OzSTOC
General Category => General Discussion => Topic started by: Biggles on March 02, 2020, 06:38:43 PM
-
What makes a good rider?
The qualities of a safe and competent rider are:
• critical and honest self-awareness and understanding of your personal characteristics, attitudes and behaviour that are necessary for safe riding
• taking action to keep identified risks to a minimum
• awareness of your own limitations and those of the machine and the road
• awareness of the risks inherent in particular road and traffic situations
• concentration and good observation
• continuously matching the machine's direction and speed to the changing conditions
• skilful use of machine controls.
Motorcycle Roadcraft Penny Mares et al p3
-
Because as a rider you have no protective shell in a collision, you are more likely to suffer serious or fatal injuries of the head and neck, or of vital
organs in the thorax and abdomen.
Most riders think they are both safer and more skilful than the average rider- but we can't all be right. In around 2 out of 3 collisions, human error is the principal cause. Riders are most vulnerable to the actions of other road users, as drivers are to blame in half of all motorcycle crashes.
This is why understanding your vulnerability and learning to reduce your risks, especially the risks from the errors of other road users, is so vital.
Riding safety is not an add-on extra - it must be built into the way you ride. Those who ride in poor weather, all year round, have an increased risk of collision, even after other exposure and experience have been taken into account.
Experienced riders who stop riding and take it up again in middle age have a higher than average risk of crashing, possibly because they ride more powerful bikes than they did when younger. Formal training can help to refresh or maintain rusty skills and reduce the risk.
Motorcycle Roadcraft Penny Mares et al p6
-
Decision-making
Your brain compares [its visual input] with situations from your experience, identifies what actions you took in the past and chooses a plan of action for the current situation. Your brain assesses the suitability of the proposed plan of action by comparing it with actions that you have carried out safely in similar circumstances before. You use several types of judgement:
• anticipating how events are likely to unfold
• assessing the proposed plan for risk, noting hazards and grading them based on previous experience
• assessing your space, position, speed and gear.
Output
Take action - make an appropriate response.
Feedback
As you put your plan into action, your brain takes in new information and continuously checks it so that you can modify your actions at any time. Developing this ability to a high standard takes experience, practice, alertness and full concentration. The ability to judge a situation, grade risks and anticipate how things are likely to unfold is essential to safe riding, especially at high speeds.
Motorcycle Roadcraft Penny Mares et al p45
-
Thanks for taking the time to post these excerpts. :thumbsup
-
Anyone coming new to this thread, you can find about 1600 excerpts from more than 160 books over at
http://ozstoc.com/index.php?topic=917.315 (http://ozstoc.com/index.php?topic=917.315)
-
Look where you want to go.
A bike tends to go where the rider is looking, so when you become aware of a specific hazard, it's vital to keep your head and eyes up and continue scanning the whole scene. If you focus on the pothole or the patch of mud that you want to avoid, your bike is likely to head straight for it. This is known as 'target fixation'.
Keep your eyes on the furthest point to which you want to go. Your vision will take in the hazard as well as everything else, and this will allow you to
negotiate it safely without being drawn towards it.
You go where you look, so remember to look where you want to go.
Don't focus on the hazard that you want to avoid.
Motorcycle Roadcraft Penny Mares et al p56
-
How speed affects observation and anticipation
The faster you go, the further ahead you need to look. This is because as you ride faster, the nearest point at which you can accurately focus moves away from you. Foreground detail becomes blurred and observation becomes more difficult because you have to process a lot more information in less time. The only way to cope with this is to scan further ahead, beyond the point where your eyes naturally come to rest, to give yourself more time to assess, plan and react.
At higher speeds, you will travel further before you can react to what you have seen and you need to build this into your safe stopping distance.
Remember the safe stopping distance rule:
Always ride so you can stop safely within the distance you can see to be clear on your own side of the road.
Motorcycle Roadcraft Penny Mares et al p63
-
These are great Bill. Keep them coming :clap
-
Riding through water
Slow down as you approach a flooded area as water may conceal a hazard such as an object or deep hole. When you have to ride through water, slow to a walking pace and ride through the shallowest part but look out for hidden obstacles or subsidence.
If the road is entirely submerged, stop the machine in a safe place and cautiously find out how deep the water is. The depth of water that you can safely ride through depends on how high your machine stands off the ground and where the electrical components are positioned.
If you decide to ride on, follow the steps below:
• Engage first gear and keep the engine running fast by slipping the clutch. This prevents water entering the exhaust pipe. Use the rear brake to control the road speed, especially when riding downhill into a ford.
• Ride through the water at a slow even speed - a slow walking pace. Keep the bike upright.
• When you leave the water, continue riding slowly and apply the brakes lightly until they grip. Repeat this again after a short while until you're confident that both brakes are working normally. This also applies if you have pushed your machine through the water.
Motorcycle Roadcraft Penny Mares et al p88
-
Forces that help stability
Because of the steering design on a motorcycle, a bike is stable when travelling in a straight line, and the front wheel has a self-straightening tendency when steered left or right. The forces involved will tend to pull the front wheel back in line if you release pressure on the handlebars. The gyroscopic effect also tends to keep a motorcycle stable. Think of a spinning top. When you spin a top fast enough, it becomes stable around its spinning axis. The same applies to the wheels of a motorcycle once they're rotating fast enough.
These forces also help the front wheel to straighten if it's temporarily knocked off line, for example by hitting a bump in the carriageway. This is why your position on the bike is important - with your body and arms in the correct position you get the most benefit from this self-correcting tendency.
Steering
When you turn the handlebars, the tyre contact patch on the ground moves away from the machine's centre line. The centre of gravity is no longer above the centre line, so the machine will begin to lean. When this happens, cornering forces combine to help you to lean into the turn.
Motorcycle Roadcraft Penny Mares et al pp133-4
-
Following position
In a stream of traffic, always keep a safe distance behind the vehicle in front. Follow the two-second rule. Leave a gap of at least two seconds between you and the vehicle in front, depending on conditions.
Keeping your distance increases your safety because:
• you have a good view, and can increase it along both sides by slight changes of position - this enables you to be fully aware of what is happening on the road ahead
• you can stop your bike safely if the driver in front brakes firmly without warning
• you can extend your braking distance so that the driver behind has more time to react, especially if they are driving too close
• you can see when it's safe to move into the overtaking position
• in wet weather, you get less spray from the vehicle in front.
You should generally position your machine to the rear offside of the vehicle you're following. From this position you are:
• visible through the inside and offside door mirrors of the driver in front
• able to move into an overtaking position by reducing the following distance (i.e. without needing to change position as well)
• able to escape to either side should an emergency arise.
Motorcycle Roadcraft Penny Mares et al p182
-
Developing your competence at overtaking safely
The height, manoeuvrability and rapid acceleration of motorcycles are great advantages for overtaking. These features, together with their need for less road space than vehicles on four wheels, should make motorcycles the safest of all vehicles on which to overtake. The fact that they're not is because riders fail to appreciate all the hazards involved.
Overtaking is hazardous because it may bring you into the path of other vehicles, including the vehicle you are overtaking. It's a complex manoeuvre in which you need to consider the primary hazard of the vehicle(s) you want to overtake, as well as a number of secondary hazards as the primary hazard moves amongst them. It requires you to negotiate dynamic hazards (moving vehicles) as well as fixed ones (such as road layout).
Motorcycle Roadcraft Penny Mares et al p190
-
Memories stirred as I watched a father and his young son dismounting their motorcycle in the parking lot of the nearby restaurant. As the boy removed his helmet, the grin I knew would surely be there shone brightly for the entire world to see.
As the father removed his own helmet, I could see what I expected there too. We traded nods as he listened to his son excitedly explain some aspect of their ride. His face was an interesting combination of emotions. Satisfaction for a well executed ride, pleasure at his son's obvious enjoyment, and a little anxiety that he was so responsible for something so precious to himself. Wanting to protect his son but knowing he must expose the boy to the world in order for him to someday become a man. This is a look I know well from my childhood. I saw it many times on my Dad, but never really understood completely until long after I had become an adult.
Life Is A Road Daniel Meyer pxv
-
Normally on a road trip if you want to make your bike look good sometime along the way, you have to carry some cleaning supplies. Chrome polish, wax, and Armor-all are usually in my arsenal. I also carry a can of Lemon Pledge for my helmet. This is an old biker's trick, the Lemon Pedge cleans bugs and stuff of your faceplate like nothing else, and has the added benefit of making water bead up and blow off if you are in the rain. It also reduces the crazing you can usually see in the plastic face shield when riding into the sun. The problem is that space is limited, and all these products take up valuable and needed space.
Here comes a product endorsement: "Can Do" replaces all of those products, hands down. After washing the bikes in the car wash, mine was still a mess. The high-pressure spray, on soap, directed at my pipes from less than an inch away would not cut the baked-on gook. Also the water there was extremely "hard" and left a bad film on both bikes.
Out came the "Can Do" and a couple of rags.
I sprayed this stuff on a section of my pipes and let it sit for about 30 seconds. The gook wiped right off, leaving shiny chrome underneath. No problem. Easy. I was stunned.
"Hey James, check this out." I did it again to another section. James stunned. We had been talking about buying oven-cleaner for this task.
We then proceeded to wipe every part of both bikes down. In time had two clean, shiny, and remarkable machines, you would never guess they had just travelled hundreds of miles, much less the mess mine had been earlier. This stuff works, and works well. It is all I will ever carry for this task in the future.
Life Is A Road Daniel Meyer p42
-
We crested a small hill and looked forward to at least 15 miles of road, slightly uphill, with both sides of the road clearly visible the entire way. There was no traffic in sight and had been none since we passed the truck some miles back. At that moment a particularly rollicking tune started on my mp3 player.
"Well Oiled Machine" chose that moment to get frisky.
"Come on. Let's go." she clearly said.
"Can't, I'm following James." I responded. "Got to go. Got to go now. Got to. Got to. Got to. Go faster. Must go faster!" she insisted. I'll have to watch that super unleaded gas... I think it has caffeine in it.
"Ok." I am a pushover for a beautiful woman.
I tweaked the throttle and shot past James. He would have no problem knowing what I was up to. The road in front of us was self-explanatory.
I never hit full throttle. Within seconds she was at 135 mph and the tachometer was redlined at 8500 rpm. She was still accelerating and showed no signs of running out of power, but I let off, as I did not want to go over the redline.
"Well Oiled Machine" was smooth and stable, with no unusual vibration or shimmy. I held the speed for a few moments, but was soon cresting the hill. I let off it and gradually slowed back down to 75 mph or so. She is an incredible machine. The torque and power available are nothing short of amazing. [1980 Suzuki 1100XS]
Life Is A Road Daniel Meyer pp51-2
-
This is the classic left turn motorcycle killer, except there was absolutely no obstruction to anyone's vision. These morons are the reason the law requires us to have a headlight on all the time. Fat lot of good that does... people gotta look up every once in a while.
I pulled an extreme braking/evasive trick and ended up stopped in the intersection- kind of right in the middle. "The Dragon" is graceful and responsive under pressure. I am a big and strong guy, and the Valkyrie and I mesh together well. Barely missed the errant car, and the driver was looking at me wide-eyed as she passed by.
Sheesh. Bad enough, but the car following her was blissfully unaware that he should also yield to oncoming traffic that has the green. Oh crap! says the little voice again. I am stopped in the exact center of the entire intersection... the place that no car ever occupies if everyone is doing everything right, so I am no longer a factor. There are other cars behind me however... The oncoming turner is apparently fixated on the preceding car and is not paying attention. He barely clears me (I do not think he ever saw me) and creams the car that was passing by me in the center lane through the intersection. Pretty much a head-on. I get heavily sprayed with flying glass and gasoline, and got a very good close up view of the ass end of his car as it "whooshes" by me in an arc spewing gas, but fortunately get missed by all the heavier bits randomly travelling about the intersection. Brrrrr... I can still read you his license number... it is etched into my brain.
Life Is A Road Daniel Meyer pp93-4
-
Arizona's finest were out fleecing the tourists, so we pegged the speed at 75-80, set the cruise, and left it. We spotted 12 cruisers within about 30 miles; a rough calculation and we figure they are bringing in about $8000 per hour. This is more officers than we saw in the entire rest of the trip. If crime is so low in Arizona that you can put 20 guys on a 30-mile stretch of road, then here is a hint: fire the cops and put a couple more cents tax on the gas. I'll take my chances with the speeders, rather than with the cop cars and tourists parked all over the Interstate, not to mention the police cruisers turning around in the median and scattering dust, gravel, and unwary travellers that happen to be in their path.
Life Is A Road Daniel Meyer p128
-
Friday morning I slept in a bit (normally I have to get up around 4:00am for work), finished loading "The Dragon", took my wife for a leisurely breakfast, and much to the amusement of the restaurant patrons there, passionately kissed her goodbye. We got sporadic applause.
I pulled out of Dallas around 9:00am. Once again I chose my route with avoiding the super-slabs in mind. Due to constant construction, massive truck traffic, bleak scenery, and dazed cage drivers, Interstate-35 is boring and marginally unsafe for motorcycles.
I caught US67 out of Dallas, headed for US281 at Hico. US67 is a pain, it has been under construction for years, and they are apparently not getting anywhere. When I stopped for gas at Glen Rose, I nearly dumped "The Dragon", as they have constructed concrete curbs and edgings along the street, but paved the street with blacktop... which is for some reason about 3" below the level of the concrete edgings. I did not see the edge till I hit it in a mild turn into the parking lot. Guess I should have been watching closer, even though it is a brand new street.
Life Is A Road Daniel Meyer p160
-
I entered a really odd fog just north of Interstate-10 and stayed in it for miles. It was almost surreal, the sun was up and the fog was only at ground level. Visibility was only about 1/4 of a mile, but within that circle it was was sunny and the visibility was crisp.
This gave the very strong illusion that I was not moving at all, rather that I was stationary, and things were moving into and out of being. I have ridden many thousands of miles, and this is the first time I have ridden in conditions quite like this. From my perspective, the world did not exist outside my sphere of influence, and all things (like many, many deer) were simply created in front of me, moved silently behind me, and then were destroyed as they vanished.
Eventually a Harley rider was created in front of me, and as he slowly slid backwards toward me, he moved over to share his lane with waved me by. As I paralleled him for a moment I looked over at him, to find him looking at me. I am sure I was wearing the same ecstatic grin on my face that he had on his. A mutual thumbs up, and I pulled away in front. It was almost with regret that I let him vanish in the mists behind me.
Life Is A Road Daniel Meyer p171
-
My situation is more extreme but it is a myth to suggest that all you have to do is ride very fast to get around the world in 19 days. In theory, all you have to do is ride at 50 mph for 20 or so hours a day and rest when the bike is being shipped. I didn't know it then, but riding fast, 24 hours a day for days at a time without sleep and only the slimmest of margins to fuel, lubricate, feed, water and empty the bike and the body was still not the whole truth. Getting around a thousand corners quickly whilst simultaneously watching a selection of surfaces all of which if misinterpreted could kill you, is but another underrated riding skill you need to have; but it's not just that, as every single item of road furniture, millions of them, must be avoided. Technically, as you learn to instantly recognise different traffic patterns, it's more than this. You also begin to 'download' life information into smaller bits, with especial reference to road information that breaks it down into something less chunky. One aspect of my life surely has something to do with whittling the world down to a more manageable size. With this in mind, I rode a bike, but it was only the road that changed, everything else more or less remained the same.
Journey Beyond Reason Nick Sanders p22
-
By three in the morning the black clouds were dumping their load of rain again, making surface conditions treacherous and delaying the arrival of daylight. Sitting on my bike in the rain, alone on the side of the road, I was beginning to feel ill. It was a very uncomfortable vibration in my body that was a degree or so less tremulous than shaking and still I had at least 12 hours more to ride. Forcibly being kept awake against a back drop of severe fatigue is a known method of torture. Riding for two and a half days with no sleep must be a kind of self harm. As the comfort zone diminishes to the point when it is nearly not there, that is the time when ambition overrides sanity. When it did get light, the rain stopped and I power napped for a few minutes which made me feel immediately better. All I had do was cross Bulgaria and even though I didn't stop for breakfast my spirits rose and the tremors stopped.
Bulgaria came and went and soon I crossed the border into Turkey at Svilengrad and reached the motorway to Edime and onto Istanbul where my friend Ikbal was to meet me on the outskirts of the city.
Journey Beyond Reason Nick Sanders pp42-3
-
Why on earth would someone keep on riding around the world like this? Well, to tell a secret, such repetition had become my only contribution to life. The act of motorcycling around the world is such a bizarre and little-known skill - its use to humanity could be described as nil but I was unsure about this. It certainly represented the story of a human being living on the edge; one who crossed ten thousand traffic junctions when it needed only one miscreant with a bullock cart to end it all; when rider, dreamer, essayist and father could, in an instant, have his face forced through skin and bone against the animal's rib cage. Wherever he was in that envelope of space, he had to acknowledge that his life was now just a game of numbers.
Journey Beyond Reason Nick Sanders pp68-9
-
Hyderabad is arguably India's fastest growing city and with such a display of western identikit commercialism, it was a credible claim. Leaving the gas station I just managed to climb on the bike and freewheeled onto the road, unable to remember when riding last felt so bad. It was really difficult to ride. Hands swollen, aching all over, I wanted to collapse but what would that serve? Who would look after me then? Why hadn't anyone taught me to look after myself, because this suffering need not have happened. Each journey takes everyone to a place that is hard to get to and harder to get back from. Suddenly, across the road and through the fumes I noticed a chemist and elbowing my way across four lanes of belligerent traffic, I pushed my way inside and pointed to the sun. The chemist knew exactly what was needed and gave me a box of powder. I mixed three sachets in a bottle of Coke and carried on. I felt so strange and kneeled down on the ground beside my bike and lay on my back twice more before I left the city limits and already it was dark. I'd got it bad. So far this journey across Hyderabad had taken four hours when it should have taken one. The only reason there was no vomit was because I hadn't eaten anything. Then my nose started to bleed.
Journey Beyond Reason Nick Sanders p84
-
The worst thing you can do is have nothing going on in your head. So I have a discussion going on in my head - I ask myself why do I do this journey? Does it have any meaning?
You're a prisoner in your helmet. I can't stop riding, I can't afford to stop concentrating. So my mind becomes my freedom - your body and mind will always find ways of expanding.
You get to the point where you think you can do anything - it might be endomorphins, a physiological high. It only comes after several hundred miles. Towards the end I float.
Psychologists might say that it's dangerous, that I'm fooling myself- but how can they possibly know what it's like? They haven't done it.
Journey Beyond Reason Nick Sanders p96
-
Apart from having enough skill to stay upright, the most important attribute needed to successfully complete a project like this is endurance, which is simply a question of dislocating from the pain. If part of that pain is physical, we are told to visualise the opposite, so in my mind I imagined what it was like to float. When you hear of winners heading towards the line, they tell you it no longer hurts. They say you fly like the wind and everything is clear. At such rare times, it's almost other worldly and it becomes impossible to fail. There are times when any biker feels like this. When in your helmet you are smiling so much your cheeks cramp. In your helmet you are laughing with the joy of riding and although it sounds unbelievable, every real motorcyclist knows it to be true; that in between all the hard times, when it doesn't work out, when all around you is grey, there are those few occasions when absolutely nothing is better than riding your bike and you ride on automatic, while thoughts about your life fly past in your head.
Journey Beyond Reason Nick Sanders p102
-
I'd never intended to ride so much in the dark, but once again the development of this journey seemed to take on a life of its own. The concentration needed to avoid animals at night exhausted me and I drew from reserves I never knew I had. Wildlife on the road was a consideration for everybody driving at night. Big trucks have been forced into the gutter by hitting large kangaroos. It was much more of a problem for motorcyclists. The risk of serious injury was very high. Truck drivers warned me that the chance of a collision could be as high as 80%. Under exceptional times of drought or when a herd was in the area. they all said to me that a motorcyclist might not get through. A small 'roo would bend the forks, smash a fairing or throw you off the bike; a large one would write it off. A small one would perhaps break your legs, a big mother would kill you. Wombats tense instantly prior to impact and people who have hit them and survived say it's like hitting a boulder. Dead road kill that hasn't been picked clean by the crows will still be fresh and their organs something on which to slip. I have lost count of the number of times I have missed a swollen carcass by inches and a fraction of a second.
Journey Beyond Reason Nick Sanders p125
-
The 650 miles to Auckland was very important but it was essentially a linking part of the project, connecting the 5000 mile journey around Australia to the 7000 mile ride around North America. In one sense, the whole thing was ridiculous. Its meaning would soon be fossilised into some abyss of forgetfulness. Some poet or wit would have it relegated to stupidity before the ink was dry. Did I care? Of course not. From where I was, it was easy to imagine that no one would be interested in this event for any longer than the time it took to read about it in the papers, if it even got in them. And I expected the number of days to be miscalculated and my name to be spelt incorrectly. Apart from a few family members and friends and some genuine, enlightened others, it was a fair bet that no one would care. Except, I did.
Journey Beyond Reason Nick Sanders p144
-
I was also tiring. It had rained heavily for a thousand miles and while it wasn't cold, it added resistance against progress through the air that my weakening body had to overcome. In the traffic during the day, plumes of spray obscured everything beyond a twenty metre radius around me and ironically, the busier the route, the less traffic I could actually see. If there was a pile-up ahead I would not know until it was too late. If I went down I would certainly be driven over by following traffic. From what I'd seen of North American car drivers, very few would have the ability to take avoiding action. The size of the roads and lumbering nature of most of the vehicles did not provide people with the need of any practice of thinking and reacting quickly. There are stories of motorcycle victims surviving a fall on the interstate only to be run over and killed by ten vehicles that failed to brake. Slow reaction time makes for murderous roads.
Indian drivers wave wildly and want to chat as you pass whereas Americans stare straight ahead with a look that suggests they'd prefer it if you weren't there. With their rebellious clothing adorned with patches and their de rigueur bandanas, motorcyclists here present a more intimidating presence than their European counterparts. On bikes the size of small cars, the greasy biker brigade have long since been replaced by middle aged people trying to recreate a time in their life when the surfer / biker look represented freedom.
Journey Beyond Reason Nick Sanders p172
-
Then, as the family got bigger he moved on to a motorbike and sidecar. We didn't get our first family car until I was a teenager. Even then I remember thinking that driving around in our pea green Ford Prefect was never going to be as much fun as standing on the seat in the sidecar with the roof rolled back as we raced across the Yorkshire Moors. I can still remember the sheer breathtaking feel of wind in my face and the effort needed not to laugh out loud or scream with joy because having your mouth open meant flies for dinner. My dad was not a fanatic though and saw motorbikes merely as a means of transport, that could easily be replaced when cars became more affordable. One of my early boyfriends had a small machine, I don't remember what make it was, but it was dirty and noisy. He took me out once on the pillion and my only real memory of that occasion was when he dropped me off and said "I'm not doing that again, you're hopeless at leaning - you have to lean with me." It might have helped if he had explained that before we set off and then when the bike leaned to one side I wouldn't have been leaning to the other, trying to be helpful and act as a counterbalance in case we toppled over!
Missus On A Motorbike Jackie Hartley p8
-
In the meantime I was getting on with getting out on the road. Just as I had spent days riding round the car park opposite, I now spent about a week riding round my left hand looping circle. Although this route was only about four miles long it had plenty of hazards to get to grips with - roundabouts, traffic lights, left turns, big main roads, country lanes, hills and bends and changing speed limits. Every time I wobbled back onto our drive I felt like I had just done a lap of the Isle of Man TT races, whatever they are. It was exhilarating. I always chose my time to go out very carefully and found that six o'clock in the evening was the best time because the rush hour traffic had gone and the roads were quiet before people started coming out for the evening. Nevertheless I still managed to make a real fool of myself on regular occasions. The thing I had most difficulty with was roundabouts. As I started to ride a bit faster I would find myself approaching roundabouts in third gear hoping they would be clear and I could keep going but then if I had to stop I was always in the wrong gear for starting off again. So I would then spend ages trying to get into first gear whilst the bike was at a stand still and, worrying about kangarooing off. I would also want to check it was in neutral before re-engaging it in first gear. All this took time and the cars around me were probably fed up of waiting for me, though in fairness, none ever gave me any trouble. Thank goodness for L plates that's all I can say.
Missus On A Motorbike Jackie Hartley p58
-
There I was, trying to look all cool and confident but as I pushed the bike forward energetically, it slammed to a halt with me nearly going over the handlebars. Talk about uncool. Then one day I was in the local petrol station and noticed that one of the biking magazines had a free gift on the front called a disk lock reminder. It was a bright lime green coiled stretchy thing with a key ring loop at one end and a loop of cord at the other. The key ring loop fits over your disk lock and then you have to stretch the coil and loop the other end over your handlebar. In fact, reading the article about the free gift and why they had included it, I learnt that my experiences were fairly trivial. Some bikers have tried to ride off at speed and ended up with damaged brake calipers, cracked mudguards, scratched wheel forks and twisted brake disks. Others ended up dropping their bikes causing all sorts of damage and in some cases, the riders and their pillion passengers were badly hurt as bikes fell over or collar bones were broken when their shoulders were badly jarred as as their bikes hit the kerb. So in spite of the fact that when it is in place my bike looks like it is being attacked by a bright green slinky, I started to use it all the time and never forgot to take the disk lock off again.
Missus On A Motorbike Jackie Hartley pp90-1
-
I decided to go looking for a magazine that specialised in cruisers but they did not seem to be as readily available as the magazines that were for fans of sports bikes. Then one day in W H Smiths I spotted a magazine with a cruiser on the front but unfortunately it was heat sealed inside a plastic cover so I couldn't get a look at the contents. I bought it anyway and took it home to read. When I opened it up it was full of customised easy rider type motorbikes mainly being used as props for practically naked women to loll all over. Captions like Cindy loves the feel of this hot rod between her legs and Suzie knows she will get the ride of her life on this were everywhere. I was embarrassed. Did anyone I know see me buying it? I showed it to Mike in disgust and he spent ages checking it out "You don't need to read it from cover to cover" I snapped. "I'm not reading, I'm looking" he said. I threw it away much to his chagrin. "There were some really interesting bikes in there," he said. Yeh, right.
Missus On A Motorbike Jackie Hartley p114
-
Norman came out to take a look, limping heavily on his newly fitted artificial leg. He looked at the bike and said "That's a nice little bike you've got there, you've kept that nice," so I waxed lyrical about my little dream machine. Then Norman asked me if he could sit on it.
I said "I don't know Norman, can you sit on it?" He looked carefully at it and then asked me to hold the handlebars whilst he swung his good leg over the very low seat. There he sat, the biggest grin on his face.
"Do you know, I think I could manage one of these, it's so low you see, I can get my leg over and I can flick the side stand down with my hand whilst I'm sitting here. Mind you, it would have to be adapted with the gears on the handlebars but I bet it could be done." He looked so excited it brought a lump to my throat. I turned to Anne who was standing nearby looking quite nervous.
"Anne, he's going to want one now, don't blame me, you asked me to bring it round," I said knowing I would be in for some stick later if he did get it into his head that he wanted one and Anne was against it. However, Anne just smiled. I think she was pleased to see Norman so happy and if he wanted an adapted bike, well they'd face that hurdle when they got to it.
A few weeks later I watched a man with a terrible wasting disease being interviewed on the local news, about a medical breakthrough that might lead to a cure for his illness. As he struggled to get his breathe he said "If I could just enough breath to have one more go on my motorbike I would be a happy man." Now that did make me cry because I think I partly understood what he was talking about. This motorbike thing gets under your skin.
Missus On A Motorbike Jackie Hartley pp119-120
-
As I had suspected, Mike was waiting for me in a lay-by halfway down the other side, a big grin on his face. He gave me the thumbs up sign and we set off again and made our way down through the dales. Many of the villages in the Derbyshire Dales are incredibly pretty clusters of lovely old stone cottages with hanging baskets, village greens and duck ponds, and it was a delight to slowly ride through them with our visors up, taking it all in. I don't remember enjoying seeing them this much through the windscreen of a car. On motorbikes you feel much more immersed into your surroundings, you see things more close up and you get all the smells of new mown grass and summer crops, as well as muck spreading of course. It all just feels somehow closer and more real.
Missus On A Motorbike Jackie Hartley pp146-7
-
Later that morning, as my hangover began to subside, I decided to photograph my bike and then make up an advert to put up on the wall at the bike school. I had seen a few adverts up there and my little bike was so lovely that somebody doing their Compulsory Basic Training was sure to see it and want it. So I got the bike out and gave it a really good clean. I used to think that people who spent a lot of time cleaning their motorbikes were very sad and should get a life but I do exactly the same now. Bikes are not like cars, they cannot just be run through the car wash once a week. They need to be cleaned down carefully, every exposed part wiped clean and lovingly polished by hand so that they gleam. All that chrome looks just beautiful when it is glistening in the sunshine. Some motorbikes look like they have, in the words of Annie Proux, been 'ridden hard and put away dirty' and I hate to see that. Besides which my bike is designed to be cleaned and shown off, it is not one of the drudges of the bike world so I have to get my chrome polish out like the rest of those sad people who spend part of their weekends making their machines look as good as new.
Missus On A Motorbike Jackie Hartley pp196-7
-
We chatted away for about ten minutes, at the end of which he knew all about my life as a would-be biker and I knew all about the bike. He had bought it from someone who hardly ever rode it but kept it in a garage and spent time adding accessories to it. Apparently this happens quite a lot with Harleys. People love the idea of owning one, so buy one, then dress them up in accessories but don't actually get round to riding them much. In our street, rumour has it that the bloke on the corner has a brand new Sportster in his garage which he cleans every weekend but never rides! If I had known that then I might have approached him to see if we could do a deal. I ride the bike, he garages and cleans it! Anyway, Jim the seller, sounded trustworthy and friendly so I arranged to go and see the bike on the Saturday afternoon, after I had delivered the Virago to Les in the morning.
Missus On A Motorbike Jackie Hartley p234
-
Bella soon began to feel like I had owned and ridden her all my life. I could now keep up with Mike everywhere except on the motorway where the V-Rod just took off into the distance. I found that a steady 60 mile an hour felt fine but much above that and the bike began to vibrate all the way up through the footpegs, my feet, my legs and into my bottom. Mike thought this was hilarious and began to call her my Sporting Tractor! I could reach higher speeds if I needed to, but long journeys without a windscreen and at bone shaking high speeds always left me feeling like I had been beaten all over with sticks so I preferred to look for slower, more scenic routes. Riding through the dales, shattering the peace and scaring the wildlife, I began to realise that it took real skill to ride Bella well. I couldn't always rely on the extra power to get me out of trouble. Riding at the higher speeds I had to learn to read the road more quickly and give more forethought to gear changes.
Missus On A Motorbike Jackie Hartley pp261-2
-
There is something about a trip that takes over the mind. The crew foreman, dark and deeply wrinkled by 23 years on roofs, told us about an automobile trip he had taken across country when he graduated from high school. He could have been talking about last summer. To save money, he had slept in the car, washed up in gas station restrooms, and eaten bread and cheese he bought at grocery stores in the little towns. He worried about the car because it used a quart of oil between fill-ups but it made it fine and continued to run for two years after the trip. If he could get another one like it today, he'd buy it in a minute.
One of the younger men told us about his brother, who had gone with a friend on a cross-country motorcycle trip. They had run short of money several days from home and started sleeping in public parks. One night it had rained, but they found a picnic shelter and slept on the tables, wearing their rain gear. They arrived home with their gas tanks on reserve and less than a dollar between them.
The stories were always of hard times. Of going to places made more beautiful by the glad harshness of the road. Of meeting people and walking with them on the edge. Experiencing life.
Purple Mountains Notch Miyake pp18-9
-
The Norton rider came to my table after I sat down. He had come to the restaurant for a cup of coffee, but it had been just an excuse to ride the Norton.
"The bike's in restoration," he said, "but it's rideable." It was an unnecessary apology, made to establish his standards.
"Looks perfect to me," I replied.
"Nah, the handlebars and controls are screwed up. The guy that owned the bike before changed them. He thought he was upgrading the machine. Damn parts are hard to get now-a-days, so I left the old bars on so I can ride."
I thought of the stark honesty of the Norton. Real motorcycling. Noisy, unreliable, uncomfortable, dangerous enjoyment. I was momentarily ashamed of the BMW I was riding. It electric starter and a small fairing that kept the wind off my chest.
Then I recalled the British bikes I rode in the '50s and the vibration that numbed every part the body that touched the bike. It was so bad it even numbed my adolescent sex drive. The BMW is smooth and quiet, and I get off at the end of the day feeling fine.
Besides, these days I need all the sex drive I can get.
Purple Mountains Notch Miyake p43
-
Bill came back in and invited me to join him at his table. "I really want one of those new GSs," he said, turning over a pile of motorcycle magazines. "Look, it was reviewed in Cycle World this month."
I leafed through the magazine but it really didn't interest me.
"I went on a diet once and got to be just as slim as you," he said. I was dubious, but said nothing.
"I knew it wouldn't last so I got a small bike, a Honda 350, while I could enjoy it. I really had a good time with it. Now, of course, I'd need a big machine."
His knowledge of motorcycles was broad and accurate, so I had to take him seriously. We talked about motorcycles long enough to establish our mutual respect, then turned to other subjects.
"You know," he said, "People are afraid when they first look at me. But when I tell them I am a nurse, it's okay." Bill was a nurse at a mental hospital. His size was an asset with some of the more unruly patients.
It turns out that Jackson is really best known for its mental hospital and maximum-security prison. So much for its history as the original capital of Mississippi.
Purple Mountains Notch Miyake p65
-
On the way out of Jackson, the rain forest abruptly opened into cleared fields, some partially flooded. Cattle grazed on the high spots and there were no trees to break the view. A steel mesh fence topped by coils of razor wire ran next to the road. Another similar fence stood behind it, and finally a long wall. The prison. The open areas between the fences were live fire zones for shooting escapees. I stopped along the road. The plain walls, fences, and open fields seemed to darken the already grey day. It was a malevolently desolate place. A community of outcasts, raging together. A van full of prisoners passed. All of them turned to look at me, freedom on every mind. They had the same look that ended almost every encounter I have had on the trip. If I could have heard them, they would have said, like almost everyone else, "I wish I could do that."
Here, criminals were imprisoned by walls and the force of arms. Nearby, there were people imprisoned by their minds. And everywhere, there were people imprisoned by their lives.
Purple Mountains Notch Miyake pp66-7
-
Steve bought his BMW the year before from a dealer in Albuquerque. He'd had the head ported and had installed lightweight wrist pins, dual plugs, and Mikuni carburettors— more than $1,800 in modifications. He said he had blown away a mildly hopped-up Harley in one of those classic midnight drag races.
You know the kind.
Harley Owner to Steve: Why did you buy that piece of shit? It would have a hard time outrunning a donkey.
Steve: Oh yeah? Well, it will outrun that piece of shit you ride.
Harley Owner: Oh yeah?
And so on. The Harley owner looked over Steve's bike after the race and noticed the dual plugs and Mikunis. "Hey," he said, "This bike ain't stock." He immediately tore down his bike and went very radical. Their second time out, the Harley blew up.
There are three forms of motorcycle fanaticism. Steve's buddies were cruisers, guys with attitudes and a love of chrome. I am a touring type, a travelling motorcycle cheapskate for whom distance is everything. And then there are the speed freaks, the guys in racing leathers you sometimes see on Sunday mornings bent over crotch rockets flying down deserted canyon roads.
Purple Mountains Notch Miyake pp83-4
-
That got a chuckle out of me.
-
The next morning I left before anybody else was awake. I stopped at the Shoreline Market for breakfast. There were two motorcycles and a tractor-trailer parked in front. I walked in carrying my helmet and one of the motorcycle riders asked me to join them at a large table. The two truckers on the rig outside were also at the table. There was nobody else in the restaurant.
We talked about travel. The truckers spent all but two weeks of the year on the road, and had been doing it for years. They slept in the rig, alternating driving to keep moving, and stopping in truck stops to shower and refuel. Both of them were divorced.
"It comes with the territory."
They both agreed that trucking was a tough way to make a living, but they didn't think they could do anything else. Whenever they were not on the road they usually got drunk, holed up with some woman, and regretted it later. The road imposed a discipline they knew they needed to survive.
The two bikers were travelling together on a five-day vacation trip up the coast. They stayed in motels because they found the campgrounds were usually crowded and had lousy facilities, as I had discovered.
Purple Mountains Notch Miyake p115
-
I was passing RVs almost all day. None of them seemed to go the speed limit and staying behind them meant riding in a muddy mess of dirt and small stones. I had to wipe my face shield with the back of my glove every few seconds to clear off the mud so I could see. In the open, the clean rain and wind keeps the shield clear.
It began to rain seriously after lunch. I was wearing my longjohns, regular riding clothes, a sweater, and my leather jacket under my rainsuit. It was cold. My gloves were soaked and my fingers got so numb that I had trouble pulling the clutch and front brake levers.
I stopped at Haines Junction for coffee and to warm up after crossing Boulder Summit. I wasn't tired, but my senses seemed dulled, as though I were feeling things a few seconds after they happened.
If I kept going, I could get to Haines today. But the border closed at 5:00 and I might not make it. That meant camping overnight by the side of the road or in a primitive campground. In the rain.
The restaurant I had stopped in had a small motel attached.
The Cozy Corner.
"How much is a room in the motel?"
$60."
Only $45 US, I thought.
"I'll take one." The room was clean and spartan. It had a portable TV low stand and an armchair next to the bed. There was a tub and plenty of hot water. I soaked in it until the chill was replaced by a warm glow. That was worth the price of admission.
Purple Mountains Notch Miyake p166
-
Harry was a retired farmer, still farming, but retired. He was lean and agile, still looking like he could muscle big bags of seed into the planter. Alice was white-haired and matronly, even in her leathers. She was a passenger on this ride, but she usually rode her own bike. All of them had a solid Midwestern goodness that their biker disguise could not overcome. The kind of goodness that rushes to open doors for old ladies and cuts the neighbour's lawn while they are off on vacation. Decent people.
Jean was the oldest of the bunch but looked the youngest, probably because she dyed her hair. Al had a few medical problems. Seventy years old and a sugar diabetic.
"This might be his last big ride," said Harry. "He had a serious problem because he stopped taking his pills. He had to go in the hospital, so we delayed our trip.
"As soon as they let him out, he wanted to leave. He's supposed to go for outpatient treatment, but he just took off. And when he got to feeling better, he stopped the pills again. I sure hope he makes it home."
Harry said all this, understanding that Al was dying and needed to experience the road one last time. I almost understood. But would I be willing to ride alongside someone committing suicide?
Maybe. If he rode tall through the Frazier Valley and felt the hope in the desert. If he rode into the mountains and felt the air richen and cool. If he knew this part of the world was blue because he didn't look at it through tinted glass. If he didn't have to open a door to experience a place because he was always outside. If he didn't come out of the rain and cold because he couldn't anyway. If he forgot that he was 70 years old and a little shaky from the pills. If he laid down on the grass and slept when he was tired.
Sure I'd do it. Even though they would say I helped kill him.
Purple Mountains Notch Miyake pp172-3
-
Sandwiches here are either sold alone, meaning without extras, or "In a basket," meaning with fries and coleslaw.
Ordering lunch was an adventure.
"I'd like an egg salad sandwich and french fries."
"In a basket."
"A plate is okay."
"It comes on a plate."
"Good."
"Do you want coleslaw?"
"What?"
"Do you want coleslaw or a side of fries?"
"I'd like an egg salad sandwich and french fries."
"In a basket?"
This was getting repetitious. "Okay. However you serve it."
"Okay. Egg salad in a basket."
"With fries."
"Okay."
I waited expectantly for my lunch basket. It came on a plate with a mound of fries and a tiny paper cup of coleslaw. Like the waitress said, no basket.
Purple Mountains Notch Miyake p194
-
When we were settled at a table I asked Kate why she rode such a tall bike.
"My old boyfriend said I should get a BMW because they so reliable. I got a good deal on this one, so I bought it. I'm getting used to it. I still drop it a lot, but there is usually somebody around to help me pick it up."
All BMWs are tall motorcycles, so I asked, "Why don't you get a Honda or something like that?"
"Oh, no. I like owning a BMW and meeting all the BMW people. There are BMW riders everywhere I go. I just don't see many Hondas except for Gold Wings." True. Honda sells a lot more motorcycles, but I had seen more BMWs on the road than anything else. Of course, that could be because I was on a BMW myself. Still, would I ride a bike that was way too tall just because of brand loyalty? We're not talking Chevy people vs Ford people. We're talking falling down vs staying upright. Luckily, I wasn't as short as Kate. It would have been a real problem.
Purple Mountains Notch Miyake p214
-
A study by Kawishima at the University of Tokyo, titled “The relationship between motorcycle riding and the human mind”, tested male motorcyclists between 40 and 50. They evaluated two groups, regular use cyclists and a non-rider control group. Each individual was examined for brain function and cognitive skills.
After two months on two wheels, research results were able to conclude riders who drove their motorcycles to the office daily had increased cognitive functioning when compared to those who did not. When they analysed the data produced by the men, who were also asked to repeat a set of numbers in reverse order, consistent motorcycle riders’ scores had increased more than 50 percent, In contrast, the control group’s scores slightly decreased.
It was also found that these improvements would be lost if regular use of a motorcycle ceases.
In addition to keeping your mind on its best game, riding has been proven to have a positive impact on mental health, helping mood and reducing stress. The study’s rider participants noted that after 60 days of consistent motorcycle use, they had reduced stress levels and were generally happier. You know that adrenaline rush you get each time you accelerate on your bike? That’s the release of endorphins. Not only do endorphins feel great, they help improve your mood as well. Indirectly, riders gain more exposure to direct sunlight, which increases Vitamin D and helps overall mood. Money saved from spending on fuel for a motorcycle as opposed to a car, truck or SUV can also help bring down personal stress levels.
As substantial as they are, the benefits of motorcycle riding are not solely mental. They’re significantly physical as well.
https://theridingcenter.com/ 10 April 2020
-
Did you know that you could get your entire daily exercise through riding? A calorie burner similar to fast walking, motorcycling generally burns around 200-300 calories per hour. Want to burn even more calories? Ride against the wind! (Fast fact: competitive race riders- please only do this in a safe environment with proper training- can burn up to 600 calories an hour as a result of the exercise required to control a bike at extremely high speeds)
While burning these calories, you’re also gaining a full body workout. The muscle use and energy required to manoeuvre a motorcycle help make your abdominal muscles stronger. Who doesn’t want to be able to say they maintain their six-pack motorcycling?
Since motorcycles usually weigh at least a few hundred pounds, riders must use their bodies to help safely balance and steer. This demands use of nearly every muscle, which, over time, improves muscle tone!
https://theridingcenter.com/ 10 April 2020
-
Who doesn’t want to be able to say they maintain their six-pack motorcycling?
It's true!!! You should see my gut!!! Trouble is, my six pack appears to be inside some sort of esky... :crackup
-
Riding has also been proven to make a positive difference for individuals suffering from Type 2 diabetes or weak knees.
The exercise one gets from riding impacts body chemistry, decreasing insulin use. This increase in insulin sensitivity also tells your body to store less fat, which can help you make significant strides with weight loss goals. As true of any other form of exercise, no one is claiming riding is a cure for diabetes. Nonetheless, it can help! As a result of the intense use of thigh muscles in motorcycling, riders end up with stronger knees and become less susceptible to knee injuries.
So next time you get sick of the daily treadmill grind or solving tedious puzzles to keep your mind running strong or if just don’t have time for any extra personal maintenance in your day, change things up! Try getting that mental and physical fitness in by doing something you already love- like motorcycling.
https://theridingcenter.com/ 10 April 2020
-
I happened upon the next two books in a Maleny bookshop. The author is a local resident.
In Sri Lanka (Ceylon, as it was called in the '60s)
Rounding the next bend I nearly froze as I was confronted with the rear ends of huge mounds of flesh, lumbering along side by side, carrying logs gripped between their tusks and trunk. I was doing about thirty miles per hour on the still wet road and a sudden braking would mean another skid and a possible collision with the animals. The only alternative was to drive between them. Crouched low over the handlebars to keep under the logs I slipped through between the rolling monsters. I gave a sigh of relief as I burst into the open and continued cautiously on.
I cruised past villages, coconut groves and paddy fields and it was almost dark when I stopped to inquire the whereabouts of the hospital. Luckily I had picked a doctor's residence and he gave me directions to the hospital, which I reached after dark. I parked at the entrance and with my helmet in my hand entered, and was met by a police sergeant.
You will find your friend at the casualty ward on the first floor," he said. "Have you reported the accident to the police at Kahawatta?"
"No, but I will do it first thing in the morning," I promised him, "but now I want to find my friend."
Scooter Nomads Edsel Ward p16
-
It was a cloudy afternoon as we cruised along the smooth bitumen road, dodging ox-carts with their huge loads, and side stepping people walking right in the middle of the road. We were doing about 30 mph when we cruised up behind one of those characters. I started to blow the horn about fifty yards away but he appeared not to hear so I slowed down, keeping the horn blasting all the time.
I was about thirty feet off this middle-aged peasant, clad in loincloth and turban, when he started to meander all over the road. As I drew abreast of him he swayed in our direction and almost under the wheel. I swerved violently, almost biting the bitumen as I threw the scooter over in an endeavour to miss him.
I thought I had succeeded, but I had not allowed for the overhanging rucksack, which clouted his legs and the long, hooked stick he was carrying. The impact threw the stick and sent the jaywalker spinning across the road in a heap. As soon as I could I pulled up and we both ran back to see if any damage had been done. He was in the process of getting onto his feet when he saw us, and a complete change came over him. We could read it in his eyes.
"White men!"
In a flash he fell back on the ground again and put on an act that a film star would have envied. He rolled round holding various parts of his body as though he had been mortally wounded.
Keith and I looked at each other, spellbound for a second or two, for we knew we had not done any serious damage to him.
Just then a Land Rover pulled up and two Indians got out and came over to see what had happened. On being told our story they had a look at the writhing man, spoke to him, then turned and told us to give him a rupee and he would be cured. We felt a little annoyed at having been caught, for we should have known better, but I dug into my pocket and tossed him a few annas.
Immediately the pain ceased.
Scooter Nomads Edsel Ward pp59-60
-
After breakfast, we bought our permit, and joined the truck convoy. I was not looking forward to the drive over the spillways as each one was over a mile long and coated with oily slime over the top of which several inches of water ran. If we skidded there was a more than even chance of going over the top and into the river below, but I decided to give it a go and ride in the wake of the truck's duals.
At the sound of a bell the barrier was dropped. The race was on. There were two trucks ahead of me and I kept hard on their tail as they started grinding in low gear onto the first of the weirs. There, I eased the scooter down behind them and onto the greasy spillway. What we had been told had been no exaggeration, for the surface was inches thick with green oily slime which squelched out from under the truck wheels, leaving me only a narrow strip to ride in. On our left, about three feet away, was a six feet high spillway with water pouring across the road and over the bottom spillway. If we should get out of the wheel tracks there was five feet between us and the river. I kept close behind in the wake of the trucks, not taking my eyes off the narrow strip. We were wet with spray when we climbed the opposite bank with only three weirs to go.
Scooter Nomads Edsel Ward pp63-4
-
During Holi festival
Quick getaways were necessary in order to survive and at times I found myself driving dangerously, almost running over inebriated, glazed-eyed locals. On several occasions my vision was completely blurred as coloured water ran over my goggles and mixed with purple and green powder on my face. We intended stopping but there seemed to be no place of refuge, for even on the open road a crowd would be lying in wait for the unwary traveller. By this time I was sporting a red face and green beard, and to stop our clothes becoming even more stained, we donned our raincoats.
Further north we were pelted with paper water bombs, often managing to dodge them as they were hurled through the air from a distance.
The worst was still to come. Along what seemed to be a quiet stretch of road we were attacked by a crowd armed with paint brushes on long sticks and carrying great pots of paint (with silver frost the favourite colour). There was little we could do to escape.
We rode on until midday, when we found a shady spot by a buffalo wallow and had a cleanup in the muddy water.
Scooter Nomads Edsel Ward p90
-
At 6,000 feet a battered Land Rover came coasting down the range towards us with two Indian boys running alongside, kicking the front wheels every time the vehicle approached a curve. It pulled up in front of us, and a tall, Anglo-Indian chap with an enormous handlebar moustache jumped out.
"Captain Bijanbasi, ex Indian Army. Where the hell do you think you are going on that machine?"
"Darjeeling."
He stroked his moustache. "Got a place to stay there?"
"No. Any suggestions?"
"If I was there you could stay with me, but I won't be. I'll give you the address of a friend. He'll fix you up. While Keith was writing the address on his plaster cast, I asked the Captain where he was off to.
"Oh, yes, I have a broken tie-rod and I am going down to Siliguri to have it fixed. The tricky part about it is that I have absolutely no steering and have to rely on the boys to kick the front wheels around the curves."
The boys had bare feet and, although they all looked pretty happy at the time, I wondered how many pairs of broken feet there would be at the bottom.
Scooter Nomads Edsel Ward p106
-
We were cruising along nicely when suddenly the throttle cable snapped. I pulled up in the shade of a big tree to inspect the damage, and discovered that the cable had broken inside the carburettor. As one might expect in a case like this, we were miles from anywhere, on a waterless stage, with no spare cable.
I sat beside the scooter staring at it, trying to get inspiration.
Then an idea hit me - welding wire! Before leaving Brisbane, Neil Gunn of Sear and Gunn, had given me a reel saying, "It's wonderful stuff. You can do anything with it!"
I dug it out and tried it for size. Too thick! Not to be outdone, I got down on the road with two spanners and hammered the wire out into a long, thin strip. After some tricky work with the pliers, and a lot of patience, the cable was mended and even though I did not think so at the time, this repair job was strong enough to take us 3,500 miles before it was replaced.
Scooter Nomads Edsel Ward pp134-5
-
After dinner that evening, we stumbled our way up the dark stairway of our hotel and fumbled our way along a pitch-black hall to our door. When I finally located the keyhole and entered the room, I discovered that our light bulb had been taken out. With the aid of the dim street light, I located a torch and stumbled my way back down the stairs to the manager.
"The light bulb in our room is missing. Could I have another one please?"
"But you had one last night, don't you know we have to share them?" he protested, most upset. However, after a little persuading I managed to get one from him and returned to our room feeling as though I had robbed the place.
Scooter Nomads Edsel Ward p153
-
We were on our way out of the city when heavy rain started to fall and we were forced to take shelter. It was not long before the smooth, oil-caked bitumen was greasy, reminding me of a certain stretch of road in Ceylon. When the rain ceased, we got under way again but had not gone very far when I felt the wheels starting to skid.
"Hang on," I yelled to Keith. "It's on again."
I had hardly got the words out when the wheels slipped from underneath us and we were deposited bottoms first on the bitumen. We retained our sitting attitudes and slid gracefully along on our seats, travelling parallel with the scooter until we came to rest twenty yards further along the road. Unscathed we got to our feet. I switched the motor off, then wheeled Mirrabooka to the side of the road under a hail of applause from a group of onlookers who were nearly splitting their sides laughing.
Scooter Nomads Edsel Ward p202
-
Ceylon is not a name you hear very often anymore.
-
Ceylon is not a name you hear very often anymore.
You'll find a lot of aspects of this story from the sixties that a Millennial wouldn't understand or believe.
-
The boys' uncle owned a carpet factory and with the boys acting as interpreters we were shown over the factory, a high, narrow, mud building. Two rows of workers were busy working on their own designs, chanting as they worked. The average time for one person to make a rug, we were told, was about four months, and that is working from daylight till dark, sometimes seven days a week. I remarked on the youth of the workers and was told that rug makers start when they are very young and are usually finished at twenty-five because they go blind. This was easy to understand, for this place relied only on the sun to provide the light through the high, narrow windows. The swift hands astounded me as they slipped along the rug, weaving another row and then beating it down tight with shaped wooden mallets. Most of the workers had deformed fingers through constant use in this manner.
Scooter Nomads Edsel Ward pp239-240
-
About a hundred yards away from the camp on the banks of the stream, I found a big pile of driftwood, just what I wanted. I stuck the machete in the ground and started to drag some of the heavier timber free. I had just reefed a big branch away when I almost froze to the spot, for no more than five feet away from me lying coiled up amongst the timber was a great two-toned grey snake. It instantly unravelled itself and struck a menacing pose with an arched neck and head waving to and fro, waiting its chance to make a strike. At the same instant as this happened, I whipped off my crash helmet and, holding it by the inside webbing, held it in front of me so that if it struck it would have bite on the fibreglass first.
I was not sure what type of snake it was but I was not going to take any chances as it looked very big and healthy. It made several feints at me as I edged back towards the machete which was about six feet away - all the time keeping my eyes on the swaying reptile. Reaching for the knife, I flicked my eyes towards it and the snake struck. It fell just short of my crash helmet as I had moved a little out of range. Sensing that I was armed, it turned and made for the water. For the first time I could see all of it - a good seven feet and very thick. When I had recovered, I cautiously finished gathering the wood.
Scooter Nomads Edsel Ward p268
-
Next morning we got away to an early start and set out for Gumusane and the long climb up over the 8,000 feet pass by Mount Kopdagi. It was hard to keep my eyes on the road and not the alpine scenery. This road is closed for eight months of the year and even though now it was mid spring, the snow was still piled up to twelve feet thick by the side of the road, making a white gorge for us to drive through. A snowplough had just cleared the track and the road was a quagmire.
The descent to Gumusane was breathtaking, particularly when our brake drums ran hot and I found the scooter coasting down the steep winding gravel road at forty miles per hour with no hope of stopping. How we reached the bottom intact, I will never know. When I eventually stopped, it would have been possible to grill a steak on the brake drums. We had been over a lot of grades, but this was by far the steepest. At the time I do not think Keith knew what was happening for he told me afterwards that he thought I had gone crazy, trying to take Mirrabooka down such a grade at that speed. We still had a lot of mountain ranges to cross and I was now feeling very wary about long, downhill grades.
Scooter Nomads Edsel Ward p282
-
In Yugoslavia
We were in mountainous southern Yugoslavia on a rough, gravel-corrugated, pot-holed road, when I heard a noise which sounded like a semi-trailer coming up fast behind us. I looked to my right and was startled to see a thumping great tank with a red star on the turret, crashing through the timber, about twenty yards away and parallel to the road.
Keith screamed out over the noise, "Crikey, they are on to us - and I haven't got my anti-tank gun."
Keith had been in an anti-tank platoon in Korea. He had shot at these tanks before, and now wanted his gun.
I screamed back at him, "Remember, we are on a scooter and we don't have room for an anti-tank gun. You will just have to wait until we get home."
The tank got ahead of us, then slewed across the road in front, blocking our path. I braked heavily and stopped just short of the monster.
The turret lid opened and an officer climbed out, followed by a crew member with a sub-machine gun. The officer greeted us with a grave, unblinking stare, then went through the language list and decided we spoke English.
Holding his hand out, he said, "Passport? Visa?"
We got our papers and handed them to him. He thumbed through them, snorted, handed them back and then in broken English said, "You have ridden into a Russian tank firing-range. We are about to start night exercises. You can go no further. You will camp the night right here. You will not move until daylight."
Scooter Nomads Book 2 Edsel Ward pp16-17
-
It was only then, that I saw what was on the road ahead: it was lined with small tanks, troops, people in national dress, and lots of bunting. I started the
motor and moved out. Immediately, people started cheering and waving flags at us. As we rode, the troops stood to attention; some saluted, with Keith returning the salute.
Then the penny dropped - all of the looking at the watches bit, meant someone was running late and we were being sent through as a distraction, until the main cavalcade arrived. Someone in that tent had a sense of humour! I thought, "Right, this is something we had never done," so I decided to give them a good show and rode slowly, giving people plenty of time to wave their flags and cheer... and we even received some flowers in return.
Then I wondered about the real cavalcade: if there would be any cheering and bunting left for them? I hoped there was some left for them, as we now seemed to be using it all up. We had been told to expect the unexpected, and it had happened.
Scooter Nomads Book 2 Edsel Ward p19
-
Next morning, I left Keith with 'Mirra' and walked to the town, which I found wasn't far if I took a ferry ride across the inlet which divided the town. I found the workshop and arranged for their truck to pick up the scooter and bring it back the workshop. I went with the truck, which had given us five men to lift the scooter onto the truck. Before leaving, the owner gave us a bottle of local wine, telling us how good it was - "It will make you strong." It looked like kerosene to me.
With neither Keith nor I being drinkers, Keith said to me, "What are you going to do with it? We don't have much room."
I said to him, "I think it could work well in our metho burner," and it did. In fact we cooked our porridge on it every morning, to Norway and back.
With 'Mirra' loaded, we set off to the workshop. On inspection, we found that the spline had been stripped, which meant a new axle. The mechanic said, "We can make one but it will take two or three days."
Scooter Nomads Book 2 Edsel Ward p43
-
In Austria
We were cruising along nicely when two motorcycle policemen came upon us, one on each side as they escorted us for about three hundred yards. They then moved off, to be replaced by two police cars who pulled us over.
"Where are you going?" they asked.
"The camping place," we replied.
They said "Follow us." So now there was one in front and one behind us. The blue blinking lights went on, then the sirens and the pace picked up. I was hoping they wouldn't stop in a hurry, because I didn't want to finish up on their bonnet- they were pushing us.
We eventually came to what looked like a park - it was the camping place. It was huge - well laid-out, with masses of gardens. The police guided us to reception and booked us in. They apologised for hurrying us along but it was necessary, as we had been holding up traffic and had created a big traffic jam on the autobahn.
People had been slowing down to get a good look at us and the end of the line was at a crawl, even though there were two and three lanes.
Scooter Nomads Book 2 Edsel Ward p54
-
In West Berlin
The next three days, we spent with reporters and newsmen who bought new tyres and film for us in return for our story and photos. They also passed us a handful of cash - I can't remember how much it was - but we were also given another handful after our TV interview two days later.
Keith bought flowers for our hosts, while I worked on the scooter. We had TV staff descend on our unit in order to set up for the following morning. The place was strewn with cables, flood lights and tripods. We had to be care moving around as the unit wasn't large.
Next morning, it was action time. We were filmed eating breakfast, packing our rucksacks, going down to the scooter, loading up, saying goodbye and then, riding off into the distance. It was Take 1, Take 2... and so on. Going up and down the steps with our gear, loading and unloading the scooter - all this took up the whole morning. They finally packed up and left, passing us another lot of cash, telling us they had enjoyed themselves. We had a lot of fun but were pleased to see them go... it had all been full-on. What we weren't aware of at the time was that the whole thing had been screened all over Europe. We only found that out later when people began waving at us and bringing us food.
Scooter Nomads Book 2 Edsel Ward pp70-1
-
In Sweden
At Storuman, we were back into logging country with sawmills and timber jinkers, which for us were a menace, as they would take up the whole road; and to them, two blokes on a motor scooter looked like a speck on the landscape. On one occasion, I saw one coming and got over as far as I could to let him pass but he only got half his length past us when he moved over, almost putting us under the jinker. That didn't worry me as much as the rear wheels of the jinker, which seemed to be lining up with the scooter.
I yelled out to Keith, "Hang on, were going over into the bog!"
The road was flat and at the same level as the bog. Over we went and were pleasantly surprised to find we were on a giant mattress of moss. As we hit the moss, the rear wheels screamed past us. They would have only needed to clip us and we would have gone over anyway. Doing it this way, we had some control over our fall. We were both in one piece and still sitting on the scooter but slowly sinking into the moss, which brought us back to reality. We had to take everything off the scooter, including us, then drag the machine back to the road, which wasn't far away.
When the scooter was back on the road, we spoke for the first time - and it was brief, "That was close."
Scooter Nomads Book 2 Edsel Ward pp86-7