ambition to win. The motorcycle press certainly did give fair coverage to those lady riders who deserved credit.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p10

[Biggles]

In June 1934 Florence entered the 600cc Panther (YG 7404), finished in black and orange (Theresa describes this as maroon), shod with 'knobbly' tyres and the Watsonian sidecar (complete with screen) at the Watsonian Rally, Birmingham, winning the William Watson Cup for smartest combination. By late November 1934, the entire outfit had been meticulously prepared at George Clarke Motors in Acton, under the expert guidance of former P&M technical engineer Frank Leach, who had left P&M in June 1933 to manage Clarke's Acton branch. The Panther with extra heavy duty Webb forks, stronger wheel spokes, wider mudguards to accommodate Fort Dunlop 3.50" car tyres and a Moseley block pillion saddle. Improved needle valve lubrication control to the valve gear and drive chains were also specified. The usual enclosed primary drive chain case was abandoned in favour of a simple top guard. The chain was to be lubricated in the manner of P&M's TT models by drip feed from a modified battery casing, mounted in its usual position, which served as an oil reservoir.
The service battery was an Exide unit from an Austin 7 motor car, located in the sidecar, and charged by a large car-type Miller dynamo. The gear ratios were specially adapted for low gear crawling with a 21.2:1 low and 5.9:1 top ratio.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p14

[Biggles]

In the morning, soon after starting, we came to a standstill. Apparently we had 'goofed' our estimate of fuel for this stage of the journey, by not allowing drifts, wheel-spin and the cooking stove. We had run out of petrol! Then, like a fairy tale about a princess in distress, came instant surprise and happy ending!
The last North-bound vehicle to leave Ghardaia for three days happened to come along. We saw dust rising in the distance. "No... it's nothing". "Yes... something is coming this way!"
A heavy duty desert truck stopped, as the code of courtesy prevailed in barren country, and the two Frenchmen exchanged greetings and route information. They carried a good safety margin of supplies and kindly gave us a few litres of fuel to reach Ghardaia oasis. The driver, speaking in French and turning a hand outward toward the ocean of sand, warned us, "This region better than south of Ghardaia," to which his colleague added, "when you reach oasis...," as we understood him to say, "be wise, turn back!" With this advice, they drove off to make the most of the daylight - but on no account would we take his advice and turn back.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p30

[Biggles]

We skimmed through another drift. Every hundred feet or so, dark patches of hard mineral-looking ground protruded, but between them were troughs of soft sand. We dashed from one patch of hard ground to another until the sand drifts between became so wide and deep that we could no longer leap-frog along unless we lightened the load. Everything was unloaded. Then in low gear, with the engine revving, by running and pushing alongside, we would drop the clutch and buck-jump aboard, as if starting a racing motorcycle without a kick-starter. Our unladen wheels skimmed over the bad places to the next dark patch of hard ground. Back-and-forth we walked to bring over all our belongings, piece-by-piece and reload, careful to leave nothing behind. Blenk voiced: "You know we are doing this of our own accord?" "Yes," I said, "but this is a hiking trip more that a motorcycle trip." I don't remember how many times we did like this along the desolate stretch of more than 250 miles between In Salah and Arak, on the way to Tamanrhasset, but in spite of hardship, we were free to put our civil liberty into practice in a most adventurous way.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p48

[Biggles]

Back at the desert garage, after a few days rest, we prepared our kit for the next part of the Sahara trek to Agadez, the last oasis. By the regrettable process of elimination, everything except life-support items had to remain here in the trailer. Without the extra capacity of the trailer, we put aboard ten litres of fuel in the tank and carried three 20-litre containers of fuel in the sidecar for the single-cylinder Panther engine and the cooking stove, food and water was geometrically wedged into place taking into consideration weight distribution. Oil for the Panther, unobtainable for two thousand miles, included two quart cans of very thick SAE 70 viscosity engine oil.
The well at In-Guezzam, to the south, two hundred and fifty miles or about half way to Agadez, had a desolate wireless outpost, but there would be no fuel or food available. Then briefcase, log book, passports and other important papers, were pushed in. We had now to forfeit comfort and protection and the other contents in the trailer for a while and came away from the SATT garage wondering if we would ever see our things again. Everything was ready... except the bread.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  pp61-2

[Biggles]

It had taken us a month to accomplish the crossing and we reached the last oasis with only a few minutes of our breakdown contract to spare. Captain Bernard de Romefort, of the Agadez region, came away from an evening game of tennis to confirm our arrival as we signed in and were taken to the traveller's rest shelter.
Some time later, a startling fact was revealed to us. The SATT vehicle from Tamanrhasset had been delayed and the mail truck on its run to Zinder had not yet returned. As it happened, there was no suitable desert vehicle immediately available for rescue duties. The thought crossed my mind that had we not made the effort to get ourselves out of trouble when the engine failed, by pushing the motorcycle such a long way, but had waited back there for help to come and considering our shortage of food, water, fatigue and the heat, what would have happened to us? We might very likely have met the same fate as that camel whose bleached bones we saw lying along the wayside.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p72

[Biggles]

A single pair of wheel tracks left Kano, worn deep into the ground by four-wheelers. They were too wide apart for our narrow track and we went along hemmed in to the track by brown, sun dried grass about five feet high, with the motorcycle down in one groove and the sidecar up on the ridge in the middle leaning sideways at an awkward angle. Riding for many miles with the trailer like this put a strain on the front forks, besides which the physical tug of steering for hours in low gear at slow speed was tiring. Since the fibre generator drive block had worn smooth and was not driving the generator, our extra large capacity battery had been fully charged at Kano so we continued after dark using only the pilot bulb until bright moonshine sent light over the panorama and we could see better. Engine ignition was by magneto, so by not driving the generator, it saved horse-power, but gave us a meagre light only as long as it would last.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p87

[Biggles]

Or 2nd May, 1935, we went off in the direction of Watsa, towards the equator. During the day, we unavoidably rolled over several more snakes that had run onto the track, but another had second sight and went the other way. The route twisted and turned, climbing steeply to a high altitude as the jungle thinned. In places we had to run alongside in bottom gear to steer and push together as we had done so many times before, to coax the motorcycle up the hill. High altitude and cool temperature affected the carburettor of the single cylinder Panther engine and for some unknown reason, the float-needle broke and fuel came streaming out of the float bowl. I whittled another float-needle out of wood from a twig with patience; it worked to a certain extent and sufficed until something better could be done.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  pp107-8

[Biggles]

As much as possible was done to improve the condition of the motorcycle but wear and tear had made it more difficult to handle. Extreme temperatures made heat treated coil springs and hair-pin springs lose their tension. Foot change and kick-starter springs were now reinforced with rubber bands cut from inner tube. It was a hit and miss affair when we stalled in an awkward place! Saddle springs, if not broken, made the seat feel like sitting on dough while control cables were kinked and gritty, making them stiff to operate. Riding in deep ruts had forced the front forks, steering and sidecar out of alignment and at night we only had the dim light from our pilot lamp. Nevertheless, I had grown affectionately fond of our faithful 'Dobbin', as if a dear fretting friend, for we still had more than three thousand miles of life together.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p119

[Biggles]

The information we heard at Mpika about road conditions ahead very likely saved us some trouble. A lorry driver told us that his party had taken six days to come north from Salisbury (now Harare), the capital of Southern Rhodesia. For over six hundred miles, there lay deep ruts and elephant grass, fifteen feet high, so on that account we altered our planned course.
The Victoria Falls route to South Africa took us far away from the ruins of Zimbabwe in Southern Rhodesia that we had hoped to see. These stone age relics date back 500,000 years. Zimbabwe is the revered name of the now independent nation, which was formerly Southern Rhodesia. I wondered about everything we had seen so far. Who indeed was the 'sleeping giant' - China or Africa?
Like driver ants, we kept going. We never had a normal day. We had no radio contact with the outside world, nor music to relieve the monotonous drone of the engine. Each day was a challenge. In the southern hemisphere mid-winter month of June, each night of restful sleep was under a full moon and stars. I never knew the moon could look so big or the stars so bright.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p127

[Biggles]

I don't know what Blenk was thinking about during this dismal stretch as we gradually approached Cape Town. I had time to think about how much motorcycling meant to me and in the motorcycling fraternity, how I had met another woman, Florence Blenkiron of equal mind. Yet, some people consider a motorcycle to be a mechanical hazard. Certainly riders do fall off, but so too do people on foot, or from a horse or a bicycle, mostly due to a mistake or carelessness. A motorcycle is safe and useful; very economical and enjoyable to own and to believe otherwise is as foolish as to doubt the utility of a brick wall. One day, I thought to myself, I would have a riding academy and research the technique of motorcycle riding.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p135

[Biggles]

Somebody said it couldn't be done,
But he with a chuckle replied,
That maybe it couldn't, but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.

So he buckled right in with a trace of a grin
On his face - if he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p137

[Biggles]

With all her possessions packed onto the Norton, she left Chicago on 22nd September 1947 and was once more free to travel where she wished, heading due south, camping when she felt tired or where the captivating scenery stole her heart. However, unable to bring much money with her from England, she was forced to look for odd jobs en-route, heading through Springfield then Missouri, via the Ozark Lakes, entering Oklahoma State at Onapaw. She reached Oklahoma City by mid October where, by a chance popping of her head around the door of a motorcycle dealer, she saw the owner trying to cure, in desperation, a badly misfiring engine. Five minutes later, Theresa had it purring like a kitten. She found herself repairing motorcycles for the next two weeks!
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p158

[Biggles]

Ascending the San Andreas mountain range in the evening, with snow falling at 5,000 feet, she eased back and relaxed for the journey ahead to Albuquerque. Later, as she mentally checked the bike when riding, she was horrified to see her toolbox had vibrated open and all her tools missing. A sense of deep frustration and dejection hit her; in the Sahara or Congo, this would have been life threatening, but she decided to head on to Albuquerque and in placing complete trust in her Norton, determined not to buy any tools there. Leaving the city the next morning, a motorist pulled alongside her at traffic lights, calling out, "Hey there! Hey! - have you lost anything?" To her astonished delight, he had found the tools some ten miles out of the city and reckoned they were hers.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p159

[Biggles]

The International EXPO 67 exhibition, celebrating 'Man and his World', was held on islands in the St Lawrence. After exploring this fantasy world, it was time to press on to Toronto for the FIM International Grand Prix, but being Sunday in Canada, no shops or petrol stations were open. Feeling stranded, she managed to drain drops a of petrol from the many forecourt nozzles she passed on the way until she found one garage open - where, incredibly, she found her three gallon tank already almost full!
Practice day at the FIM meeting was on 29th September; she recorded, the sight and sound of the Honda team mechanics tuning adjusting, jetting and gearing their two 6-cylinder machines was alone worth the trip. She later ran a Honda 500/4. In complete contrast, the Italian team was dressed in business suits! It was a wonderful two days, just like the old times at Brooklands - although it did not rain in Toronto! Mike Hailwood proudly mounted the podium to receive his awards as God Save the Queen! majestically filled the air.
The journey home was in blissful, sunny, 80°F weather with the BSA Lightning behaving impeccably as she left Canada behind at Windsor, reentering America on Sunday, October 1st. She arrived back in Chicago on Monday night, just at as the sun was setting on another wonderful trip.
On October 11th, burglars broke into her shop and stole the Lightning.
The Rugged Road  Theresa Wallach  p167