From the Library

[Biggles]

I began posting excerpts from the books I own on September 29, 2012.
In the intervening eleven and a half years there have been some folks join us who may not have seen the series.  I'm re-posting the first book's quotations- a real classic by Ted Simon who is one of the trailblazers of the Adventure riding genre.  The revived interest for me was caused by my having recently finished reading another book which I'll add after the 30 Jupiter's Travels excerpts.  I've  just begun a 700+ page saga (which weighs 1.25kg!) co-authored by an Australian rider.  FWIW, I have scanned in 2538 excerpts, all but 9 of which you can find in the forum if you look hard enough.
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The idea of traveling round the world had come to me one day in March that year, out of the blue.  It came not as a vague thought or wish but as a fully formed conviction.  The moment it struck me I knew it would be done and how I would do it.  Why I thought immediately of a motorcycle I cannot say.  I did not have a motorcycle, even a licence to ride one, yet it was obvious from the start that that was the way to go, and that I could solve the problems involved. 
The worst problems were the silly ones, like finding a bike to take the driving test on.  I resorted to shameless begging and deceit to borrow the small bike I needed.  There was a particularly thrilling occasion when I turned up at the Yamaha factory on the outskirts of London to take a small 125-CC trail bike out "on test."  I had my L plates hidden in my pocket, but first I had to get out of the factory gates looking as though I knew how the gears worked. Those were the first and some of the hardest yards, I ever rode; now it can be told.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 17

[Jdbiker]

Thanks for bringing this back 👍

[Biggles]

I carried out my first-ever major motorcycle overhaul in Alexandria.  I found a cavernous garage near Ramilies Station, haggled bitterly over five piastres for the right to work there, and then received many times that amount back in tea,  cigarettes, snacks and true friendship from the poor men who struggled to earn a livelihood in that place.
I took two days to do a job that might be done in two or three hours, but every move was fraught with danger.  I dared not make a mistake.  Already I knew that there would be no chance at all of getting spare parts in Egypt.  Both pistons, I found, were deformed by heat, and I had only one spare piston with me (a piece of nonsense which inspired more waves of telepathic profanity to burn the ears of Meriden [UK Triumph company]).  The pistons had seized their rings, and I put back the less distorted one after sculpting the slots with a razor blade.  It seemed the only thing to do.  I prayed that I was right.  I had no real idea about what had caused the overheating after only four thousand miles, and felt rather gloomy about it.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 66

[Biggles]

"Yes, yes, yes," they scream and, in a flurry of brown limbs, they fight with the Triumph up a gangplank, over a rail into a narrow gangway, through hatches, over sills and bollards, four hundred pounds of metal dragging, sliding, flying and dropping among roars and curses and pleas for divine aid, while I follow, helpless and resigned.  Finally the bike is poised over the water between the two boats. The outstretched arms can only hold it, but they cannot move it, and it is supported, incredibly, by the foot brake pedal, which is caught on the ship's rail.  Muscles are weakening.  The pedal is bending and will soon slip, and my journey will end in the fathomless silt of Mother Nile.  At this last moment, a rope descends miraculously from the sky dangling a hook, and the day is saved.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 73

[Williamson]

"Yes, yes, yes," they scream and, in a flurry of brown limbs, they fight with the Triumph up a gangplank, over a rail into a narrow gangway, through hatches, over sills and bollards, four hundred pounds of metal dragging, sliding, flying and dropping among roars and curses and pleas for divine aid, while I follow, helpless and resigned.  Finally the bike is poised over the water between the two boats. The outstretched arms can only hold it, but they cannot move it, and it is supported, incredibly, by the foot brake pedal, which is caught on the ship's rail.  Muscles are weakening.  The pedal is bending and will soon slip, and my journey will end in the fathomless silt of Mother Nile.  At this last moment, a rope descends miraculously from the sky dangling a hook, and the day is saved.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 73

Could have spoiled his day, big time!

[STeveo]

Thanks for these posts. Although I have read this book a couple of times it is still a good read to have again.

[Biggles]

It was plainly impossible to move the bike, so I began to unload it.  I noticed immediately that my water bag was empty, the plastic perforated, the contents drained away.  Well at least l had a litre of distilled water.  With all the luggage off I glanced in the gas tank.  Had it been possible at this stage to shock me, I would have been shocked.  There was only a puddle of gasoline left, hardly a gallon.  My fuel consumption was twice what it should have been, and when I thought about it, that was perfectly natural.  Grinding along in second gear over a loose surface in such heat, it is what you would expect.  Only I, of course, had not expected it.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 82

[Biggles]

Scooping the sand out by hand took half an hour, but I managed to make a lane back to the firmer ground.  There was a bit of brush growing on the dunes, and I paved my lane with twigs.  Then, inch by inch, I was able to haul the bike back to where I wanted it.  Again I had lost a lot of sweat, and I got the water bottle out.  It was warm to the touch.  I put it to my lips, and then spat vigorously on the ground, mustering as much of my own good saliva as I could. The bottle contained acid. 
Battery acid.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 82

[ST2UP]

Ahhh…..familiarity 

[Biggles]

If falling were a competitive sporting event, I would be a champion. Sometimes, on deeply rutted tracks like the one between Gedaref and Metema, it was impossible to avoid a fall.
(Getting it up again) was an exhausting exercise because I could not lift the bike without unpacking everything first.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 92

[Biggles]

I have had one more soft fall, but each jerk on the wheel pulls the muscle in my left shoulder and prevents it from healing.  I feel no hunger, no thirst.  I am absolutely wrapped up in this extraordinary experience, in the unremitting effort, in the marvellous fact that I am succeeding, that it is at all possible, that my worst fears are not just unrealized but contradicted.  The bike, for all its load, is manageable.  I seem to have, after all, the strength and stamina to get by, and my reserves seem to grow the more I draw upon them. 
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 95

[Biggles]

Why you?  Why were you chosen to ride through the desert while other men are going home from the office?
Chosen?  I thought I chose myself. Were Odysseus and Jason, Columbus and Magellan chosen?
That is a very exalted company you have summoned up there. What have you got in common with Odysseus, for God's sake?
Well, we're all just acting out other people's fantasies, aren't we?  Maybe we're not much good for anything else.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 96

[Biggles]

The road to Gedaref is worse.  Much worse.  Worse than anything I imagined.  At times, in fact, I believe it is impossible, and consider giving up.  The corrugations are monstrous.
Six-inch ridges, two feet apart, all the way with monotonous, shattering regularity.  Everything on the bike that can move does so.  Every bone in every socket of my body rattles.  Not even the most ingenious fairground proprietor could devise a more uncomfortable ride.  I feel certain it must break the bike. I try riding very slowly, and it is worse than ever.  Only at fifty miles an hour does the bike begin to fly over ridges, levelling out the vibration a little, but it is terribly risky.  Between the ridges is much loose sand.  Here and there are sudden hazards.  The chances of falling are great, and I am afraid of serious damage to the bike. 
Yet I feel I must fly, because I don't think the machine will survive eighty miles of this otherwise.  It is hair-raising and then it becomes impossible again.  The road swings to the west and the sun burns out my vision.  I realize I must stop and make camp.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 100

[Biggles]

Why don't the tires tear to shreds under all this punishment?  Why no punctures?  I think a puncture might finish me, I'm so beat.  Why doesn't the Triumph just die? Unlike me, it has no need to go on.  It protests and chatters.  On one steep climb it even fainted, but after a rest it went to work again.  I hate to think what havoc is being wrought inside those cylinders.
We have such a long way to go.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 102

[Biggles]

It is clear that the bike can barely cope with the combination of load, work and heat.  The road is scarred and ripped to rubble.  It's like following the track of some stumbling monster of destruction.  Halfway up a particularly hard climb, I lose momentum and the bike simply dies on me.  I don't know what's happened, what to do.  I wait awhile and kick it over.  It starts and revs up fine in neutral, but when I engage the clutch it dies on me again.  I am quite near the top of the hill, and I unload the heaviest boxes and carry them up myself.  Then I ride the bike up, and load again.  The plugs and timing are O.K.  What else can I do but cross my fingers, and try to keep up momentum.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 106

[Biggles]

The best trick in my repertoire was provided by a company called Schrader in Birmingham.  They made a valve with a long tube which I could screw into the engine instead of a spark plug.  As long as you had at least two cylinders, you could run the engine on one and the other piston would pump up your tire.  So I was able to pump up my tube, and it seemed all right.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 129

[Jdbiker]

Clever, although a modern engine would probably throw an error 😄

[Williamson]

....a company called Schrader in Birmingham....made a valve....

We all have a couple of those on our motorbikes.

[Biggles]

....a company called Schrader in Birmingham....made a valve....

We all have a couple of those on our motorbikes.

In the tyres' valve mechanism- just a different application at a smaller scale.

[Biggles]

I waved to him and he stopped beside me.
"Can you help me, I wonder..." I said.
"Absolutely," he said.  "Most definitely.  I see you are having trouble, isn't it.  A spot of bother."
" Well, my tire's flat..." and I went on to explain.
"I will introduce you to Mr. Paul Kiviu," he burst out enthusiastically.  "Definitely he is the very man of the moment.  He is manager BP station Kibwezi Junction and he is my friend."
Mercifully the road was level at that point.  As I pushed the loaded bike along on its flat tire, Pius bobbed around me like a butterfly, calling encouragement, imploring me to believe that my troubles would soon be over.  His good nature was irresistible and I began to believe him.  In any case I was happy that something was happening and I was in touch with people.  At the time it seemed to me that what I wanted was to have my problem solved quickly and to get on my way.  I had a boat to catch in Cape Town and the journey was still the main thing.  What happened on the way, who I met, all that was incidental.  I had not quite realized that the interruptions were the journey.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 130

[Williamson]

In the tyres' valve mechanism- just a different aplication at a smaller scale.

Yes, but I suppose they work in opposite directions.

I didn't know (or at least that I recall) of the Schrader valve until I had my bicycle shop (back in the 90's).  As kids, we referred to them as American valves.

Bloody septics, think they invented everything.

[Biggles]

My confidence in the Triumph has gone beyond surprise and gratitude.  I now rely on it without question, and it seems past all coincidence that on this last day, the unseen fate working itself out in the cylinder barrel should manifest itself.  It is not I who am looking for significance in these events.  The significance declares itself unaided.  Just beyond Trichardt, in the morning, the power suddenly falters and I hear, unmistakably, the sound of loose metal tinkling somewhere; but where?  Although the power picks up again, I stop to look.  The chain is very loose.  Could it have been skipping the sprockets?  I tighten the chain and drive on.  Power fails rapidly and after about smell of burning.  Is it the clutch?  It seems to have seized, because even in neutral it won't move.
Two friendly Afrikaners in the postal service stop their car to supervise, and their presence irritates me and stops me thinking.  I remove the chain case to look at the clutch, a good half hour's work.  Nothing wrong, and then my folly hits me.  I tightened the chain and forgot to adjust the brake.  I've been riding with the rear brake on for four miles, and the shoes have seized on the drum.  Apart from anything else, that is not the best way to treat a failing engine.  I put everything together again and set off, but the engine noise is now very unhealthy.  A loud metallic hammering from the cylinder barrel.  A push rod?  A valve?  I'm so near Jo'burg, the temptation to struggle on is great.  At Pietersburg I stop at a garage.
The engine oil has vanished.
"That's a bad noise there, hey!" says the white mechanic, and calls his foreman over.
"Can I go on like that?"
"As long as it's not too far. You'll use a lot of oil."
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 169

[Biggles]

I spend two days at Naboomspruit working on the engine.  The crankcase is full of broken metal.  The con rod is scarred, the sump filter in pieces, the scavenge pipe knocked off centre.  The sleeve of the bad cylinder is corrugated.   I have kept the old piston from Alexandria, and put it back thinking it might get me as far as Jo'burg.  With everything washed out and reassembled, the engine runs, but no oil returns from the crankcase.
The second day I spend on the lubrication system, picking pieces out of the oil pump.  On Sunday, in bright sunshine, I set off again, for twenty blissful miles before all hell breaks loose.  The knocking and rattling is now really terrible.  I decide that I must have another look, and by the roadside I take the barrel off again and do some more work on the piston and put it back again.  By now I am really adept and it takes me four hours.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels pp 169-170

[Biggles]

Joe's Motorcycles on Market Street, as agents for Meriden, took the engine to pieces again and sent me off with a rebored barrel, two new pistons, a new con rod, main bearings, valves, idler gear and other bits and pieces.  The broken metal had penetrated everywhere and again I was struck by the force of the coincidence that all this havoc had been wrought virtually within sight of Johannesburg.  I was very susceptible to "messages" and wondered whether someone was trying to tell me something, like, for example,  "I'll get you there, but don't count on it."
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 171

[Biggles]

Calling at a gas station is an event, particularly on a motorcycle with a foreign number plate.  In southern Africa everyone plays the number-plate game.  You can tell instantly where each one comes from; C for Cape Province, J for Johannesburg, and so on.  My plate begins with an X, a mystery all the deeper because some pump attendants belong to the Xhosa tribe.  Peeling off damp layers of nylon and leather, unstrapping the tank bag to get to the filler cap, fighting to get at the money under my waterproof trousers which are shaped like a clown's, chest high with elastic braces, I wait for the ritual conversation to begin.
"Where does this plate come from, baas?" asks the man.
"From England."
A sharp intake of breath, exhaled with a howl of ecstasy. "From England? Is it? What a long one! The baas is coming on a boat?"
"No," I reply nonchalantly, knowing the lines by heart, relishing them rather. "On this. Overland."
Another gasp, followed by one or even two whoops of joy. The face is a perfect show of incredulity and admiration.
"On this one?  No!  Uh!  I can't.  You come on this one?  Oh!  It is too big."
I am learning, as I make my way through my first continent, that it is remarkably easy to do things, and much more frightening to contemplate them.
Ted Simon  Jupiter's Travels p 176