Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

The road racing tyres Bert switched to were still far from ideal for the speeds he was now achieving, speeds that demanded proper, high-speed race tyres.  But these were beyond his budget.  He could use old road racing tyres because, of course, the first thing he did was remove the tread and smooth them off.  Sometimes he went a little far, which was easy to do, and exposed the canvas.  The scrutineer pointed at just such a patch and told Bert he could not run.  Bert was quick to respond.  He fixed the scrutineer with a look of cold determination.
‘If I’m game to run on them, what's your damn problem?' 
The hapless official looked at the patch of canvas and then back at Bert.  He was clearly conflicted but in the end he relented.  As he said later to a fellow scrutineer, ‘The old bugger's been riding on tyres like that for years.  Who was I to tell him he had to change his ways?'
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 183

[Biggles]

Ashley sometimes tested their bikes and on one occasion took Bert's for a blast up the beach after the engine had been carefully balanced in accordance with several pages of calculations Duncan had made.  Once under way Ashley found the vibration disturbingly odd.  It was not exactly unpleasant but it made the handlebar grips feel as if they were growing thicker and his vision began to blur.  He returned to the two men waiting on the beach and switched off.
‘How was it?' asked Duncan.  'Good?'
'Not bad so far as the overall smoothness went, I suppose.  There's just one problem.  I seem to be going blind. Everything is going white.  Bloody hell! Now I can't see a damn thing!'
'Bugger!' exclaimed Duncan.  I’ll have to start again.'
‘What about my eyes?’ asked Ashley.  ‘I’m completely blind.’
Bert's voice boomed out of the white mist.  'Hold your horses Ashley. Can't you see Duncan is thinking?'
It was only a temporary condition, and not all of Ashley's test runs ended so strangely.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 184

[Biggles]

By the time the New Zealand Grand Prix rolled around again the Velocette was going very well indeed.  Burt and Duncan decided to make an all out assault on the Rangiora Handicap.  Duncan insisted Burt buy a new race spark plug for the occasion and although Burt grumbled he finally gave way and did so.  The race started splendidly with Burt well to the fore and he was able to run in the top three or four places, lap after lap.  As the end of the race approached it looked like Burt would manage a podium finish at the very least.  But all such hopes were dashed when the Velocette suddenly gave up and coasted to a halt.
Once the dead bike had been retrieved Duncan set about performing his usual post mortem back at the pits.  The first thing he found was that an old spark plug had been fitted.  Seething with silent rage he replaced it with the new one and the bike ran faultlessly.  He switched the machine off and turned to Burt, who suddenly remembered he had urgent business elsewhere.  He had not gone five paces before he found Duncan barring the way, eyes flashing with genuine anger.
All over the pits, riders, mechanics, wives, girlfriends and assorted rubberneckers stopped to hear Duncan Meikle tell Burt Munro exactly what he thought of his stupid, idiotic, thick-headed, time- wasting, plain bloody perverse, mean as sin attitude, and to learn just what Burt Munro could, in Duncan's opinion, do with it.  This seemed to involve inserting a motorcycle inside himself, after first wrapping it in barbed wire and dunking it in battery acid.
Having made his point Duncan stormed off, leaving Burt to find his own way home.  His old friend had once again stopped playing speaks.  This went on for some months, by which time Burt was ready to catch a ship back to America.  The day before he was due to leave, Duncan turned up and had a cup of tea and a gingernut as if nothing had happened.  He wished Burt a good trip and quietly left.  Burt was much relieved.  It was bad enough when Duncan went off his head, but it was worse when he just went off.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 198-9

[Biggles]

The start-finish line consisted of a narrow strip of concrete running across the track.  Over the years it had become slightly proud of the asphalt, which had slumped about half a centimetre on either side.  For some reason this was enough to send the Velocette into a horrendous tank-slapper from which there was no possible recovery.  With the bike bucking and kicking toward the infield like a bronco with a burr under its saddle, Burt decided it was time to step off and roll into a ball.  He was wearing his usual attire: sneakers, light T-shirt, battered ex-army trousers topped off with his ancient pudding-basin helmet - hardly the best rig for the occasion.
The first impact was so terrific Burt was sure it had killed him.   He felt he was hanging in the air a long time before he hit the deck again with another tremendous thump, tearing more chunks of flesh off his frame.  One massive crack on the head knocked him out completely but his flailing body carried on, losing more flesh every time it ricocheted off the hard track, one impact breaking an arm, another splitting his helmet and grinding his watch face flat while his light clothing was reduced to strips of rag.  In the meantime the bike tore off into the rough ground and launched itself nine metres in the air before smashing back to earth and dismantling itself as it cartwheeled into the infield.  When finally it came to rest it had shed the back wheel and much of its body, leaving parts all along its violent course.
Burt finally flopped to a halt, covered in blood with his arm at a strange angle, lying horribly still.  Ossie and Trevor were at his side immediately, both terrified that Old Burt, as everyone called him by now, had finally cashed in his chips.  To their tremendous relief he was still breathing and soon came to.
“Beat you young buggers then,' he said as Ossie and Trevor swam into focus.  They confirmed that he had and he tried to sit up, gasping as his moved his arm.  'Gee, that hurts,' he said, before asking anxiously where his bike was. 
Ossie gave him the direct answer.  'It's scattered all over Teretonga Park, Burt.'
Burt rested for a moment as he considered the situation. 'Right.  You two can pick up all the bits and put them on your truck and I'll get them back when I can.'  His eyes flicked to Duncan who was now kneeling at his side. 'And you can take me to the bloody hospital.'
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 207-8

[Biggles]

There was time for a final run out at Ryal Bush Road.  Burt towed his long red fish there on its new trailer behind the Vauxhall with Ashley and Duncan on board.  With Burt ensconced in the cockpit, which was snug but not too tight, Duncan and Ashley began to push.  The streamliner was naturally geared for a theoretical top speed in excess of two hundred miles an hour, a figure Burt increasingly attracted to, and the two pushers had to run at a flat-out sprint before Burt judged the engine would turn over fast enough to fire when he would drop the decompression lever.
With Burt's encouraging shouts of 'Faster, faster', they were soon up to speed, hands stretched out on the machine's low rump.  Burt dropped the lever, accelerating away as soon as the engine caught Of course, Duncan and Ashley found themselves at a full sprint, bent forward with nothing to lean on.  As they picked themselves off the road Duncan waved his fist at the rapidly diminishing red dot.  'You bloody old bastard.  You gave your word you would never do that again!'
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 216

[Biggles]

Burt's idea of appropriate gear for speed record attempts was clearly very different to the inspectors', although he at least had a decent crash helmet.  His old suit pants, check shirt, worn-out sandshoes and battered leather jacket were the subject of a heated exchange, with Burt insisting that he wore the gear because it was comfortable and therefore safer.  The argument went back and forth until the senior inspector finally said exasperatedly, 'Look Mr Munro, none of this stuff has a fire rating or offers any real protection if you crash.  We just can't let you run like this.'
Burt fixed the man with a hard stare.  'I got married in these pants and they are high quality, pure wool.  Everybody knows wool is great for resisting flame.  And I wear the sandshoes because otherwise I can't fit in.  Besides, it's my flaming skin and bones, so what's your bloody problem?'
By now many of the friends Burt had made over the years of attending Speed Week had gathered around and there were murmurs of support for Burt's stand.  He pressed home his advantage.
'Show me the rule that says I can't wear what I like!' The inspector glared back.
'All right, you do what you want.  But don't blame me when they take you away in a box!'
Burt grinned.  If that happens I'll put in a word of recommendation for you with the old fellow down below!  I'll tell him you're just the sort of bloke he's looking for.'
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 237

[Gavo]

My Quote of the day 

  Dats a good one dont have to read to long 

[Biggles]

Burt slipped the clutch until the bike was doing about fifty miles an hour, then he let it out and gave the bike its head.  At ninety miles an hour he reached down and slipped the gear lever into second, winding the power back on and rejoicing as the speed built up.  At about 100 miles an hour the weaving began again.  As the bike accelerated up to about 140 he began to wonder if he might have to button off and abort the mission.  At 145 miles an hour he slipped the gear lever into top.  The bike was seriously unbalanced now and it took every bit of skill Burt had, from nearly a century of riding flat out, to keep it from swinging sideways and flipping down the salt.  He kept the throttle wide open, desperately hoping the weave might go away at higher speed.  It did not, he continued to accelerate.  It no longer seemed to be getting worse. Bugger it, he thought. It's all or nothing.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 241

[Biggles]

Inside the machine Burt Munro was fighting for his life, but he did it with the throttle jammed against the stop.  He no longer had any idea where he was.  He was simply determined to run until the bike broke or crashed.  After what felt like many miles the engine faltered and dropped on to one cylinder, but still he kept going, not knowing if he was heading into the vast emptiness of the salt flats or aiming straight at a trailer home.  When the bike finally ran out of fuel Burt somehow remembered to deploy his landing gear and the bike slowly coasted to a halt, the diminishing sound of salt crunching under the tyres the only noise to break the perfect silence.  Utterly exhausted he pushed his goggles up and once more looked about at a glaring, empty landscape. 'Jesus,' he croaked.  'Don't tell me I'm lost again.'
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 244

[alans1100]

[SToz]

[Gavo]

Aint that just grand   


Looks alot like Pearl Corrinado 

[Biggles]

They loaded the bike onto the trailer and headed back to the start-finish line where the Indian had to be available to ensure it met the capacity requirements for its class, should it have broken a record.  Burt revealed that he had been blinded on the first run by fried rubber coming off the front tyre, which had grown with the centrifugal force caused by running at three times the speed it was designed for, rubbing on the leaf spring suspension.  He had decided to make the return run on the basis that the small amount of rubber in contact with the suspension had probably burned off on the first run.  He had been wrong, and his second blind charge into the desert had been the result. 
Back at the start area a beaming Earl Flanders told Burt that his bike would have to be measured because his average over two matching miles had been 178.971, a new national speed record.  Burt slumped back against the Nash and let the news sink in.  He was a champion; he'd set a record and it was bloody fast by anyone's standards, let alone a geriatric on a middle-aged motorcycle.
‘If that's the case,' he said, wincing at the pain in his leg, 'I'm never coming back here again.'
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 245-6

[Biggles]

He ground off the single wide cam from the cam drive shaft and made two very narrow cams, one for the inlet valves and one the exhaust valves. To make the cams he first created a cam grinder, using an old washing machine motor.  Prior to this Burt had always shaped his cams by hand with hacksaws and files, demonstrating a remarkable facility with the simplest tools.  His new machine worked well and saved a lot of time and effort, even though most who saw it were hard pressed to decipher how exactly the thing worked.  The two new narrow cams ran side by side on the cam drive shaft and activated appropriately narrow cam followers.
He carved the four L-shaped cam followers from high-tensile steel, each forked at the cam end to take a twenty-millimetre needle bearing roller, just six millimetres wide.  When the cams were finished he drilled a hole through them so they slipped over the cam drive shaft.  Once he had the timing right a high tensile bolt was screwed through the cam wheel via a six millimetre threaded hole, locking the cam on the shaft.  He organised a healthy supply of oil to keep the cams and followers well lubricated by mounting an oil pump from a 1933 Indian, which also supplied the big ends and main bearings. The work took approximately 800 hours of 16-hour days and when it was done the valve set up was capable of sustaining high revs without any real problems.  Burt had created another unique engineering solution to a complicated problem without drawing a line on a piece of paper.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 265-6

[Biggles]

Back in Wendover Burt was full of confidence that he could not only set the record he wanted, but also shatter the 200 mile an hour barrier.  But the God of Speed is a capricious fellow.  During his qualifying run Burt was horrified to discover the streamliner was again shaking and weaving, even at his comparatively modest qualifying speed of 172 miles an hour.  The next day he lined up to take his first serious run with frayed nerves and a sense of dread.  Neither Marty nor Rollie had made it to Speed Week that year and Burt missed them both.  He still had the small but dedicated band of helpers that had formed over the years, always designating whatever car Burt was driving as Team Indian HQ.  They even had Team Indian T-shirts printed.  They treated Burt like a guru and could not do enough for him.  Like Rollie, they were convinced he was from another planet where the normal rules of ageing did not hold.  Even so, as they pushed him off, Burt could not shake his anxiety.  But Burt always found confidence once he was under way.  He took the bike up to about 180 miles an hour in spite of the snaking and weaving.  It was an heroic effort, and far more than most mortals would have attempted.  Still the God of Speed wanted more.  As he approached the timed sections Burt had a split second to make his choice.  Did he back off and hope he could slow the bike down without crashing, or did he go for it and hope it became more stable in the mysterious world that waited behind the door?
It was never really an issue.  He kept the throttle wound hard against the stop.  As he hit the timed miles the bike was going faster than it ever had before.  At over 200 miles an hour, the first quarter mile - clearly marked because it was used in setting qualifying times - went past in just four seconds.
But the bike was not becoming more stable.  Far from it.  Burt knew he was rapidly losing control and a fatal crash was just seconds away.  He had used every bit of his skill to keep it on track but the vibrations were now so bad he was beginning to grey out.  In desperation he did the only thing he could do - he sat up.  The terrific slipstream immediately tore his goggles off and tried to rip the helmet off his head, strangling him with the chinstrap.  Blinded by the 200 mile an hour blast and by stinging salt flying off the front wheel, Burt lost track and the streamliner veered off into the salt flats, heading like a guided missile for a steel pylon standing all by itself in the distance.
The bike missed it - and certain destruction - by just twenty centimetres, streaking into the distance with Burt riding completely blind.  It seemed to take forever to slow but he finally a speed where he could put the landing gear down.  Burt was so dazed by this stage, however, that he could not locate the handle to drop the little wheels.  When the bike stopped it just flopped on its side, badly tearing his shoulder muscles.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 276-7

[Biggles]

It was now clear that he could not really develop his engines further without a dynamometer, which would allow him to methodically test his improvements to the bikes without the complicating variables that racing introduced. 
He had talked with a number of people over the years about building such a machine, and he now set out to do it.  It was a fearsome looking device when finished, with two flat thirty-five by twenty-centimetre plywood paddles, driven by a long chain from the engine running though exhaust pipe to stop it flying off the sprockets at either end.  When the dynamometer was in use both the bike, with its rear wheel removed, and the paddles were mounted securely to a heavy steel frame.
Burt had also made an electric starter (using an old Ford starter motor) with handles on either side that fitted over the drive side mainshaft nut on both the Indian and the Velocette.  He had first seen such a thing when a local grass track hotshot named Earl Bryan built one.  Earl was asthmatic and had trouble push-starting his speedway JAP.  There were a number of copies about that Burt would borrow, until their various owners decided he could build his own, which he finally did.  He could now start the bike while it was hooked up to the dynamometer and run his tests.
Burt persuaded Norman Hayes to help with the first trial something Norman, who had followed the construction of the machine, was reluctant to do.  Burt kept at him until he relented and Burt soon had the paddles whizzing around creating what to Norman felt like a hurricane in the confines of Burt's little shed.  He was relieves when the engine refused to run properly and the trial was aborted.
The bike might not have performed but Burt was happy with his dynamometer.  The only further equipment he needed was a hand-held rev counter to ensure the one on the bike was accurate, and without which he could not accurately calculate the horsepower the engine was developing.  Luckily a friend named Vern Russell had just such a thing, which worked by holding it over the end of the crankshaft, and he agreed to help Burt. He soon regretted it.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 291

[Biggles]

Having operated the starter motor to get the engine running, Vern held the rev counter over the end of the crankshaft and Burt slipped the bike into second gear.  As he let the clutch out, the unshielded paddles began to revolve, horribly close to where Vern was crouched beside the bike.  Burt opened the throttle until the paddles were spinning at about 2000 revs, at which point the din from the open megaphones on the bike combined with the clatter of the chain in the pipes and the roar of the wind generated by the paddles was enough to daunt the stoutest heart.  Papers and dust were flying around the workshop and just as Vern thought matter could not possibly become any more unpleasant, the bike slipped out of gear, the revs went through the roof, and motorcycle engine blew up.  Vern was shaking violently as Burt calmly leaned over to have a look at the damage and announced, ‘That's the first time that has happened in the history of this church!'
Although he would thereafter allow Burt to borrow the rev counter whenever he asked for it, Vern was always too busy to help out in person.  Duncan and Ashley had also heard enough to avoid being roped into a session, and Burt was forced to recruit others.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 292

[Biggles]

He was forced to admit that those who had told him the magneto was faulty were probably right.  Arriving back at Bainfield Road a month later he immediately began to work to replace the magneto. Years before, Joe Hunt, American specialist, had given him a Bosch magneto.  The item was probably from a BMW and Burt had been dissuaded from fitting it because it ran the wrong way. Once he'd decided to use it, however, he quickly solved the problem by dispensing with the two idler pinions in the gear train driving the magneto.  He replaced these with a single large cam gear mounted on an eccentric shaft, to allow an accurate meshing of the gears. He had to move the magneto closer to the gear and to do this he cut about four millimetres off the base of the magneto and about the same amount off the crankcase mounting.  He drilled and tapped new holes to mount the magneto.  Because it was designed to fire a flat four-cylinder engine, rather than a forty-two V-twin, he next made a new brass cam ring and a set of cams to work the points.  The latter he created from old ball race that he annealed before filing it to the correct shape to achieve the timing he needed.  Once he'd annealed it again it was ready.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 299- 300

[Biggles]

Burt's tenth and final visit to Bonneville was in July 1971.  He was disgusted to learn that the rules had been changed and that all streamliners now had to have separate engine compartments.  The year before had seen a flurry of activity as three contenders chased the all out motorcycle land speed record.  Don Vesco had fired his twin engined 700cc, two-stroke Yamaha, feet-forward streamliner across the salt to take the record with an average of 251.6 miles an hour.  A month later his good friend Cal Rayborn broke it again with a speed of 265.5.  Rayborn's head-first streamliner, powered by a 1480cc Harley Davidson twin, had been a handful to drive and he had a few high-speed slides before he got the hang of it.
Less fortunate had been the third contender Robert Leppan, who had set a time one-way of 266 miles an hour in his twin Triumph 650cc powered streamliner Gyronaut X-l.  On his return run the streamliner had become airborne at about 280 miles an hour, finally sliding for about 2.5 kilometres with a badly injured Leppan in the cockpit.  The high speeds had prompted the new safety rules, but they effectively ended any participation by streamlined machines that were conventionally ridden. Burt was allowed to make a few half-hearted passes in the streamliner for the Aardvark cameraman, probably the most frustrating thing he had ever done in his life.  He was also allowed to run his bike without the shell, but the gearing was far too high for him to do well.
On the way back to Los Angeles, alone once again, an axle broke on his old trailer which then collapsed.  He had to lash a tree branch underneath it, dragging it for miles until he found a truck stop and some assistance to slide the streamliner into the back of the $90 Pontiac station-wagon he had bought for the trip.  Once back in Los Angeles he spent time with Marty and Jackie at their home in Thousand Oaks.  Rollie came over and they talked about old times, each of them facing the reality that Burt's record-chasing days really were over.  It was a sad farewell. 
Back home Burt was soon in the thick or it again.  He and Duncan still thought nothing of driving 600 kilometres to compete in a speed trial near Christchurch, then home again for a trial the next day.  At a quarter-mile sprint along School Road in Invercargill, he kept the power on too long for his feeble brakes to pull him up, yelling as he careered down the road for someone to pull the traffic barrier out of the way.  Just in time it was whisked away, and Burt hurtled past.  Then he turned right around and lined up for another run.  He was seventy-three years old.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 302-3

[Biggles]

He suffered a heart attack but made a good recovery, teasing the nurses with all his youthful enthusiasm, and returned to his little house where he spent his days in a comfortable chair with a two-bar electric heater always going.  He had rigged up a special wire holder on the heater for his teapot, and the many visitors were always offered a cup. His tea no longer tasted metallic.
With the sun streaming into his cosy little house, he would sit in his old armchair, close his eyes and find himself back on the salt.  The Indian would be humming along, everything operating in perfect harmony.  The black line would be flickering under the bike as it hurtled along, rock steady at maximum revs in top, doing well over 200 miles an hour.  He would raise his head just a bit against the pressure of the slipstream and lift his eyes to take in the cobalt sky.  As he drifted into sleep his perfect run would slowly fade, until there was nothing but the glittering white plain and the distant purple hills and perfect, eternal silence.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 305-6

[Biggles]

Three days after the funeral, Margaret was cleaning out her father's house when she came across an address book.  She flicked through it and stopped at the letter I, which contained a single word, 'Indian', and an American phone number.  On a whim she called it.  A man answered, his voice reverberating slightly. 'Indian Motorcycles.  Can I help you?'
For a moment Margaret was silent, then remembered the purpose of her call.  'Hello, my name is Margaret.  I'm Burt Munro's daughter and I am calling to tell you that he has died peacefully at home.'
'I'm really pleased to hear that, Margaret.' The unexpected sentiment hung in the air for a moment, somewhere near the middle o the Pacific Ocean.
'I'm sorry, ma'am, that came out wrong. I'm real sad to hear Burt's gone and everybody else round here will be too when I tell them.  We already miss him.  It's just that we figured he would be awfully lucky to go peacefully.  I’m so glad he did.’  There was another pause.  'I would like you to know that he made all of here at Indian Motorcycles proud.  Real proud.'
As Margaret hung up, her eyes were drawn to the glittering trophies, waiting to be packed in boxes. She was struck by how much more there had been to the life they represented.  Her father, she thought, had always been a true individual and, like all true individuals, he had always been himself.
It was enough, she thought, more than enough.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 306-7

[Biggles]

A long-distance motorcycle rally requires the same time-management skills as a SaddleSore, along with a few more.  It's essentially a scavenger hunt, with bonuses worth different point values depending on the degree of difficulty to get to the location either in terms of distance or road quality.  Each rally is run Rally Master who plans, advertises, and oversees the entire event.  They take great pride in creating interesting routes, along twisty mountain roads filled with animals at night, blistering deserts in the heat of the day, busy cities at rush hour, or small towns with excruciatingly slow speed limits- anything to make the ride challenging.  The goal of a rally is to figure out the best way to get the most points while also, at least in the Utah 1088, riding the minimum number of miles to be classified as a finisher.
Two-Up  Lynda Lahman p 32

[Biggles]

The final few miles!  Turning west on I-80 towards the hotel, Terry said that because we had deviated from the main route, we might not have covered enough miles to be considered finishers.  The possibility that we might be short on miles had never come up.  We were well over what I thought was required, and I couldn't make any sense of his words.  All I heard was, "We need to ride a billion miles past our exit, blah blah blah, then turn around and come on back".  If I'd had the strength to strangle him, I would have. He later told me he could feel ice forming on the intercom wires from the sudden chill in my mood.  I was in a state of utter disbelief, but Terry was insistent. I reluctantly agreed to go another twenty miles farther before turning around.  I was not a happy camper when we passed by our exit and I could see the hotel from the interstate.
Two-Up  Lynda Lahman p 39

[Biggles]

Then another rider, Greg Marbach, appeared, jumped off his bike, took the required photo, and engaged us in a brief conversation.  He hopped back on his bike and headed east down the mountain pass to the valley below.  I turned to Terry and asked him if he thought Greg was doing OK, if he seemed tired, and if we should we have said or done something.
Not knowing Greg well, we weren't sure if he would successfully monitor himself.  Feeling slightly uncomfortable, but also freezing cold and wanting to re-hook up our electrics, we got back on the bike and took off in the same easterly direction.  Barely half a mile later we saw a bike on the side of the road and my heart skipped a beat.  I quickly realized the bike was on its side stand, and Greg was sleeping next to it on the hillside.  Later he told us cars kept stopping to see if he was OK, and he finally had to continue further down the road to find a better place to nap where he wouldn't be constantly awakened by well-meaning drivers.
Two-Up  Lynda Lahman p 87

[Biggles]

An elderly man wandered over to chat while Terry moved the equipment to different locations on the bike.  The man asked about the bike and where we were from.  I don't think I've ever spoken with anyone who talked as slowly, pausing in-between every word for what seemed like minutes.  I could tell Terry wanted to focus on fixing the bike, so I kept answering the man's questions, diverting his attention, trying to be friendly and engaging.
He had never been more than a few miles from his home in his entire life, and was struggling to believe that we could have come over 3000 miles in only three days.  He drew the words out, over and over, "Three thousand miles in three days!" as if the constant repetition would suddenly make it more comprehensible.  It was the kind of moment, unplanned and memorable, that happened often when we were on the bike.  Somehow, people were more willing to approach us, a couple sharing a single motorcycle, and pepper us with questions that they might never ask if we were in a car.
Two-Up  Lynda Lahman p 113-4