Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

There days, a lot of younger, less experienced riders come up to me and say, "Mr. Egan, you have an almost legendary reputation for being able to change the oil and filter on your motorcycles without spilling more than about thirty percent of the oil onto the garage floor or your own clothing. How the heck do you do it?" I tell them, "Well, kids, part of it is experience. I worked for almost a decade as a foreign-car mechanic, and I've also owned and maintained a lot of motorcycles in my life. But basically, it's a Zen thing; you have to work thoughtfully and carefully, planning every move and wasting no motion to be at one with your motorcycle and the molecular flow of lubricants in the universe."
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p230

[Biggles]

Back home, I followed the oil-change instructions in the owner's manual and began my sublime work. Here's where the specific instruction kicks in. Pay careful attention.
Step 1: Place a "suitable container" under the sump or oil reservoir— which, in the Buell's case, is in the hollow swingarm above the end of the muffler— and remove the plug. A stream of scalding hot oil will run down over the rear of the muffler and cascade into the pan, like Niagara Falls in a nightmare. Some will run down to the far end of the muffler and onto the floor. Or trickle warmly down your forearm and into your sleeve.
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p231

[Biggles]

Step 2: While oil is dripping from the drain hole and muffler, remove the small chin fairing and place another pan under the oil filter. Remove the filter with a web-type tool, and stand back as oil from the engine and filter run over the front of the muffler and into the pan. Much of the oil will follow the bottom of the muffler and run onto the floor. Expect some to drip off the filter wrench onto your blue jeans. Accidentally drop the slippery, hot filter into the pan for a
nice splash effect.
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p231

[Biggles]

Step 4: Carry the main oil drain pan across the workshop and dump it down a large funnel into a disgustingly filthy, oil-streaked, red plastic five-gallon gas can with the words "DRAIN OIL" scrawled across it so people don't accidentally drink from it.
Step 5: Check to make sure this can isn't already almost full. Otherwise, about two quarts of drain oil will well up around the sides of the funnel and run onto the floor, as mine did. Expect some oil to run down the back side of the pouring spout on the drain pan and drip onto your running shoes.
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p231

[Biggles]

The sharp reader will note that some oil was actually spilled during this process, but that the majority of it ended up in either the bike or some kind  of container. Is there a truly perfect, Zen-like way to change your oil, working calmly and logically, without spilling a drop?
I suppose somebody somewhere can do it, but not me. There's a remote possibility that I'm too impatient and impulsive or just too unskilled.
In any case, I've found the best substitute for skill is to work alone. That way, no one knows you're not at one with the serene, clock-like machinery of the universe. Or how much you swear.
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p232

[Biggles]

It could have been a bad moment for a new rider. But luckily, I'm an old rider who's already fallen on his elbow in a situation exactly like this, so I stayed
off the brakes, took the gentle "rain line" through the corner, and slithered through without incident. Holding your breath helps. 
Wet, new-fallen autumn leaves were the problem here. Seems we had a wild spell of wind and rain last night, which pretty much stripped the woods of their last vestige of fall color and pasted all those red and yellow leaves to the road surface. And these babies are slippery, belonging as they do to the banana peel family of deciduous foliage. I hit a patch of them while riding my CB160 to class when I was in college and learned to see the world from a whole new angle.
Incidentally, I see here in my dictionary that deciduous comes from the Latin verb decidere, which means "to fall off." I guess this also means some of
us are deciduous riders. One fall begets another.
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p236

[Biggles]

I don't think I'm exaggerating much when I say my BSA 441 Victor ran last weekend. Yes, the thing actually carried me up the hill to the nearest stop sign and then roared back down again. Exactly two miles under its own power. It was a little brisk out there— almost too cold for combustion— but I hardly noticed because I was drenched in sweat from kicking for 20 minutes and then physically running the bike up and down the driveway to break the clutch loose and bump-start it. This is something I do every few years to see if I'm overdue for a massive heart attack. It's a lot cheaper than having a stress test at the hospital, and it allows you to perish right at home, with your loved ones nearby. In any case, the second I popped the clutch in third gear, the Victor fired up and took off like a bazooka round, only with more smoke. This is a bike from England's black-powder era.
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p242

[Biggles]

When I got home I called a couple of the usual suspects, riding buddies Mike and Lew, to see what their story was. "Are you kidding?" Mike said. "My dad was a doctor and he called them murdercycles: I joined the Air Force specifically so I could leave home and buy a motorcycle. I bought a Kawasaki Trail Boss 100 when I was stationed in Okinawa. Two weeks after I got there."
Interesting. Bikes are unsafe at home, so Lee becomes a helicopter pilot in Vietnam and Mike ends up installing bombs on F-4 Phantom jets in Okinawa. I think this is called the Law of Unintended Consequences.
When I called Lew, he said, "My parents absolutely didn't want me to get a bike. My dad was a skilled auto mechanic who owned his own shop, but he had no use for motorcycles—or the people who rode them. I finally talked my folks into letting me buy a Cushman scooter."
"What was your first real motorcycle?
"A BSA 650 Lightning."
"Wow! How did you manage that?" "I traded my beautiful black 1951 Cadillac hearse straight across with a friend who had the BSA. My dad was actually very glad to see the hearse go."
Brilliant strategy, I thought to myself. Just plain brilliant.
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p256

[Sicman]

Biggles - This thread has been going so long you will need a new typewriter ribbon very soon 

[Biggles]

Biggles - This thread has been going so long you will need a new typewriter ribbon very soon 

I'm frugal- I keep re-inking the same ribbon.   

[Wild Rose]

Biggles - This thread has been going so long you will need a new typewriter ribbon very soon 

I'm frugal- I keep re-inking the same ribbon.   

 

[Biggles]

Other than Honda's rediscovery of the inline-Four (and sublime Six), we really didn't make much progress until Yamaha came up with its "Omni-Phase Balancer" for its 500cc and 750cc four-stroke Twins in 1973. I remember a great debate about this at the time. Some thought this was cheating because these chain-driven dual counterbalance shafts added complexity to the bike without furthering its measurable performance. What would we have next? Cannibalism in our schools? The end was near.
Well, two of my favourite modern bikes, the Bonneville and the Suzuki DR650, have counterbalancers in them, and I don't mind a bit. I can't see or hear them, they never wear out, and my hands and feet aren't humming like tuning forks at the end of a ride. Headlight filaments light up the night, and the exhaust pipes never fall off.
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p259

[Biggles]

On Canada's Highway 17, we soon discovered a pleasant fact. Canadians drive like bats out of hell. Their roads are seriously under-posted (90 kph, or about 55 mph, even on four-lane segments), but no one pays any attention They all go 70 to 90 mph, speeding along politely without aggression, keeping right except to pass. And you never see a cop. Pure heaven.
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p266

[Biggles]

And even now, as we stopped at a scenic lookout to gaze at the Atlantic, Barb said, "It feels like we're a long way from home."
Truly, as you turn away from the Saint Lawrence and along the Atlantic cliffs, the ocean suddenly looks vast, with nothing but Europe out there somewhere. Even the road feels lonelier, and there's less traffic and tourism. The roller-coaster pavement makes steep climbs and descents, sweeping down on the coast and briefly inland at small bays, like California's Big Sur. The curves are all sweepers- no scorch-the-edge-off-your-tires stuff. Everything can be taken at 70 mph. Symphonic riding, with the cymbal crashing of waves.
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p269

[Biggles]

She gazed out the tinted window at the passing traffic and said, "Well, was the Gaspe Peninsula what you expected?
I thought about it and shook my head. "No," I said. "It's not as poor and remote as I pictured. It's greener, more vast and mountainous. Still rustic and beautiful, but more prosperous and complex. Also, much farther away. From our place, it's like going to California and back."
Barb nodded. Apparently she'd noticed.
As we rode toward home I pondered Barb's question further and realized that no place I'd ever been turned out to be exactly as I'd imagined it while sitting at home. Not Vietnam, Paris, Katmandu, or Yellowstone Park. Nothing is ever what you expect. Maybe that's why we travel.
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p271

[Biggles]

On the backroads, cruising at 50 mph- or 35 mph on long, steep climbs— we quickly discovered that there's an entire American subculture of drivers, mostly polite older people in modestly priced sedans, who have probably never passed another licensed vehicle in their lives and absolutely don't know what to do when presented with the opportunity. So they follow you forever, even when the road is wide open. Eventually you have to pull over and wave them past.
Or maybe they just like following sidecars and watching them. I would.
Leanings 3  Peter Egan p285

[Biggles]

With a single cylinder 25 cubic inch engine capable of three horsepower, it was the first product of a company that become synonymous with bikers and outlaw motorcycle clubs— Harley-Davidson.
The two-wheeler gained its bad reputation almost immediately. By 1909 motorcyclists already had the image of being non-conformists. A Harper's Weekly magazine article of the time headlined "The rise of the motorcycle" stated:
They [motorcyclists] would ride in city or open country with their mufflers cut out, or in numerous cases absolutely devoid of muffling attachments. In some instances it was the rider's desire for noise, or to bring attention to the fact that he owned a motorcycle; in other instances it was the owner's desire for more power; but, whichever the case, this offence in principle conjunction with that of unsuitable attire has done more to retard the advancement of motorcycling in general than all other arguments combined.
The Brotherhoods  Arthur Veno p19

[Biggles]

I owned a Vespa scooter for two-and-a-half years in my late teens, when a friend of mine scored an old BSA 500. Because I could work the gears and knew where the brakes were, he let me have a ride. He gave me a quick lesson on what was where, and off I went. I gave the throttle a nudge on a straight bit of road and felt the adrenalin pumping. I gave it a little more, then a little more. Man, I was hanging on for life. I looked down at the speedo, which read 95 miles per hour! I almost freaked out and started to back off the throttle but I wanted to push it that little bit closer to the edge. Bingo— 100 miles per hour. I looked down. The road was screaming past only six inches from my feet and tears were flowing from my eyes. Still, I wanted to go faster. Then I thought to myself, man, this is crazy, and jammed on the brakes. I slowly turned the machine around and sedately rode back to my friend. I was shaking, completely pumped up, and hyped for days afterwards.
I knew I'd kill myself if I ever got a road motorcycle.
The Brotherhoods  Arthur Veno p27-8

[Biggles]

The one word I come across over and over in my discussions with riders is freedom. For many, it's why they adopt the biker lifestyle. The sense of freedom in riding like there's no tomorrow on the open road, the wind in your face, handling a powerful and responsive machine— you can't get that in a car. In fact, most bikers say their real personality comes out when they're on the bike. Part of that may come from the demands on the rider. It takes a hell of a lot of concentration to ride a bike fast. For many, that's where the freedom lies. They can shut out the stress of office politics, shit jobs and bad relationships.
The Brotherhoods  Arthur Veno p30

[Biggles]

This bloke breaks down in the middle of nowhere and gets down to look at his bike. A voice just behind him says, "It's the spark plug." He looks around but there are only two horses standing in the paddock near the road. He stares at the horses when one of them appears to move its mouth and say, "It's the spark plug, mate." This can't be happening, the bloke thinks, and continues to work on his bike.
Sure enough, the problem is the spark plug. He fixes it and heads into the nearest town for a beer. In town, he tells the barman what happened. The barman looks at him and asks: "Were there two horses in the paddock?"
"Yeah," the bloke replies. "A brown one and a white one."
"Was the brown one near the fence?" the barman asks.
"Yeah," the bloke replies. "Why?"
"You're lucky," says the barman. "The white one doesn't know anything about bikes."
The Brotherhoods  Arthur Veno p98

[Biggles]

These runs always commence and end at the same place, usually a capital clubhouse. So it was with the Rebels' annual run, which started at its central Sydney chapter clubhouse. But instead of 300 bikies roaring out of town, the motorcycles were loaded onto trucks and club members flew to Adelaide— the destination for the run. Adelaide was chosen to support the notion that wars between the clubs had ended in South Australia.
The bikes were delivered to the central clubhouse in Adelaide. The next day, a protest rally was held near Parliament House. The Rebels weren't allowed to ride by Parliament, and were instead allocated parking about a kilometre away. So they parked their bikes and walked to Parliament. And these were bikies! The club had planned a run about 50 kilometres from the city the following day but because it was raining, the run was cancelled. No other rides were planned, so the bikes were loaded back onto the trucks and returned to Sydney. The total mileage for this once-mighty club was about 21 kilometres, instead of the usual thousands.
The Brotherhoods  Arthur Veno p261

[Biggles]

Many senior members are now literally unable to handle big Harley-Davidsons. They tend to become what is termed in Australia a "life member", which means they are exempt from all duties of the club, except for an annual run, in most cases. They sometimes participate in club activities by riding a trike or travelling by car.
It's a problem in the wider biker community. In recent years the number of deaths among motorcycle riders aged over 35 in the United States has risen nearly 60 per cent, compared with a 22 per cent fall among younger riders. Australian figures would mirror that trend. A major reason for this is the average age of motorcycle buyers in the United States rising from 25 to 39. Some find they don't have the strength to keep a Harley upright when they stop at the lights.
The Brotherhoods  Arthur Veno p267

[Biggles]

To a person of fifty-five from Wisconsin who has gained twelve pounds over the winter and has had no exercise except to walk the dogs on those rare days when it's above zero, several miles of repetitious sand whoops are the equivalent to your first day in basic training— all pushups and deep knee bends. But we did not melt down and eventually got into the rhythm of riding in the sand, which is simply a form of fatalism. You abandon yourself to the constant sensation of imminent crashing, sit back on the saddle loose as a goose, and keep the power on.
Pat caught onto this very quickly, and was soon riding faster than I was. I have an Early Tankslapper Warning System (ETWS) embedded in my brain that, tragically, prevents me from really dialling it on in deep sand. It has its roots in a high-speed face-plant I managed in the Barstow-to-Vegas dual-purpose ride
one year. Yes, in the sand I am damaged goods.
Leanings 2  Peter Egan p25

[Biggles]

What Rob found there was an off-road riding paradise. A nice old ranch house, a barn filled with a funky, charismatic assortment of motorcycles, and nearly 7,000 acres of soaring grass pastureland, scenic ridges, shaded valleys full of trees, barely climbable buttes, and steep cattle trails leading down into the river bottoms.
Randy and his family had moved into a newer home nearby, so the old original ranch house had magically mutated into a kind of clubhouse for motorcyclists, decorated with Norton posters, Triumph signs, and other old bike memorabilia. There was a real jukebox in the dining room and a lifetime supply of motorcycle videos and classic John Ford Westerns piled next to the TV in the living room.
Life honed to perfection, in other words.
Leanings 2  Peter Egan p43

[Biggles]

It is possible to get by with just one motorcycle, I'm told, and lead a fairly normal life. Single-bike ownership, after all, is the very thing for which dual-purpose motorcycles were created: To go anywhere and do everything reasonably well. Get yourself a good XL or KLR 600 and you can ride to the Arctic Circle, see the dusty side of Baja, commute to work, or carve up a canyon, all on one bike. You're set for life, right?
Wrong. Dual-purpose is about six purposes too few, if life is to have the proper balance and variety. For instance, what if you've got an XL600 in the garage and suddenly take a fancy to the idea of polishing and admiring the kind of inch-deep chrome pipes and mufflers found only on old Nortons and Triumphs? Ever try to find one piece of good chrome on a modern dual-purpose bike? Or what if you do own an old Triumph and want to ride to the Arctic Circle but are not fond of hitchhiking in the cold and living with timber wolves? What if you've got a nice, long-legged BMW for touring, but suddenly get homesick for the insane race bike whoop of a high-revving Japanese four?
Funny you should ask. Those are the very questions I've been asking myself lately.
Leanings 2  Peter Egan p52-3