Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

Despite the numerous warnings describing the dangers of motor cycling in Brazil, so far, the gentle countryside is a biker's paradise. Main roads are well paved and engineered with smooth banked turns through rolling hills. Most are double lane, and motorcycles are exempt from expensive tolls, but gas is three bucks a gallon. Even truckers are polite. If they inadvertently cut me off or switch lanes too closely, they smile and wave apologetically.
Sunday traffic is surprisingly heavy with long lines of rumbling semi-trucks moving fast in tight convoys. It's intimidating to ride between them- caught up in their hot forceful wakes and know how easy it is to get sucked up by powerful currents and drawn underneath their enormous, grinding wheels.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p293

[Biggles]

That is what I am doing when, over the popping of my engine and the wind whistling past my helmet, I suddenly hear a high-pitched grating sound. It's the kind bikers are always on alert for and dread.
My heart sinks while I hold my breath, straining to hear and identify the noise. It's definitely getting louder. I pull in the clutch to see if it subsides when the revs drop. No luck. I hear the grating more dearly. Oh no, I think, what the hell else can go wrong? When applying the brakes there's no discernible difference in volume or pitch until coming to a complete stop with the engine shut down. I tear my helmet off, and the muffled sound becomes a roar. Zillions of crickets, locusts, or giant bugs of some species are rubbing their legs, grinding their wings, or just talking loud in their unique pulsating rhythm. The sound fills my head. It's coming from every direction, yet I do not see a single insect anywhere. If somebody were standing next to me, I would need to shout to be heard.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p308

[Biggles]

Following this string of lumbering boxes is maddening. I can't wait any longer. Truckers operate on narrow margins, with only three-foot gaps between front bumpers of one to the rear of another. Once taking on the pack, there will be no room to return to my lane if another vehicle approaches from the opposite direction. What the heck, here we go.
I kick it down a gear, hang the throttle open, and pull out of position, determined to pass a mile-long convoy of fellow frustrated motorists. Oncoming traffic forces me to weave in and out of my lane until I reach the front of the line of cars and the back of the monotonous procession of trucks. It's another now-or-never moment. I make it past the first dozen grinding monoliths okay, when suddenly an oncoming car appears over a slight rise ahead, closing in fast. There's no chance to brake, return to the rear, and get back into the correct lane. My only option is to nuzzle my right rear saddlebag as close as possible to the trucker's massive spinning trailer tires and hope for the best.
The approaching car manages two wheels on the shoulder, barely grazing my left rear bag while I fight overpowering hot-air currents sucking me under the trailer's belly. The deafening moan of the semi-truck's mighty engine is like a roaring animal inside my helmet, yet I seem to be in one piece. It's only a hundred miles more.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p313

[Biggles]

A simmering situation with the leftist government in Caracas led by the staunchly pro-Castro strongman Hugo Chavez is unpredictable at the moment, and I'm apprehensive about riding through an area known for its support of the rebel movement in Colombia. There are rumours of impending violent civil war. I won't rest until I'm riding safely back in Panama again.
CBS News's 48 Hours television documentary has just aired, and it included my web site address, so I’ve spent the last eight hours reading and attempting to answer as many emails as possible until my eyes give out from staring at a screen so long. The emails number well into the thousands, with an even split between the U.S. and Canada. The documentary's producer told me the program will show again later, with a sequel. I'm astonished at the number of people taking time to write profoundly inspirational words of encouragement- and intend to answer them all. At last count the number rooting me on is nearing 15,000. I save and file each message.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p325

[Biggles]

The drizzle finally subsides long enough to witness the renowned but elusive Amazon sunset as a pale indigo sky is soon ringed by huge billowing clouds. My favourite star in the universe sets creamy puffs ablaze into flaming orange with cotton-candy trails of flaring gases erupting outward from the depths of hollow canyons burning somewhere in the heavens. If I had to envision the first moment life sparked on earth it would be one exactly like this. The cosmos joins in this fiery, roaring silence while the heavens make love in the shadow of the earth.
Teakwood decks brim with spellbound voyeurs standing shoulder to shoulder in solemn reverence to the commanding solar array beyond. Each mumbles tribute to their God for a gift of such majesty. Children stop playing, babies cease crying, and lovers grow closer as all are equally awed by this mesmerizing otherworldly scene.
Gradually daylight fades into black velvet night as the finale of cosmic orgasm subsides. Suddenly the overhead sky pops with diamonds cast magically across the void- precious sparkling jewels from far away, yet near enough to caress like raindrops on the tips of my outstretched fingers.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p332

[Biggles]

While making preparations for the departure to Panama, I am sad to realize that the most significant experience of my lifetime is ending. It isn't the amount of time I spent in South America. It's the intensity of that time, from enduring the continuous onslaught of some of the worst weather conditions this planet could conjure up, to surviving whatever the darker side of humanity could thunder down upon me. Through it all, there have always been people and places to make the journey worthwhile.
While seeking the pulse of mankind, I encountered spirit-tingling extremes tempered only by the blind justice of Mother Earth. I came to experience life as South Americans do, and in times of despair, often recalled the saying: "Be careful what you wish for".
In life's bleakest moments we should search for silver linings, now more than ever. The time I spent in the vengeful hands of a terrorist organization was like holding my finger in a light socket for five weeks. That brain-frazzling experience taught me as much about myself as well as the world around me. There is a lesson in everything- often the greater the pain, the greater the lesson. The hell my tormentors inflicted upon me can only be answered by one of two attitudes: vile hatred and desire for revenge, or patience and understanding for those born into the misery of poverty and exploitation. Once again, I have learned that living well is the best revenge. Yet while I am free, the rebels are still prisoners of their own misfortune and misguided deeds in the mountains of Colombia.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p333-4

[Biggles]

At times, at the peak of frustration that travellers in strange lands so often endure, just when I thought I couldn't stand anymore, it was the sparkling eyes of a laughing, soft-haired child, the kindness of an ageing Indian woman, or the stunning splendour of the Andes that rocked my spirit and tugged me back eagerly into the wholesome embrace of a land of many faces. When I needed a friend most, one always appeared. There had invariably been someone or something to restore the fire of passion for this continent of such intriguing mysteries and sullen tragedies. My body and soul bear the fingerprints, bruises, and caresses of this magical kingdom, and although I will soon be on a plane out, I know my heart will never leave.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p335

[Biggles]

Complications arose quickly in Manaus as the political situation in Venezuela deteriorated and, according to local reports, was headed for civil war. Several warnings from the FBI via email convinced me to fly out of Brazil directly into Panama. Problems of lengthy red-tape delays and a 2,700 dollar cost to ship a broken-down, 3,000 dollar bike didn't make sense. With a tremendous amount or clever footwork by Whitney Parsons from the Aspen Silver Company, my limping KLR was transformed into a bright yellow BMW F650GS in Panama City.
Even better, Brad flew in on time with his motorcycle so the two of us could ride back to California together. Although we had communicated only by email for the last seven months, we were finally ready. When we met in the Panama City airport, I squeezed him so hard I nearly broke his neck. He is the reinforcement I needed. The cavalry arrived just in time.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p339

[Biggles]

“Sons Of Thunder” is a selection of a few pages from some of the editor, Neil Bradford’s favourite writers.

Lawrence's relationship with his motorcycles was intense and the machine was the exhilarating means of escape from the constrictions of the army camp:
When my mood gets too hot and I find myself wandering beyond control I pull out my motor-bike and hurl it top speed through these unfit roads for hour after hour.
This feeling of release and exhilaration is one shared by all who have reached for the crash helmet, swept up the keys and opened the front door. The environment, climate and character of the road are all absorbed by the rider who makes corresponding physical adjustments to deal with the demands of every journey, whatever the length. This sensation is unique to the motorcyclist.
Sons Of Thunder p14  Neil Bradford

[Biggles]

The modern motorcycle is a sophisticated construction with little in the way of roughly hewn edges such as the kick-starter, an inducement to injury and post-traumatic stress disorder, so well described by Matthew Crawford elsewhere in his book:
Before taking that final kick, it is traditional to light a cigarette and set it dangling at an angle that suggests nonchalance. While you're at it, send up a little prayer for fuel atomization. You wouldn't be riding a motorcycle if you weren't an optimist.
Sons Of Thunder p14-5  Neil Bradford

[Biggles]

Out in the early-morning street there is little traffic, for which the rider sends up thanks: on a bike, cars are irksome, their slow-motion ways infuriating. Pulling out of the drive, the rider shifts into second, this time with the boot toe under the lever to push it up. The small jolt of increased speed from rear wheel is experienced in the seat, just as in the elastic pause when a horse gathers strength in its haunches before springing into a canter from the trot.
Sons Of Thunder p21  Melissa Pierson

[Biggles]

When things conspire - the traffic is thick and wild, the sun is leaving moment for moment, rain slicks the surface of the road - the rider best understands what can otherwise remain hidden: that a motorcyclist is both the happy passenger on an amusement park ride and its earnest operator. The rider  splits into two, navigating between vacation and dire responsibility.
Sons Of Thunder p24  Melissa Pierson

[Biggles]

The burble of my exhaust unwound like a long cord behind me. Soon my speed snapped it, and I heard only the cry of the wind which my battering head split and fended aside. The cry rose with my speed to a shriek: while the air's coldness streamed like two jets of iced water into my dissolving eyes. I screwed them to slits, and focused my sight two hundred yards ahead of me on the empty mosaic of the tar's gravelled undulations.
Like arrows the tiny flies pricked my cheeks: and sometimes a heavier body, some house-fly or beetle, would crash into face or lips like a spent bullet. A glance at the speedometer: seventy-eight. Boanerges is warming up. I pull the throttle right open, the top of the slope, and we swoop flying across the dip, and up-down up-down the switchback beyond: the weighty machine launching itself like a projectile with a whirr of wheels into the air at the take-off of each rise, to land lurchingly with such a snatch of the driving chain as jerks my spine like a rictus.
Sons Of Thunder p30  T. E. Lawrence

[Biggles]

Traffic this morning was mainly Morris Oxfords, doing their thirty up or down. Boa and myself were pioneers of the new order, which will do seventy or more between point and point. Like all pioneers we incurred odium. The Morris Oxfords were calculating on other traffic doing their own staid forty feet a second. Boa was doing 120. While they were thinking about swinging off the crown of the road to let him pass, he had leaped past them, a rattle and roar and glitter of polished nickel, with a blue button on top. They waved their arms wildly, or their sticks, in protest. Boa was round the next corner, or over the next-hill-but-two while they were spluttering. Never has Boa gone better. I kept on patting him, and opening his throttle, knowing all the while that in a month or two he will be someone else's, and myself in a land without roads or speed. If I were rich he should have a warm dry garage, and no work in his old age. An almost human machine, he is, a real prolongation of my own faculties: and so handsome and efficient. Never have I had anything like him.
Sons Of Thunder p35-6  T. E. Lawrence

[Biggles]

I had bought my motorbike soon after I was sixteen. It was a second-hand Ariel 500cc and it cost me twenty-two pounds. It was a wonderful big powerful machine and when I rode upon it, it gave me an amazing feeling of winged majesty and of independence that I had never known before. Wherever I wished to go, my mighty Ariel would take me. Up to then, I had either had to walk or bicycle or buy a ticket for a bus or a train and was a slow business. But now all I had to do was sling one leg over the saddle, kick the starter and away I went. I got the same feeling a few years later when I flew single-seater fighter planes in the war.
Sons Of Thunder p41  Roald Dahl

[Biggles]

With my clarinet strapped behind me I got almost to Rochester to encounter the tail of what proved to be a six-mile queue. As carefully as one does in such circumstances, I rode past it all - and was dismayed by the anger and hostility of all those stationary motorists, blaring their horns or even waving fists at me. There was no way in which I could have been harming them, but the thought that I was going and they were not aroused furious jealousy. Even on a good motorcycle, the world can be a sad place.
Sons Of Thunder p52  L. J. K. Setright

[Biggles]

Down the Hoggar Massif, descending 1,000ft, skimming over sand dunes like surfing sea waves, we grappled drifts with high revs in low gear. It was like tackling hazards in a club trials event. Chiding each other several times about intentionally picking out every rock and rift and nearly having us both fall off, we kept rolling along. We fell about three feet over an unseen rim that put a strain on every nut and bolt. Bienk on the 'Moseley' rear mudguard pillion seat, came down just right to hold on to something, saving herself from being dumped. Dark patches of hard mineral ground were showing up through the sand here and there and between them were these treacherous hollows of powder-like sand. We pounced from one hard patch to another to skim across these sand-traps until they became longer, deeper and softer and eventually trapped our wheels. Everything was unloaded again, carried across and then the unladen combination coaxed through these dangerous sink holes, while we sung the oarsman's chant, 'One - two - PUSH!'
Sons Of Thunder p73  Theresa Wallach

[hondabob]

 
as a motorcyclist why don't the blue heelers understand - ---what are double white lines!?? just painted white lines on the road of life! no ticket required:-))

[Biggles]

As we rounded a bend we ran into a drove of oxen, and I heard Ernesto call out in a slightly shaky voice, “The brake's gone!”
We were going downhill and we could see that the slope ended in a row of poplars some 400 yards ahead. The bike was still picking up speed, but in fact I felt no fear. Looking back on it now, knowing that a river ran behind the poplars, I reckon this could have been the end of the line for us. At the very least we might have broken a few bones. But all I did was tell Fuser to brake using the gears and run the bike into the hill.
With a degree of confidence quite unwarranted in an inexperienced driver, Ernesto got the bike into third, then into second, which reduced our speed considerably, and finally, with difficulty, he got it into first. At once, taking advantage of our slower speed, he aimed the bike straight at the bank. As I jumped off the back he spread his legs, and I saw him come off the seat just a fraction of a second before the front wheel hit the mountain. We ran to switch off the engine to prevent a fire, and then shook hands, happy still to be alive.
Sons Of Thunder p81-2  Alberto Granado

[hondabob]

  too much dribbble biggles - short nd sweet is the go
in the words of a famous 60's singer song writer -- - -i don't want a pickle--just wanna ride ma moda cycle & i  don't wanna die --just wanna ride ma moda cy -cle!!!! anyone know who it was?? my theme song every time i twist the go gas

[Biggles]

  anyone know who it was?? my theme song every time i twist the go gas

Woody Guthrie.

Just don't click on the Quote Of The Day and let those who enjoy a bit of biking literature enjoy it.
Not everyone wants the simplest possible text.

[Brock]

With 48 pages of stuff, Biggles must be doing something right....


Oh no, I just went on Biggles side.... must need a holiday

[Biggles]

There are moments on a motorcycle when all the glory of motion is distilled into one purposeful package. Chasing curves over a swelling landscape, a motorcycle enters the pure expression of physics and is bound to the road in a way no car will ever know. The rider and machine are literally balanced on the infinitely thin line where centripetal forces meet gravity. Despite this state of suspended disaster, the sensation of risk is largely a sensation; the motorcycle is in harmony with the road, and risk comes overwhelmingly from other drivers. Any moment of travel on a motorcycle is a light and essential moment, an agile rebuke to a life conducted in one place. The raw force of the engine is not hidden beneath a hood, but alternately purrs and growls a few inches from the knees, demanding consciousness of power. Sealed behind glass, insulated climate control systems and music, the driver of a car knows nothing about the directions of the wind, the lay of sunlight, the small changes in temperature between a peak and a valley, the textured noise of differing asphalts, or the sweet and sour aromas of manured fields or passing pine forests. Engaged in all the senses and elements, balanced in the present tense, a rider on two wheels can taste moments of oneness with the road.
Sons Of Thunder p91  Patrick Symmes

[Biggles]

Driving out the peninsula, the wind knocked me over twice more, sending me into knee-scraping mounds of pebbles. When the bike blew over the second time the windshield cracked. Gasoline leaked from the carburettors again; I watched the liquid evaporate from the stones in horror, quickly righting the bike each time but losing several pints that I could not afford to lose. Yesterday's trip to the north shore suddenly seemed a foolish waste of fuel. I hit the reserve tank with an hour still to go. Somehow I made it to the steep ridge of hills at the neck of the peninsula, but the motor began to cough and hesitate on the way up the last hill. I threw the petcock from Res. back to Auf and got one last burst of power that pushed me up to the crest : a wobbly five miles an hour. It was two paved miles from there to the gas station, but all downhill, and I eventually coasted into the little settlement of Puerto Piramides like some pathetic bicyclist. I mailed a postcard to my girlfriend and bought a vanilla milk shade and a full tank of gas, and then sat on a chair on the beach drinking the milk shake, watching the tide surge right past the No Parking signs, up and over the legs of the chair, and while I sipped my milk shake the water ran forth and back beneath me, chilling the aluminium. I said over and over to no one in particular that this was a very fine town indeed. Six days,
and already I was talking to myself.
Sons Of Thunder p99  Patrick Symmes

[Biggles]

You could try to go coast to coast, but chances were you wouldn't make it, some vertical guys with pitchforks and shotguns living in Hicksville were bound to resent your freedom and try and drag you down. Let's face it, there is definitely an element of death-wish built into the motorbike. You have to enjoy the pain and the heartache. Better to go out with a bang than a phut.
Even though Alberto and Che and a whole generation of easy riders have gone up in exhaust smoke, the mystique of the long-distance biker lives on. A true nomad and wanderer on that endless ride into the sun, weaving in and out of lanes of gridlocked cars like a Brazilian winger going round plodding fullbacks. Two wheels good, four wheels bad.
Sons Of Thunder p104-5  Andy Martin