From the Library

[Biggles]

The entire gathering was like that. Almost everyone had set out in the rain and almost everyone had experienced the types of misadventures that would make your typical bikers hang up their helmet for the day. But here we were, all having battled the elements in one way or another just to stand around, covered in mud, and chat with far-flung friends for an hour or two before saddling up and doing it all again on the way home.
The gathering wrapped up with a little speech, where I received a little gift pack including IBA Australia swag, so that was awesome. My FarRider number is/was now 1196, a number possibly consigned to history as the FarRider group was sold and promptly disbanded shortly after this ride. By all accounts I had the third-to-last FarRider number ever assigned, which makes me all the more pleased that we were able to make it happen. One more round of hugs and goodbyes, then we were off.
Pushing Miles  Wendy Crockett and Ian McPhee p171

[Biggles]

Unbeknownst to us at the time, that hadn't actually given us any useful info. (For all of you playing along at home, that makes four faulty jumper boxes on two continents; Ian neglected to mention that the two boost boxes I'd left in the Tahoe were also dead.) It's a nightmare getting into the battery on an R1100RT, so Ian got to work on that while I tore down the alternator belt housing to assess. The belt was still intact, if a bit squeally, but it was immediately evident that he'd picked up a bunch of rocks and gravel in the housing which had peeled a rib off the belt. Knowing that the belt wasn't our pertinent critical failure, and lacking torque wrenches to do the job properly, we elected to run with that belt. We tested the battery directly and it seemed good, which led me to suspect the starter. We gave it another try with the boost box and it started right up; again in retrospect, we now know it was the manual rotation of the engine and starter that did the job, not the boost box, but it led to us being unsure of the offending component.

Pushing Miles  Wendy Crockett and Ian McPhee p233

[Biggles]

"Oh, man - it's you guys! You've got to be freezing! I was having a tough time with the wipers going, I don't know how you're doing it. How much farther are you going?" He kind of trailed off as my frosty brain was still slowly processing all of this, then he said, "Oh, I'm sorry. (waves towards his car). We've been seeing you all day. We made you our road buddies."
I had to laugh because I'd made them my road buddies too! Sometimes on these long, straight runs where you're burning through a full tank of gas, you find yourself hopscotching along with other vehicles who are clearly on a mission of their own. It's a fun little way to entertain yourself; sometimes the other vehicle is clearly aware of this new bond and does things like make space for you in traffic or signals you of police presence. Other times you're in a world of your own making, imagining their backstory and destination, left to wonder if other drivers ever mentally befriend you in the same way you've befriended them. Over the years I've occasionally pulled off for fuel at the same time as a Road Buddy, sometimes coincidentally and sometimes intentionally, but it has never resulted in anything more than a nod of recognition from distant bowsers. This was the first time it ever resulted in a full-on animated conversation with someone who was equally as excited to talk to me as I was to him.
Pushing Miles  Wendy Crockett and Ian McPhee pp261-2

[Bodø]

I've done this too. 

[Biggles]

We were incredibly lucky — bad luck, good luck, all that — that we happened to be as close to the trailer as we were. It sounds counterintuitive, but I was actually close enough to see the wheel coming loose before it let go completely. I alerted Ian an instant before the blocks went flying; the car in front of us copped some pretty hard hits, but we managed to weave between the sliding projectiles without a scratch. Behind us, cars began to slam brakes and swerve unpredictably, creating new hazards in their own right. In my mirror I watched as blocks careened into cars, and cars into each other. We were in precisely the right position to watch the chaos unfolding before us and the carnage behind us, while somehow avoiding becoming part of it ourselves.
Pushing Miles  Wendy Crockett and Ian McPhee p277

[Biggles]

We were in Sioux Falls when he suddenly mumbled something indecipherable through the comms before jerking across three lanes of traffic and bombing off an exit. I barely had time to react, horns blaring as I cut of traffic to give chase, trying to figure out what the hell had gone wrong. It turns out he was simply too tired to go on, a realization he'd only had at that precise second. I was honestly pretty mad that he endangered me with that maneuver and I told him that if he pulled another stunt like that again he should not expect me to follow him. But truth be told, he was torched. Completely, legitimately torched. Our mishmash of short sleeps had simply not been enough to refill his coffers. He wasn't making sense and clearly couldn't think straight. We went into a Marlin's restaurant adjoining the truck stop where he'd pulled in and he went to sit at a table with chairs, not processing that we'd need a booth if he was going to lay down for a sleep. I gently redirected him to a corner booth and he immediately sacked out.
Pushing Miles  Wendy Crockett and Ian McPhee p346

[Biggles]

I give full credit to Ian and his adorably gregarious ways, but it still blows my mind how often we stumbled upon the right person with the right attitude at the right moment to keep us rolling another day. Think about it: How many mobile welding rigs do you see on any given week? One? Five? What is the statistical probability, even when accounting for all our wildly undeserved optimism and, "She'll be right, mate!" that we would happen upon this guy, a fellow rider, with a welder, who had the time and willingness to do the job, not because we spotted him on the freeway and chased him down, but because we legitimately just stumbled upon him? It truly boggles the mind.
It doesn't matter how experienced Ian and I are as mechanics, and it doesn't matter how tenacious we are in our pursuit; if we aren't carrying a welder or a new clutch or whatever it was that had derailed us, we're just as stuck as the next guy. But here we were, 1,000 fruitless phone calls later, and we stumbled upon a solution that took up less time than our standard morning cup of joe. The guy refused payment because on the road, we're all brothers.
God bless good people, good luck, and that Aussie accent.

[Biggles]

I was carrying a boost box, but it didn't seem to have enough juice to kick my bike over. To this day I still don't know if the problem is the alligator clamps or the box itself, but it seems to flawlessly power up just about everything but bikes. Plan B: Push start. The good news was, we were on a bit of a hill. The bad news was traffic was bumper-to-bumper on all these little one-way streets, and I had about 10 yards to get her started and make a quick off-camber right hand turn before I ended up mired down in dead-stopped traffic on the next (much flatter) block. I can bump start stuff fine, but I was less than enthusiastic about this situation and the blazing heat wasn't helping at all. We'd need to clear a lane of traffic so I'd have that couple car lengths to build a head of steam before the corner. Ian, completely unperturbed, walked out into traffic like he belonged there and brought everyone to a halt.
I dropped off the sidewalk into the road, and Ian gave me a valiant shove. He was shouting "Go, go, GO!" almost immediately, but I knew I only had one shot to get this right. About five feet from the corner with as much speed could hope to build, I dropped the clutch and... she purred back to life. Thank goodness for that. I was already terribly dehydrated and the last thing I wanted to be doing was shoving my bike halfway around the city on a 110-degree day. Ian trudged back up the hill and caught up with me around the corner, hot from the exertion but pleased with the results. He never had any doubt that everything would work out fine, and the funny thing is that he's usually right.
Pushing Miles  Wendy Crockett and Ian McPhee pp504-5

[Biggles]

The two bikes were sitting there in the storage unit, front wheel to front wheel, the FJR looking at the BMW from its twin headlights. The FJR's requirements: an engine oil and filter change, a set of tyres, and that was all she wrote. Being the sort to rub in injustice to all other brands, the F]R slowly exposed the grip that had slid ever so imperceptibly down the bar, and the BMW watched with its one headlight that had a stone hole in it from Alaska as the grip was slid the ever so slight length back to original position. Even at this point in the ride, the amount of consumables the BMW absorbed was staggering compared to the FJR. The final count would be FJR: no brake pad changes, BMW: Three. FJR, not one single mechanical fault, the BMW had no mechanical faults with the ignition key switch and that's about it. Alternator belts, BMW: Three, FJR: nil (To be read in Wendy's most antagonistically angelic voice: "Hey, it's not my fault that FJRs don't have alternators" followed by inflammatory eyelash fluttering).
Pushing Miles  Wendy Crockett and Ian McPhee p540

[Biggles]

From behind us, two big rigs both moved to pass the entire group with Rig #2 drafting tight on the ass of Rig #1. They both continued in the oncoming lane well beyond the end of the passing zone, flying up the blind hill. Right at the crest, I saw the headlights from an oncoming car. The car slammed brakes as Rig #1 whipped back into the right lane, nearly side-swiping the rig in front of us in the process but Rig #2 had been following so closely behind that he had no way of seeing the car, nor time to react when he finally did. Even if he'd had time to react, there was no space in our lane to accommodate him. Something had to give. Rig #2 held his ground, sending the oncoming car skittering off the road onto the grass. The whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion and I was honestly expecting to watch someone die. I'm amazed that the oncoming car was able to react so lightning fast to the realization that there was a second truck in his lane behind the first and didn't end up as a hood ornament or cartwheeling across the prairie. It was incredibly intense and I tasted the adrenaline from that the rest of the way home.
Pushing Miles  Wendy Crockett and Ian McPhee pp580-1

[Biggles]

We were approaching one of the two traffic lights in town with me in the lead, rolling about 2 mph under the speed limit. I'd initiated our left-hand turn on a green turn arrow and the light was red by the time I exited the intersection. The gumballs were flashing behind us before we'd even completed our turn. Our comms were off at the time and I began furiously trying to link up with Ian to establish a plan, or at the very least eavesdrop on his conversation. We had done nothing to warrant getting pulled over and I was in no mood to play nice. Meanwhile, Ian had taken off his helmet as soon as we'd pulled to the curb so I was left sitting there glowering and straining to hear what was going on behind me. Two giant dudes in flak jackets who were clearly not local cops were reading him the riot act, about how this may be how he does things in his backwards little country but here in The Murca if they start allowing people to run red lights, lambs will start laying down with lions or some such shit. Several times, very politely, Ian pointed out that he had plenty of experience riding in the USA and that the light was clearly yellow when he entered the intersection.
Pushing Miles  Wendy Crockett and Ian McPhee p657

[Biggles]

Wendy was leading, she and the blue FJR disappearing through the downhill section in front of me; as the road flattened out on the 20-mile stretch before Rachel and with no warning the Buffalo let out a big bang under my feet. My breath caught as I ripped in the clutch lever waiting for something to lock up and throw me down the road. It didn't happen. The engine was running. I gave it a it a rev, ok, maybe it was a one-off, maybe I didn't hear what I thought I'd heard? Possibly? Letting out the clutch with no real load on anything, okay, that sounded fine, I said to myself. Putting on the power to get back to speed, the banging started again in earnest and right there in that moment with the banging under me, I knew this was serious. We were in the middle of nowhere, and my purpose-built transmission was toast. The over-abundance of ongoing, never-ending problems had reached the zenith, a pinnacle of sorts; the shit pile had capped itself off with a wisp of paper and there was no way out of this problem that didn't involve lots of money and time and I felt totally crushed.
"Gotta stop," I said to Wendy.
Pushing Miles  Wendy Crockett and Ian McPhee p684

[Biggles]

It took about a split second to understand what happened. It took the same split second to understand my ongoing clutch problems, the excessive and then intermittent or nonexistent slipping, the oil leaks, the funny feel on the lever, the inconsistent everything, the rumbling feeling I had been having through the seat and pegs and bars. It took the next split second to swing from utter rage to complete despondency to white hot anger to incredulity and back to rage. All this time, all through this ride, all through all our downtime, the expense, the heartache, the worry about whether I would get to the next town, there in front of me was the culprit, or should I say the evidence caused by an unknown culprit.
There is a part in the transmission called the drive shaft. It is integral in relaying the motion from the transmission gears out through the final drive system. On the end of this shaft is a small circlip. It's a $9 part from BMW. What we found on autopsy was that this circlip, which was supposed to have external ears, instead had internal ears. It was the wrong circlip. This resulted in a roughly 40% diminished engagement surface, which over time weakened and damaged the engagement groove on the shaft until a large part of the shaft's end broke off. This would be the horrible grinding crunching squealing failure we experienced outside of Rachel.
Pushing Miles  Wendy Crockett and Ian McPhee p704

So that's it folks. Buy the book and fill in all those tantalising gaps!

[Biggles]

Volker quickly rolled our two rental F700GSs outside onto the sidewalk. They were in great condition, had low mileage and looked well maintained. Soon he was outside with panniers, top boxes and even tank bags. We would certainly have plenty of space for our gear. During our preparations, Hispania's chief mechanic, Jesus, arrived and he quickly loaned me some tools so I could mount the GPS and satellite tracker to the bike.
Of course, we couldn't leave without our riding buddy Mr Cotton. Mr Cotton is our adventure mascot- a six inch, yellow flexible rubber pirate complete with a bandana, eye patch, hook for a hand and wooden peg leg. He thinks he's tall and quite manly, but I know his life's story and it isn't that dramatic. I discovered him in a small store in Portsmouth, NH while he was waiting for his next ship to come in. Little did I know at the time that he would decide that our bikes would become his vessel of choice for many journeys.
Mr Cotton Wanders Europe. Where To Next?  Michael Botan  Ch 3 [This book has no page numbers.]

[Biggles]

In the front yard, lay a tree felled by the wind. Instead of cutting it up and carting it off, the homeowner decided to do something different. Leaving the roots poking out of the ground, he/she hollowed out the trunk and made it into a flower planter. The top of the tree trunk had been sawn off and underneath the end of the trunk was a hand carved truck. It looked like the little truck was towing the tree across the lawn. It was a great example of folk art!
We took a few pictures and re-mounted for the remainder of our day's trip. We had a room reservation in a chateau in Neuchatel and we couldn't wait to get there.  Besides we had seen that they had a pool that we could plunge into as soon as we arrived.
Mr Cotton Wanders Europe. Where To Next?  Michael Botan  Ch 7

[Biggles]

By the time we had exited the train and arrived at the parking lot where the bikes were stored, we had made the transition from melancholy to excitement. Funny- for us motorcycles had a way doing that. By the time we had packed our gear on the bikes, it was if we had been able to flip a switch. The longing for the mountains of Wengen and vicinity had vanished, replaced by excitement for the new journey we were about to undertake.
Each day I only gave Kim a brief idea of where we would be going and she joyfully played along in the extra excitement an unknown destination can bring. I had been online during the week looking for places to go based upon how 'wiggly' the roads looked leading there. This time I had found an old chateau in the Italian town of Acqui Terme, Italy. Acqui Terme is one of the principal winemaking communes of the Italian DOCG wine Brachetto d'Acqui. I really liked the name of our destination, the Hotel Roma Imperiale. It sounded like a good name for a chateau to me and besides they were offering special pricing!
Mr Cotton Wanders Europe. Where To Next?  Michael Botan  Ch 12

[Biggles]

We wished each other safe travels and the family departed. We went back into the chateau to settle the bill and by the time we finished, it was close to 11:00 AM. Finally we were ready and we rode down the steep switchbacks starting our journey for the day. Soon we were out of Acqui Terme and heading southwest. We were now back in the mountains making our way towards France. Mountain peaks surrounded us on both sides of the road. The narrow roads swooped and squirmed their way towards our destination. Then all of a sudden we were slowing to a stop. In front of us, several cars and one motorcycle waited in front of an overhead sign with large electric Xs and numbers. At first, we were a bit perplexed as to why we were stopped in the middle of the road with other travellers. Then it dawned on us. There was a tunnel ahead and they only let traffic pass one direction at a time. The numbers represented the minutes until the tunnel opened to our direction of travel. We were now waiting for our turn.
Mr Cotton Wanders Europe. Where To Next?  Michael Botan  Ch 15

[Biggles]

We mounted our bikes and were just about to ride off when I remembered something. We generally bring small trinkets to give to people we meet along the way. I got off the bike and handed them a couple of stickers from our website Ride2ADV.com. They smiled and almost ran for the bar door. The man immediately peeled the sticker off the backing and put it on the door. I was ecstatic to see them do this. We had arrived strangers and were leaving as friends. I jumped off the bike and took a picture of them in front of the sticker. I still have the picture and like to think that they enjoyed meeting us and that we left a little bit of ourselves at the bar.
Mr Cotton Wanders Europe. Where To Next?  Michael Botan  Ch 19

[Biggles]

The miles melted away as we rode and before we knew it, we were approaching Barcelona. But we wouldn't arrive without one last adventure. Less than an hour outside Barcelona, the winds began to rise. They were not insignificant and they were not steady. Heavy gusts pelted us from various directions, causing the bikes to shimmy and weave. The problem for Kim was worse since she only had a little over her 100 pound body holding her bike in place. Even with my 200 pounds on the bike, it was moving considerably.
It was actually better to have our speed up to make maximum use of the gyroscopic effect of the wheels to stabilize the bikes. On a different trip, we'd ridden through Chile and Argentina and faced the Patagonian winds on our way to Ushuaia. Those winds were far more intense, but they were constant and on barely travelled gravel roads. Here we were in four lanes of traffic with wind battering us from all directions.
But we soldiered on and soon found ourselves on the outskirts of Barcelona. Now the traffic was heavy and we trundled along in the right two lanes. As a sort of last challenge, we rode across a long high bridge. Totally out in the open, we got the maximum impact of the winds.
Mr Cotton Wanders Europe. Where To Next?  Michael Botan  Ch 22

[Biggles]

Larry and I left Casa Grande on a warm June morning. Our preparations were pretty simple. We tightened our chains, sprayed them with oil, checked air pressure, and filled the oil injection tanks. Each of the bikes had a shoulder-high sissy bar, sort of the fashion back then, and matching square containers for hauling our gear. I had fabricated, for each of us, a heavy-duty cardboard box lined with Masonite and then stuffed the box inside a canvas bag. The box was bolted to the sissy bar. We hauled all our clothes and gear inside those solid waterproof containers. We didn't lose anything, either. Unlike Jeff. More on his issues later.
We just carried sleeping bags and clothes, pretty much, and chain oil and a few tools. I had an industrial strength Diamond Chain, still new in the box, and a chain breaker, but we never needed it. We didn't carry any tents, but I had a big tarp stuffed in there. We only stayed in a motel two nights.
Riding 500cc Two Strokes From Arizona To Canada  Jim Balding and Jeffrey Ross  p16

[Biggles]

I saw a gap in my luggage pile. Aggh! Great! I motioned to Jim and Larry to pull over. After explaining the situation to them, we formulated a plan of action. I would back-track about five miles to the very rough and bouncy section of road we just came through and hopefully find the backpack. They would wait for me. I took a quick look for oncoming traffic, made a U-turn, and rolled up to about 120 mph on the 500cc Kawasaki, heading back to the northeast and a ridge of hills.
About three minutes later, I noticed flashing lights in my mirror. A Montana Highway Patrol cruiser had caught up to me. Great again! The day was getting worse. I pulled over, frightened and nervous. Wearing glasses and very muscular, the patrolman walked up to me after I parked on the shoulder, with his hand on his gun holster, and asked me why I made that U-turn when I saw him coming and took off. I told him my story. Not quite satisfied, he told me to wait there while he went back to call in my license and registration info. I felt like a suspect on the old Adam 12 TV show! (But this couldn't be a 211 or a 459!) I heard him talking into the radio while he stood outside his car and kept an eye on me. He was repeating my license plate numbers. Well, I soon learned nothing "bad" came back from headquarters. Did I get a speeding ticket? No. Why not? Well, no speed limit was posted in such places throughout Montana at the time. I guess 118 mph (at which he said he clocked me) was acceptable. The proper phrase was "reasonable and prudent".
Riding 500cc Two Strokes From Arizona To Canada  Jim Balding and Jeffrey Ross  p25

[Biggles]

I called my dad. We cooked up the following scheme:
1. He would ride his CB 450 down to Guymon, Oklahoma the next day and spend the night at a motel on the west side of town.
2. I would go to Dalhart, Texas and get a motel.
3. We would each have separate leisurely breakfasts and leave our "spots" at 7 am local time. Our motel rooms would only be about seventy-five miles apart. But we were concerned about predicted late afternoon tornados, hail, and all that.
4. We would look for each other on Highway 54 the next morning... somewhere around the Texas/Oklahoma border.
5. Then, a after a successful rendezvous, we would return to Nebraska and be home by dusk.
The plan basically worked. You must remember, there were no cell phones in those days. We simply set up a schedule over a sketchy landline and then just acted with a simple faith that things would come together.
Riding 500cc Two Strokes From Arizona To Canada  Jim Balding and Jeffrey Ross  pp40-1

[Biggles]

I felt like I was almost home! Miles slipped by. The Texas air was fresh and damp. I had to dodge a few puddles. Man, I was focused. I kept my eyes peeled on the highway and the shoulder, looking at every turnout, every intersection for my dad. I kept heading down the road. I looked behind every tree, every grain elevator, at every gas station parking lot- everywhere- for him and his green and gold 1971 CB 450. Then, somewhere between Stratford, Texas and Texhoma on the Oklahoma border, we met each other on the road. Sort of. I was behind a big rig truck, and he was behind a big rig truck, and we just managed to spot each other as we howled around a sweeping curve. I remember seeing his brake light go in my mirror as he pulled over, and I also came to a quick stop. After all our planning, we had almost missed each other. Hah. That would have been funny. We laughed back then and we still laugh now. Fortunes of the road, I guess.
But our plan worked. We spent a few minutes comparing notes and then headed to Texhoma and Liberal, finally finding our way north, later in the afternoon, on Highway 14. The return trip was quite uneventful... just a dad on his Honda and his son on a Kawasaki putting closure to the lad's 4000-mile ride. The warm, fragrant, humid Midwest air seemed wonderful to me- very refreshing and familiar. I was paying less and less attention to the engine's zing-zing noise.
Riding 500cc Two Strokes From Arizona To Canada  Jim Balding and Jeffrey Ross  p42

[Biggles]

Then, somewhere between Hondo and Roswell, New Mexico, suddenly, I saw "them". The scene was from a Svengoolie movie.
Tarantulas were being flooded out of their desert burrows and were running around on the highway! Some of those things were at least eight inches across. Big and ugly. Hairy, desperate spiders were everywhere. They were like rats or mice or squirrels! I was doing my best to dodge the scurrying creatures, but most cars I saw simply couldn't avoid the spiders and ran over and squished the poor arachnids. Gruesome brown and black blotches and body parts and legs could be seen everywhere on the road. I was on a miserable highway of death! I finally got out of there and away from the highway of spider destruction.
Riding 500cc Two Strokes From Arizona To Canada  Jim Balding and Jeffrey Ross  pp48-9

[Biggles]

Well, somehow around the Golden Gate Park, we became separated on the freeways. I pulled over alongside the road and tried to figure out where I was. A very pleasant motorcycle cop on a Moto Guzzi pulled over to see if I needed help. I explained to him what happened, and I told him I was a bit lost. Before he resumed his patrol, he kindly gave me good directions to the Pinole Hercules community where Les and I had originally planned to spend the night. (The area was much smaller back then and had only one motel.) But there I was, all alone and no Les. I rode along solo for a few more miles and finally entered Pinole, and then I checked into the motel and thought of a way to get ahold of Les.
Remember, this was 1974. I found a pay phone and called my mom back in Arizona. I asked her to call Les' house in Casa Grande and tell them where I was, hoping he would call there sometime that afternoon or evening to check in and learn of my whereabouts. My plan worked. I went back inside the motel and cleaned up. About three hours later, I heard that distinct GT 550 sound outside the room. Les had found the motel. Cell phones would have been easier, but we connected regardless.
Riding 500cc Two Strokes From Arizona To Canada  Jim Balding and Jeffrey Ross  p60