Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

"There is much sand. It is very bad. You will not make it on your motorbike," Anna said. Her words instantly dismissed this fleeting thought. Besides, I doubted the TT would make it: since leaving Nouakchott, it sounded tired and worn out. The timing chain inside the engine was loose, and being at the end of its automatic adjustment, I could not tighten it. I did not carry a spare, and even if I did, delving into the bowels of the TT's engine was way beyond my mechanical ability.
The float in the carburettor was also sticking, but there was no place free of sand to pull it apart as I'd done in the Mobil workshop in Nigeria. Instead, I would free it by reaching for my hammer and giving it a few good taps while still riding. It worked and the TT ran without problems for another few hours, until I needed to tap it again.
Ubuntu  Heather Ellis  p349

[Biggles]

"I can't believe it is over," I said and looked up at the night sky filled with stars that shone down with a bright, almost ethereal glow. There was a long silence, my hosts respecting the moment as I reflected on my journey. I had come such a long way - 42,000 kilometres and nineteen countries in fifteen months - through sand and mud, and roads littered with potholes and rocks, through forests and up mountains, through a civil war and road blocks controlled by rebels armed with AK47s. I'd nearly died several times, but I'd always survived. And the African people had always embraced me, as though they understood innately the meaning behind my journey. I knew then that the desire to explore - to have an adventure, to find out what was really out there - is what makes us human, and is as integral to our evolution as new discoveries in technology, medicine and in all the other sciences.
"We are glad you decide to go on the German ship," Ahmed whispered, gently bringing me out of my inner reflection.
"It looks like I have no choice," I said. But I knew it was the right, the only, choice for me. "I still can't believe it is over," I repeated. "What now?"
While the next stage of my journey was yet to unfold, the German cargo ship being there, at the very moment I needed it, did not surprise me. It was just another in a very long line of happy coincidences. Even so, I said a silent prayer of gratitude, as I had always done for everything fortuitous that had come my way.
Ubuntu  Heather Ellis  p360-1

[STeveo]

Sounds like she had a really amazing journey. Well done to her. 

[Biggles]

Sounds like she had a really amazing journey. Well done to her. 

I never cease to be amazed how these adventure riders are so often miraculously protected.
That's another great read- and she's a dinky-di Oz gal.

[Kev Murphy]

Great read Bill, thanks for daily postings 

[Biggles]

I kick-started the TT. It spluttered to life with a forlorn terminally wounded at the end of this great crusade of ours but determined it would not give up until I was safe. I slowly nursed it along the sandy street as I rode towards the docks, but after just a hundred metres there was a loud crunch. The TT backfired, its engine spluttered, it hung on, the wheels kept turning, and then I hit the kill switch and ended its pain.
"What is wrong?" Ahmed yelled breathlessly as he and his two cousins ran towards me.
"I'd say the timing chain finally snapped," I replied.
"Is your motorbike finished?" he asked with genuine concern. I nodded.
"It is until I reach a mechanic in Europe. It is bon chance I'm taking this ship and am not riding across the desert."
"You are blessed," he replied. "Allah is with you."
As I sat on the TT for the last time in Africa, I could not believe that luck alone had caused it to stop at the moment when I was safe. The chain could just as easily have snapped in the desert when I was at my most vulnerable. But the TT had held on until the end, when its job was done and this ride was over. Despite all I'd asked of it, this motorcycle had never let me down. It was my dear friend and we had shared many adventures on our long and arduous journey. I rested my hands on its petrol tank as if pouring into it all my gratitude for its strength and reliability. I closed my eyes and imagined its trillions of atoms vibrating in harmony, devoid of friction and tension as it basked in the glow of my adoration.
Ubuntu  Heather Ellis  p361-2

[STeveo]

I never cease to be amazed how these adventure riders are so often miraculously protected.

True, but the ones whose bones are bleaching out in the desert beside their broken bikes never get to write books.

[Biggles]

After two years of marriage, my garage contained a BMW K100, a Gold Wing, two Harleys and an old Yamaha DT360 trail bike. One Sunday I was in the process of draining the oil out of one of the Harleys when my lovely wife came into the garage with a coffee. Sitting there, watching me as I worked she suddenly asked how much money 'we' had sitting there on the garage floor invested in motorcycles.
The nature of the question and the tone of her voice warned me of danger. It was obvious she expected a sensible response because I knew from recent experience that being flippant or evasive could take the conversation in an ugly direction. I think that it's moments like these why the male species has been equipped with the ability to think at the speed of light, to come up with a solution that ensures preservation when seemingly trapped in a dead end.
"Well, my love, I had been hoping to keep this as a bit of a surprise, but since you ask I suppose it's time to reveal my plan. Put succinctly, I intend to use this fleet of motorcycles to launch a new business. This new venture should allow me to convert my spare time into cash so that we can afford that trip you've always wanted — over to Europe to visit all those famous gardens."
I held my breath as I waited for her response, hoping she didn't realise that selling half my motorcycle fleet right now would easily fund her dream overseas adventure. She just rolled her eyes and walked off.
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  pp19-20

[Biggles]

As we approached the peak of the hill, the road pointed directly to the west, causing us to be almost blinded by the sun, which by that time was hanging low on the horizon. Visibility severely compromised, and squinting through dirty scratched sunglasses, we suddenly realised we were in the midst of a Police operation. There on the crest of the hill was a stack of Police cars and bikes, surrounded by about 20 riders that they had pulled over and were in the process of booking. It reminded me of bears catching helpless salmon that jump into their arms as they frantically swim upstream! Business was brisk and one of my friends on his 500cc was pulled over and booked. Like numerous other riders, he was guilty of exceeding the 30 mph speed limit, which was designated on a small roadside sign about four miles back in the Katoomba township. As a bonus, the Police were also adding a little extra — booking all riders for crossing double unbroken lines. The fact that the road markings were extremely feint and completely obliterated by the glare of the setting sun raised the hackles of the disgruntled riders.
Luckily my other two mates on the 500cc machines escaped through the Police gauntlet unscathed. They headed on west without us; it was every man for himself. The fact that Eddy and I missed out on being booked had nothing to do with being law-abiding citizens. Instead it had everything to do with the fact that the Tin Fish and the Bantam weren't powerful enough to exceed the speed limit while travelling uphill.
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  pp52-3

[Biggles]

With the AGM over we were ready for our homeward journey via Orange, where we intended visiting more friends and relatives before heading home to Rockhampton. But the Bloody Money Waster wouldn't turn over.
The starter motor was diagnosed as the problem, so into the repair shop it went. With panniers in hand we booked into a cabin at the local caravan park, where we planned to wait while the repairs were completed. Then the bad news from the mechanic: "Sorry, mate, the starter is unrepairable. The glue holding the magnets has melted, destroying the motor." Apparently a French starter had been fitted to this model and it would take six weeks to get one from Germany. I wasted another few days trying to find a starter in Australia, but my efforts proved unsuccessful.
RACQ Ultra to the rescue.
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  p64

[Biggles]

I've stayed in a lot of low-cost accommodation in my time, but the Snyder Sunset Motel really scraped the bottom of the barrel. No pillow slips, no sheets, no soap, one towel to share between the two of us, cigarette butts in the ashtray next to the No Smoking card sticky-taped to the wall, and the stink of cigarette smoke and sweat. The pillows were disgusting- each exhibited a large stain that looked like previous guests had dipped their heads in a vat of sump oil before retiring for the evening. The door appeared as though it had been opened each morning by a SWAT team with a battering ram with both the lock and the chain broken. "Pathetic," muttered Clem, wrinkling up his nose, "bloody pathetic. The only things lacking are the second-hand condoms."
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  p86

[Biggles]

In the weeks to come I was riding the James in circles around Mum's clothesline, wearing a furrow in the lawn. Mum was none too happy about this, and as mothers and fathers do, they talked. They must have discussed the groove in the lawn and the dust problem under her feet on washing days, and that it could not continue. It was at this juncture in our budding motorcycling careers that our father, who been instructed by our mother, spoke to my brother and me. He told us that it was about time we either got rid of the bike for family peace, or more than likely for his peace, or pushed it the mile or so to a disused stock car track that ran alongside the river. Heaven! It was on this track that we learned to actually change gears.
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  p90

[Biggles]

Bundy, being the accomplished rider that she is, absolutely loves twisty roads at high speed, the faster the better. When she senses an increase in the angle of lean on the bike she gets quite excited. She immediately stands up on the tank and looks through the corners! There are quite a few sport bike riders out there who have thought they were doing pretty well as they cranked their machines through a tight twisty, only to sense another bike coming around them on the outside. It's a wonder none have fallen off with the shock of seeing Bundy flash past staring at them as Tex, sometimes even with a pillion on the back too, puts the hammer down.
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  p105

[Biggles]

As Tex drew nearer, the sergeant's casual glance became a stare, then he unfolded his arms, shook his head and dropped his jaw as Tex rode past, giving him a friendly wave. Remember, it is illegal for a dog to ride on the front of a registered motorcycle, unless it carries a special certificate of authorisation. As Tex sailed off into the distance, he couldn't stop laughing, thinking that the sergeant would probably scramble a highway patrol car and send one of his boys after him. Just when Tex thought the police had forgotten about him he heard the unmistakable sound of a siren and checking his rear-vision mirrors, saw the all-too-familiar sight of flashing blue and red lights. Tex pulled over, unclipped Bundy from her safety strap, flipped up his helmet and smiled a greeting to the officer with, "The boss send you after me?"
Grinning from ear to ear, the officer replied, "You nearly gave him a coronary — he said he must've been seeing things — that a bike just went zipping past with a Blue Heeler perched on top of the tank — and the dog was dressed in a bloody Santa Claus suit!" They enjoyed a good laugh, wished each other a Merry Christmas and went their separate ways.
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  p106

[Biggles]

My Man and his mates have had their share of bad falls and injuries. A split-second lapse of concentration on the path ahead is all it takes to become one with the landscape, bouncing off a tree, slipping and thrashing about in a puddle of sludge, or lying dazed in the dirt. Sometimes they need only a few minutes to recover and catch their breath, other times will see them crashed out in the back of a car, moaning and exhausted, or if they've really stacked hard, visiting an emergency ward to patch up that broken collar bone.
Once, after failing an attempted log crossing, my Man ended up prostrate on the ground with a torn groin. The multi-coloured purple, black and green bruising that developed shortly afterwards testified that this was indeed a cringe-worthy injury.
The days following each ride I listen to my Man's gripes about how sore and tired he is, how he needs to be pampered in a hot bath. But when his mates call he's casual, undefeated: "No, I'm fine, pulled up great. Next Saturday? Bring it on!"
My Man also, of course, owns a road bike. It's a Kawasaki ZRX 1200, or 'mean black muscle machine'! When he rides my Man wears only the latest and greatest in designer black: leather jacket, pants, gloves, boots and helmet. His gear is not only the best available in protective gear, he fills it out looking pretty darn hot!
I guess that's why he's my Man.
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  pp141-2

[Biggles]

As another hog rumbles past, I ask myself: if a Harley rides in the forest and there is no one there to admire it, does it really exist? After ridding myself of such existential nonsense, it's on the Beast again for a civilised cruise back to Lavers Hill. This is a great bit of road, not too twisty, not too straight. As always I wave to every bike I see, as always 90 per cent of them don't wave back...
Steps up onto soapbox-
Back when I was a lad, living in a cardboard box, cold gravel for tea, etc., you waved to all oncoming riders and most waved back. The exceptions were the Harley riders, who really were outlaws back then, and chookies, who for some reason didn't seem to feel they were part of the gang. There was a sense of community that seems to have since been lost. These days it appears to be more about what you possess rather than enjoying the shared biking experience. Every spotty-faced 19-year-old on a 30-grand Ducati provided by mummy and daddy, and every redundant accountant who spent his package on a Harley and a skull bandana, think they are too cool to acknowledge a fellow traveller. In the words of the Dalai Lama, "Sod the lot of 'em."
Steps down from soapbox...
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  pp160-1xxx

[Biggles]

"You promised me no flowers," I almost bawled, tears welling up in my eyes.
"Calm down, I haven't bought any plants." She was right; plants don't squawk and make wing-beating noises. Blow me down, she had bought a trio of Faverolle bantams — two hens and a rooster! The ensuing discussion doesn't bear repeating, but when we rode out of the Mudgee Showground that afternoon we had a cardboard box in each pannier, suitably modified with penknife and masking tape so they would fit in the cramped space. When I tried to close the panniers she went berserk, fearful that the chickens would suffocate from lack of oxygen. I hope they do, I thought to myself, but relented and left both panniers slightly open during the ride home.
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  p170

[Biggles]

I was in a dead sleep when it happened.
At first I thought it was part of a bad dream, the shrill sound of a rooster crowing. The second crow was accompanied by a sharp Karate thump in the ribs, delivered with great precision by the Little Woman. "Wake up, wake up, the rooster is crowing!"
I rolled over in the pitch dark and peeked at the bedside clock... 3.58am!
"Quick, go get the rooster before it wakes up the motel."
Panicking, I staggered into the bathroom and grabbed the box, just as the contents were halfway through another piercing shriek. Without hesitating she ripped the top of the box open, grabbed the rooster by the legs and pulled the flapping mound of feathers down under the bedcovers. I stood there staring, freezing, incredulous, open mouthed. Was this woman stark raving insane or what?
"For heaven's sake, get back into bed. If we keep the rooster dark and warm, it'll soon go back to sleep!" She was right, and that is how I came to end up sleeping with two chicks.
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  p171

[Kev Murphy]

  

[Biggles]

I was next. I don't think I've ever been more scared in my whole life. I was deafened by the sound of my own heart pounding in my chest. I waited, intensely watching the foaming swirling water. Then as the next wave reached its lowest point, I grabbed a handful of throttle and accelerated into the trench. In hindsight I realised that I hadn't followed the exact same trajectory as the three previous motorcycles. Because I was a few metres to their right when I started my run, I was perhaps a metre or so off to one side of the route that the other three had taken. I got about halfway across the trench when suddenly my front wheel nose-dived, falling into an invisible hole underneath the waterline. My back wheel bucked up into the air as the motorcycle cartwheeled, throwing me over the handlebars and into the surf. Within seconds a huge wall of water surged over me as the next wave came barrelling down the trench. I coughed and spluttered as I tried to disgorge the huge gobfull of salt water that had forced itself up my nose and into my mouth. Somehow I had retained my grip on the Honda's handlebars and to my surprise the motorcycle was floating. I later worked out that the fuel tank was probably half full of air, plus both the panniers and top box were fairly airtight as well, so in sum total the machine was reasonably buoyant.
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  p213

[Biggles]

Kipper gets quite upset now if he sees me putting on my riding gear when I can't bring him with me on a ride. I've taken to hiding my riding gear in the garage the night before, so that I can sneak out without him. It's a sad state of affairs when you have to hide from a bloody dog! But he's not just a dog, is he? He's my best mate.
Looking back, taking on a failed sheep dog was a gamble that paid off big-time. Being able to travel with Kipper by motorbike is one of the best things about my life with motorcycles and it fits neatly with many other personal achievements and wonderful events that have made me who I am. We've even done an Iron Butt Association ride together, so he has a spot in my heart that is irreplaceable.
I dread the day when age or illness puts an end to our travels together. There is nothing like the friendship of a good dog to bring peace into your world and unconditional love into your life. The joy he brings to the kids and oldies alike that we meet on our travels will also be missed. While I'm the guy they spotted riding out on some deserted road or travelling a freeway, it was the Border Collie riding pillion that made them smile, laugh or scream with delight. Yes, the day will come when I'll have to bury my mate in the backyard alongside the other family pets and companions. He'll wear his well-used travel coat and take his beaten-up water bowl to wherever it is that dog spirits go.
He will be missed.
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  p227

[Biggles]

Although Shorty also missed Old Dick, he was too caught up in the excitement of the new motorcycle to dwell on the past. Officially the Harley belonged to the whole family, but since he was the only one who could ride it, it was essentially his own. To everyone's astonishment, Grandma also claimed a degree of ownership as she always referred to the bike as 'our dear Davidson' and she was the first one to go for a ride after Shorty arrived home. He had barely come to a standstill after his broadside across the grass when Grandma clambered into the sidebox, her gummy grin indicating she was ready to go. Only too eager to show off his new toy, Shorty took off, executing a tentative left-hander into the street. To his surprise, there was not even a hint that the sidebox wanted to lift off the ground, so he quickly realised that with Grandma acting as ballast, the outfit could negotiate left-handers as quickly as right-handers. He couldn't help thinking that maybe there was a practical use for grandmothers after all.
Great Australian Motorcycle Stories  John Bryant  p248

[Biggles]

The three of us flew in to Los Angeles from Perth a couple of days ago. Jim is an easygoing Londoner with a wicked sense of humour. He is also an experienced rider, having crossed Australia many times on his Kawasaki GTR. Peter was born in Germany, but grew up in Australia. He has been riding for about three years and now owns a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy, but he has not done much long-distance touring. I left England in the seventies to work my way around the world before settling in Australia. I have clocked plenty of miles on my Honda ST1300 and have driven in America before, so I am assigned to lead the way. However, I am learning that navigating the L.A. freeways on a motorcycle is much more challenging than in a car.
Three Harleys, Three Aussies, One American Dream  Stephen Starling  p9

[Biggles]

Three bikes tear up Highway One — Peter speeding ahead, engine screaming, still accelerating, me steaming along behind in hot pursuit, and Jim gathering speed at the rear trying to catch us. The road races up to meet me, the dotted white line becomes a continuous ribbon, the verge blurs to a swirl of grass as fence posts fly by. Motors roar, wind screams, and hearts pound as we burn up high-octane fuel and adrenaline.
Over 90 miles per hour the wind starts to tear at my legs and arms out in the slipstream. Thankfully, the Road King rockets on, running straight and true, not deflected by the turbulence. Hitting 100, high gearing and a big screen start sapping power and slowing acceleration. Over 110 in sixth gear, vibration shudders through the footboards. I sense the power curve is leveling out and the engine is reaching its rev limit with not much more to give.
Three Harleys, Three Aussies, One American Dream  Stephen Starling  p29

[Biggles]

Peter, Jim, and I are approaching the end of our working days, reaching that transitional time of life between leaving employment and starting retirement. We are all self-employed — Jim with his manufacturing firm, Peter with his finance brokering, and me with my consulting business. For this month, we have put aside our commitments to take time out to travel. Toil, diligence, and making money are ingrained in our psyches, but if we do not take time out now, then when? Could we put this trip off for a year? Should we have waited? Till when? When we retire? Someday?
But how many days do we have left? Being past sixty, we are conscious our days and years are running out. How many more grains are left to fall through the hourglass? We do not know. Yet we do know there will come a time when the reflexes slow, sight fades, strength wanes, and we will no longer be able to push heavy motorcycles around, race along Pacific Coast Highway, or party on past midnight.
Three Harleys, Three Aussies, One American Dream  Stephen Starling  p56