From the Library

[Biggles]

Coming up to an old bridge I saw the speed signs advising me to drop down to 20km and as I was in such a chilled out mood and the road was empty I took no notice of it whatsoever. The bloody thing was cobbled. It was a bridge covered in cobbles that had been laid by a blind drunken Albanian who couldn't understand Italian and was suffering from the worst hangover in the history of hangovers. The bike was going down as I was going up, it was going left as I was going right and we only shook hands briefly after about three hundred yards. Only luck (and maybe that prayer I had slipped into my pocket) saved me from a rather stupid slide down the road that would have ended the trip there and then. I gathered my wits, shook my head, and reminded myself not to ride like a twat again for the foreseeable future.
Motorcycle Touring "Why Don't I Come With You?"  Chris Hardy  p42

[Biggles]

Having spent some time growing up on a farm I recognised the tractor for a very old Massey Ferguson. My grip tightened around Theresa's waist as I also recognised what it was pulling. "Chris, you're hurting!" she said pulling a little away. "It's a feckin muck spreader!" says I setting off on a skip run walk towards the bike and trying to tell myself it would be foolish to expend undue energy when my fears were groundless. The tractor was now a few hundred yards behind the bike. It slowed, and I heard it engage the PTO. I now gave up the skip run walk method of travel and belted towards my precious, Susie fingers desperately scrabbling in my pocket for the keys. The tractor was drawing ever closer on its relentless course and suddenly the theme tune from "Mission im-bloody-possible" started up in my head. I leaped onto the bike, thrust the keys into the ignition and quickly turned to see if the tractor driver was only having a bit of a joke all in one fluid movement. He wasn't even looking at me, the shit was flying in a graceful arc closer, ever closer and I smiled over at our lass as I turned the key. The feckin thing stuck. I turned it back, and tried again, and again.
Motorcycle Touring "Why Don't I Come With You?"  Chris Hardy  p83

[Biggles]

I don't know what it is, all the crap that gets spoken about "Freedom" and "being a rebel" or "living life on the edge" is just that, crap. Maybe it was true when they returned from WW2 or Vietnam in America but come on, let's not pretend. There is something though, something that drives us to get on bloody thing in the first place against 99.9% of the population's advice. Then to drag your arse across a few thousand miles of unfamiliar roads in countries that drive on the wrong side of the road in search of places where English isn't spoken is a bit odd. To do it exposed to all that the elements can throw at you, either freezing, baking, or being thrust into the path of a bloody big articulated lorry by gale force winds is verging on the idiotic. So what is it my mate? What makes the thought of not having a bike so soul destroying? I think the only answer I can come up with is, it's just the way it is, so just sit back and accept it.
Motorcycle Touring "Why Don't I Come With You?"  Chris Hardy  pp125-6

[Biggles]

Wednesday 23/05/20
Group departure day.
We met up early as planned and set off on what was a sunny day. Pulling out of the hotel it was like the opening scene from "Wild Hogs" with Mark's legs flailing, Andrea over-revving the engine and Jacques looking decidedly unsteady. "This will be fun," I thought smiling to myself. To be fair this was their first run on hired bikes and it takes time to adjust. We followed Alex down to the street to a spot where he could take a good picture with the Kremlin in the background. The traffic was much quieter than I had expected although the ride out of town took forever, passing through some very unattractive suburbs.
Our first stop was for fuel. The "fuel included in the price" party all lined up behind Alex while Graham and I were left to do our our own thing. In Russia you must pay first then fill-up. Thankfully Graham spoke a bit of Russian which made things easier.
Once around the Block - by motorcycle  Stephen Mason  pp32-3

[Biggles]

Friday 01/06/20
And then there was one.
It was a warm day, so I pulled over to a petrol station to strip off my fleece and change my gloves. As I emerged from the petrol station there were road works which I manoeuvred around as best as I could to get back onto the main road. As soon as I did, I was pulled over by a cop. I stepped off the bike removed my helmet and smiled. "Documents," he said. I tried to explain I was from Scotland, but he was struggling to understand so I tried the bagpipes mimic then whisky. He suddenly smiled and said "William Wallace". I shouted "freedom" and we both laughed. He pointed to a solid white line that I had crossed then to his eyes as a "watch out" warning. We shook hands and I was indeed free.
Once around the Block - by motorcycle  Stephen Mason  p40

[Biggles]

I knew in my heart that these roads were getting too sandy and that I could not keep up, but desperation made me try. Before long Boris' wheels dug in and I was thrown off quite hard with the Land Cruiser disappearing into the distance. I waved but they were gone.
I had no other choice than try and get moving again. I stripped off the panniers and spare tyres and tried to heave Boris up but I could not get him fully upright. I then used my feet to dig out a ditch under the tyres, so he would effectively slide in. That worked then and I found myself holding him on the wrong side for mounting. I swung my left leg over being careful with my balance, which succeeded. I then started the engine and got him to a stable place.
I was thirsty, so I reached in the pannier for my coffee mug which contained the last of my water. Unfortunately, it was leaking so I had to be content with a sip. While I was repacking, the Land Cruiser reappeared and the guys apologised for leaving me. I was relieved to see them.
Once around the Block - by motorcycle  Stephen Mason  p50

[Biggles]

Sunday 17/06/2018
I had a decent sleep despite being disturbed by a presumably drunken husband trying to get Stella to open the room door. Stella was the only word I understood but I think I got it right. He would be in a bother in the morning I would imagine.
I checked my iPhone and it was dead. Based on what I read a replacement battery might work. I would try and check that out in Vladivostok. I moved the bike outside the hotel and packed. I had another bad breakfast but I did get a great view of the river with the Chinese town of Heihe on the other side. I could not resist saying "hello old China" which was an old Glasgow way of greeting a friend.
I checked out as they were holding a 2,000 roubles deposit. "We need to charge you for the condoms," said the young receptionist.
"I only opened the box because I thought they were sweets or playing cards. I didn't use them," I replied a tad embarrassed.
"You opened them, so you must pay 100 roubles," she replied.
After picking up my 1900 roubles I was on my way. 
Once around the Block - by motorcycle  Stephen Mason  pp66-7

[Biggles]

Monday 16/07/2018
I awoke just before 6am with a debate in my head. Do I leave now and get through Hannover early or do I wait till 8:30am and leave later? I had a room, Wi-Fi and breakfast being served downstairs. Both would get me to the ferry on plenty of time, what was there to debate? Well you see it's me and movement; I really struggle to sit still when I could be moving but thankfully common sense kicked in. In saying that, I still went to the stage of getting geared up and opening my room door before concluding "this is crazy!"
I set off just after 8:30am and had a fairly clear run on a warm sunny morning. There was a hold up at one point due to a truck crash, but I filtered through it all. I could not believe how good the German drivers were for making space. I enjoy Germany most cases, and enjoy German people even although they always queue jump at borders.
Once around the Block - by motorcycle  Stephen Mason  p79

[Biggles]

In the early days my mother and father had resisted my desire to get a bike despite having owned a Frances Barnett himself. They finally gave in and he helped me collect and maintain my BSA Bantam. He took me a memorable ride on it down to Galloway before I turned 17, stopping off at a cafe in Newton Stewart. I put my parents through hell by my reckless riding over the next few years before maturing into family life. His mind faded over the last few years, so he was never really connected to what I was doing on my trips. I am sure as a younger man he would have been fascinated and proud of me. That's the thought I will carry forward.
Once around the Block - by motorcycle  Stephen Mason  p86

[Biggles]

He sent through a picture that first morning of his bike fully loaded and we would then exchange the occasional message on his progress. His last message to me was sent on July 2nd telling me excitedly that he was entering the Road of Bones. I messaged him on the 17th of July asking if all was well. After no reply I tried again on the 23rd and 25th of July. I was aware he would probably be out of contact for some time in such a remote area. I discussed it with Hutch and he suggested I check in with Alex from Rusmototravel. On August 1st I messaged Alex and he replied "Sadly Graham crashed on the Road of Bones." This did lot sound good so I did some internet searching and to my horror discovered Graham died after colliding with a tanker. I was shocked and saddened to learn that on the brink of his 70th birthday this husband, father and grandfather had lost his life. I did not know Graham for long but in our short time together we had connected and I am sure we would have had many adventures together.
Once around the Block - by motorcycle  Stephen Mason  pp91-2

[Biggles]

I made my way out of town still feeling cold. I stopped to zip up my air vents and switched on the heated grips. The heat gradually started to come through as the sun rose higher. The ride was relatively short and soon I was in Jackson. The unintentional priority of the day was to find a Walmart with a cheap sleeping pad. Sadly, Jackson being a designer mountain town did not have a Walmart or a sleeping pad under $60. I noticed a Staples and had a brainwave. I would buy a roll of bubble wrap and make my own.
I left Jackson complete with a roll of bubble wrap strapped bag. Not long out of Jackson the Grand Tetons in all their splendour emerged. I was in National Park number 3 and $10 to good on my park pass.
Once around the Block - by motorcycle  Stephen Mason  p104

[Biggles]

I could see Amber in the distance so I rode to the end of the driveway and cheekily bumped up onto the paved area. We hugged and chatted and took some photos, which by chance had an American Flag painted Duck Boat behind us. Out of nowhere this enthusiastic young American guy came up to us and asked if I had seen the "Long Way Round", his all-time favourite adventure show. When I told him, I had and that I had just completed my version of the trip, he was ecstatic. We chatted away and took photos. His name was Jobian Day and along with Amber they helped make my arrival feel special.
505 days and 15,866 miles after setting off from Ardnamutchan lighthouse (Scotland's most westerly point) I had reached Boston. The US section had been epic, covering just under 5000 miles.
I had now ridden "Once around the block". Felt good!
Once around the Block - by motorcycle  Stephen Mason  p122

[Biggles]

I shattered the silence. I started the Guzzi and the exhaust noise boomed out across the still water. I was barely across bridge when I stopped again. As I changed from first to second gear, the clutch cable snapped. I had seen no vehicles since I left Timmins 30 miles back, and I was unlikely to see any until I hit the paved road 30 miles further south. I was on my own in the middle of nowhere with a disabled bike.
I keep two small canvas military bags on the inside of the Eldorado's fairing. One contains a spare coil and a couple of old spark plugs; the other has various spares: points, fuses, JB Weld and, miraculously a spare clutch cable. I pulled my tool roll from my pannier and within a few moments had the broken cable disconnected and lying on the ground. It had snapped about four inches away from the lever, so there was no possibility of fixing it with a solderless nipple. I connected the new cable fitting at the gearbox end and slotted the nipple into the clutch arm, routing the cable along the frame rail, then up to the headstock. That was when I discovered the problem.
The clutch cable I was trying to fit was too short by about six inches. Darn it! I must have brought the spare cable for my Nuovo Falcone by mistake. When things like this happen, you have to chuckle. It was just so typical.
The Road To Missanabie  Nick Adams  pp19-20

[Biggles]

This year riding was impossible until the very last day of January, when I managed to sneak out for a couple of hours on the Nuovo Falcone. What a delight it was. I wheeled the bike out into bright sunshine, then had the tricky job of turning it around in the narrow area I'd managed to shovel free. After sitting for more than a month in sub-zero temperatures in my unheated garage I wasn't sure if the NF would be eager to start, but after making sure fuel was on and kicking it over a couple of times to free the clutch plates, I eased the piston over top-dead-centre, opened the choke, turned the ignition on and gave it a swing. And... it started first kick. No, really, it did!
Of all the kick-start motorbikes I've ever been near, the NF is by far the easiest to start. As long as the fuel and ignition are on, it almost always starts first kick. Once that enormous flywheel is moving, it doesn't really have any alternative but to spring to life, which it does with a very satisfying chugga-chugga from the exhaust as the whole bike tries to vibrate its way back into the garage.
The Road To Missanabie  Nick Adams  p41

[Biggles]

Even more than 40 years later, that stretch of road is still clear in my memory as the place where I sat in my Reliant three-wheeler for a couple of hours, waiting for my Dad to rescue me. Like a fool, I hadn't checked the oil before setting off from Matlock. Come to think of it, I'd probably never checked the oil - ever. Needless to say, my Dad was peeved at being dragged away from home and annoyed with me for ruining a perfectly good engine. He'd brought a rope and a piece of cardboard on which he wrote 'On Tow' and then wired it to the back of my car. The trip home was harrowing. Reliant three-wheelers are unstable enough at the best of times, but they are particularly tricky when being towed, especially when negotiating roundabouts behind a father who's a bit put out and eager to get home.
Chris and I made it to Ashbourne without the need for a tow, as the Honda 250 insisted on remaining perfectly reliable.
The Road To Missanabie  Nick Adams  pp85-6

[Biggles]

As a teenager, I had viewed the motorcycle imports from the Far East with the scepticism and chauvinism typical of a British youth of the time. Japanese bikes didn't sound like British bikes and they didn't look like British bikes, but as many soon found out, they didn't leak like British bikes and they didn't break like British bikes either. Throughout the whole time we used it, that little Honda used no oil, used very little fuel, nothing broke and it competently carried us without complaint for many hundreds of miles.
But, while the Honda earned my respect, I didn't love it, more than I would love a refrigerator or sewing machine. It did the job it was designed to do with quiet efficiency but lacked that indefinable quality that connects rider and machine. Gallons of digital ink have been spilled across the internet by people more skilled with word and thought than me, trying to define the nature of 'motorcycle soul', so I won't try here. However, for me, there is far more to motorcycling than efficiency, and I was just as happy to sell the Honda when we were done.
The Road To Missanabie  Nick Adams  pp90-1

[Biggles]

Then, about 5 miles west of Smooth Rock Falls, the Eldorado spluttered, burped and dropped onto one cylinder.
At times like this it's tempting to curse the bike, Italian electrics, Luigi, the spray from the trucks or God, but the fault was all mine. I had been intending to silicone-seal the joints where the spark leads enter the distributor. I'd been intending to spray the wires and distributor with ignition protector. I'd been intending to bring a can of WD40 silicone spray to drive out any water if the electrics got wet. I'd done none of it.
The Eldorado will chug along on one cylinder, so instead of stopping and risking not being able to re-start, I hobbled along. Occasionally the other cylinder would kick in for a few rotations and the bike would lurch forwards, but for the next few miles I stuck close to the edge of the road as the transports rolled by and the rain poured down.
The Road To Missanabie  Nick Adams  p98

[Biggles]

As with most Moto Guzzis, basic maintenance is absurdly simple. Because the cylinder heads stick out at 45 degrees, it takes no time at all to pull the valve covers and adjust the valve clearances - not that they need adjusting very often. Similarly, oil changes are simplicity itself. Engine, gearbox and final drive-box fluid changes are quick and don't involve removal of any body parts.
Unless it's time to change the oil filter. For some unfathomable reason, probably influenced by the amount of grappa flowing at lunchtime in the Guzzi factory, Moto Guzzi decided to include a spin-on oil filter inside the sump. In order to get at the darn thing, you have to remove 18 bolts then drop the whole sump - making sure to drain the oil first, of course. It's not that it takes a whole lot of time, but it is tedious and a silly inconvenience. And if you happen to install the sump gasket upside down - which, believe me, is easy to do - when you've refilled the engine and taken it for a run, you will find that you now have disturbingly low oil pressure, and you have to undo all those bolts again and flip the gasket.
The Road To Missanabie  Nick Adams  p113

[Biggles]

In the Motor Car Act it also declared that henceforth all vehicles had to be registered and display a registration number and all drivers had to have a driving licence - although there was still no actual driving test; you just bought one at the post office for five shillings. It introduced the crime of reckless driving, too, although riding a motorcycle in any manner by 1903 could only be described as a reckless act.
The question of speed and speed limits was a hot one for a long time. By 1905, unable to ignore the rising clamour from drivers and engineers alike, a Royal Commission on motorcars was established and it reported in 1907. Interestingly it raised concerns that speed traps were being used to generate revenue in rural areas rather than as a means to secure against accidents in towns. Speed traps as revenue-raisers! Who knew?
A Short History Of The Motorcycle  Richard Hammond  pp53-4

[Biggles]

[In the USA] by 1910 there were crowds of 10,000 or so spectators turning up at regular race meets where the riders competed for huge cash prizes. It was an amazing spectacle. The wooden bowls around which the riders raced were sometimes enormous. One such, the Los Angeles Motordrome, was built in 1910 and was described in the 'Albuquerque Journal' as:

a perfect circle, a mile in circumference, banked one foot in three. The grandstands are placed above the forty-five feet of the inclined track. The surface consists of two by four planks laid to make a four-inch floor and laminated to give great strength. About 3,000,000 feet of lumber and sixteen tons of nails were used in the construction of the 'pie-pan' - as it has been dubbed.
A Short History Of The Motorcycle  Richard Hammond  p58

[Biggles]

Beckham is pictured in the popular press commissioning a multi-gazillion-pound custom-built creation every week, Ewan McGregor is in constant danger of bumping into himself on television coming the other way on the long way down, round, up and/or over the world on a BMW and Tom Cruise could shoehorn a shot of himself grimacing over the bars of a superbike into a school nativity play. Net result: people who like watching football and looking at well-groomed men in their underpants believe that bikes are cool; every accountant commuting across the wilds of Kensington does so on a Dakar ready BMW GS and an action movie isn't an action movie without a bike in it. Cool. Bikes, bikers and bike-makers like it when their hobby, passion or profession is popularised; celebrities, movie stars and footballers in expensive underpants get to be seen as ready to step outside the staid world of shiny-floored TV studios and shiny-toothed interviewers, so they're happy, and bike-makers get to show off their wares to the world.
A Short History Of The Motorcycle  Richard Hammond  pp78-9

[Biggles]

By the 1970s, if you rode a motorcycle you would have trouble being served in a pub. You wouldn't even get through the door, which was why biker pubs became famous. They weren't particularly brilliant pubs, you were just allowed in them if you wore a leather jacket and hadn't arrived in a Ford Cortina.
There was no logic to this unofficial ban. Raping and pillaging by bikers was rare, and besides, many figures in the establishment rode bikes. Sir Ralph Richardson, the famous Shakespearean actor and contemporary of Sir Laurence Olivier, rode a 750 BMW everywhere. Judges, surgeons and schoolteachers rode bikes. I knew a vicar who had a Yamaha RD400.
And then slowly it began to change. Barry Sheene arrived and became grandma's favourite. He was brave, cheeky, good-looking, fun and he didn't wear black leathers. His girlfriend was a model and he drove a Rolls-Royce. He started to change the face of motorcycling. 
A Short History Of The Motorcycle  Richard Hammond  pp90-1

[Williamson]

By the 1970s, if you rode a motorcycle you would have trouble being served in a pub. You wouldn't even get through the door, which was why biker pubs became famous. They weren't particularly brilliant pubs, you were just allowed in them if you wore a leather jacket

No such problem for me in Melbourne.  Hammond was only 10 years old at the end of the 70's, what would he know about pubs in the 70's, certainly not first hand experience.

.... and hadn't arrived in a Ford Cortina.

If I wasn't arriving at the pub on my motorbike, I'd be in my Ford Cortina, or later on a HQ PV then a Kingswood.

[Biggles]

Honda had a mountain to climb at the TT races. Riders unfamiliar with the circuit, funny food and bikes that were newly developed. Not surprisingly, the podium in the 125 race was occupied by European riders on European machines with an Italian MV Agusta on the top step. Honda's bikes finished 6th, 7th, 8th and 11th with Bill Hunt falling off and failing to finish. A pretty good result and if anyone was still laughing and making jokes now they were pretty naive. Veteran racers Bill Smith and Tommy Robb could see Honda's potential and wisely visited the Nursery Hotel and introduced themselves.
In 1961 Honda won its first TT race when the legendary Mike Hailwood ripped across the line first in the 125cc and 250cc races. In the latter his 250 had a four-cylinder engine. That was a pretty trick but Honda had many more tricks up its sleeve. In 1964 it produced a 250 with six cylinders and in 1965 a 125cc racer called the RC148 which had five cylinders and revved to over 20,000rpm. In 1966 Hailwood was at the TT on a Honda 500. Now chaps, this isn't cricket. It's all very well bringing along your diddy little bikes with lots of cylinders but the big 500s, that's for the Europeans.
A Short History Of The Motorcycle  Richard Hammond  p108

[Biggles]

'You meet the nicest people on a Honda.' That was the slogan that Grey Advertising came up with in 1963 when Honda approached the agency for help in cranking up Honda 50 sales in the US. It was a brave call. Industries generally try to focus in on the qualities that people believe their product imbues- the fantasy element that plucks at the consumer's imagination and persuades them to part with their readies. People selling razor blades show adverts featuring racing cars shooting about accompanied by rock music, aftershave manufacturers employ a man whose voice registers in an octave only audible to elephants through their feet to tell us how many panting girls we will be prizing from our manly trouser legs if we splash the contents of their latest bottle on our chin. And yet here was a maker of bikes - machines whose power and appeal was, surely, wrapped up in images of leather-clad dudes sneering at old people and living a life of freedom from rules, traffic cops and soap - showing TV adverts in which immaculately dressed women cruised around Beverly Hills on a Honda 50 on their way to buy expensive shoes.
A Short History Of The Motorcycle  Richard Hammond  p127