From the Library

[Biggles]

Standing at the window of our family home in Ripon, North Yorkshire, one day in the mid-eighties I gazed out at the busy junction opposite and dreamed of the day coming soon when I could take to the road on a bike myself. A rack of BMW bikes had pulled up, waiting to cross the junction. They sat there, eight of them, with their stupid fairings and panniers and luggage and waterproof-clad riders and I hated their smug, cope-with-everything attitude. The end rider leaned their bike to one side as they sat there, perhaps to hook a gear ready to set off. They leaned too far, past the point where their single, shaking leg could hold the big machine and it went over. That bike hit the next one, which hit the next one and quickly the whole lot went down, felled as if by a missile. Oil, petrol, plastic fairings and shattered dignity cascaded across the damp tarmac and I struggled to know what face to pull. Bikes, real, valuable bikes had just been destroyed in front of me, through no fault of their own. Which was a tragedy. But they were BMWs. It was like watching toy rabbits being thrown into a blender: unsettling, but nowhere near as awful as if it had been real rabbits. Things would be different now. I have BMWs myself and they are a very, very different proposition today to what they were in my youth.
A Short History Of The Motorcycle  Richard Hammond  pp147-8

[Biggles]

Today's racers do things on motorbikes that really appear to tweak at the nose hairs of the laws of physics. They slide them, braking, into corners and power slide them on the throttle, leaving black lines on the track. Again, like the elbow sliding, a sliding back wheel on my bike is generally an early stage in a process known as 'losing it', followed by another called 'binning it' and then another called 'hoping at first that your bike isn't as badly damaged as you are and then changing your mind and hoping that you're not as badly damaged as your bike'.
The MotoGP riders really are the cream of motorcycle racers and the very best of this select bunch are known as the 'Aliens', guys whose skills are out of this world. That is one cool nickname and one of the best of the Aliens has his own personal, even cooler nickname: 'The Doctor'. That's what most riders get to see written on the back of Valentino Rossi's leathers as they hang on for grim death and try to follow him around the track in the forlorn hope that an overtaking opportunity will somehow come their way; which, generally, it won't.
A Short History Of The Motorcycle  Richard Hammond  p177

[Biggles]

The motorcycle is a handy sort of size; roughly the same size as we are, in fact. Maybe that is somehow significant to us, deep down in our inner psyche. A car is bigger; we sit in it and are surrounded by it: we are the operator within. A bike is fundamentally different. We sit on and not in it and we wrap ourselves around it: we embrace it. Maybe this triggers some clunky, archaic old synapse in the human brain connected with dominance, maybe it tickles another that signifies companionship and comfort, but the fact remains that riding a bike is closer to holding a bike than to something so banal and soulless as merely operating it like you might a car or a photocopier. And so a journey on a bike becomes a journey with a bike. Rider and bike travel together, work together to navigate tough territory, tight turns and unexpected events along the way. We experience the same weather as the bike, our body and the bike lean together and react to the same G-forces and if things go wrong are subjected to the same relentless tearing of tarmac or the sudden intervention of a tree. And we do all of this together, rider and machine, united as one.
A Short History Of The Motorcycle  Richard Hammond  p190

[Biggles]

Suddenly, a Tata looms on my side, slowly pushing into me towards the exit. Aidan and another scooter have just squeezed past, but now the truck has turned too far- and I have nowhere to go. The bike falls over. I manage to jump off, but the truck keeps on turning. The driver slowly pushes on, even though he has seen me. The space between the parked lorry on my right and his turning Tata is getting smaller as the bike disappears under his front nose. I can't pull it out in time. A crowd has formed, staring. No one is helping. Desperate, I run around the side or the cab and scream at the driver. His door is open but my helmet is closed, so I doubt he hears anything. He finally stops resorting to leaning on his horn. Aidan appears and helps me pick up the bike. It starts, but it doesn't go anywhere. The chain has come off. We manage the bike into a gap between parked lorries. The Tata turns and disappears like nothing happened. The chain is so loose, it just pops back on. This is no place to stop- so we ride on. The crowd quietly disperses. I'm unhurt, but tears are flowing freely from the shock. Why did no one help? I can't stop crying, even though I'm laughing under my tears as Aidan pulls up next to me to check how I'm doing.
We pull over for a tea just as the chai stall is packing up. I sit down, trying to calm myself and stop the involuntary waterfall from my eyes. A couple of Tata drivers on break have been watching us. They give us two little plastic bags of chai, which they had bought for later. They look skinny in their torn, sweat-stained vests, and I suspect it's the only lunch they'll afford today, but insist that we should have it. That's India for you: a constant rollercoaster of extremes. First the ice-cold nastiness of the pushy driver; moments later, the infinite kindness of two others.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  pp4-5

[Biggles]

I found a single track that took me into the infinite solitude of the Mongolian mountains that share a border with China. A half hour of steady climbing later, I was above 2400 metres before topping out on a series vast tablelands. With the track still muddy from recent rains, I chose to go completely off trail.
It was gloriously liberating to head in any direction and ride off-track while shooting across long open plateaus for miles on end. All morning and into early afternoon, I enjoyed high-speed riding on mostly smooth grasslands. In those moments, I wanted every beloved person in my life to be there with me, to experience the sovereignty of unrestricted movement in a land largely unspoiled. Periodically I would come to a stop, kill the engine and even remove my helmet, just to bathe in the freedom and isolation.
Scouting in all directions to each horizon, it was a frontier still untouched and absent the stain of humanity. I felt somewhat ashamed for being there on a motorcycle, its brapping exhaust the only modern blemish on the pristine landscape. Remove my Suzuki DR-Z400, and it'd be impossible to tell if the year were 1219AD or 2019AD. A horse would have been more appropriate.
Higher into the mountains I went, until I was level with the snow line on the nearby peaks of China, a mere ten miles away.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  pp21-22

[Biggles]

"It is necessary to authenticate your identity and purpose, and you should have a banana," he said, confusing me slightly. I had been off bananas since travelling in Central America, where I lived on the bendy yellow bastards. Boiled banana, fried banana, grilled banana, roast banana. You could eat whatever you wanted, as long as it was made of banana. But I graciously accepted the curved offering as a goodwill gesture. I mean, nobody ever gave a condemned man a banana.
They offered me a chair in front of their headquarters' tent, and some Indian Army tea, while they checked my passport. All very respectful so I sat and sipped my tea from a china cup while a growing crowd of local farmers watched from the road. I asked myself where else would I rather be and wondered what's going to happen next. It's early afternoon, I'm in an Indian army camp, and my Moto Guzzi has a full tank of petrol.
A wave of contentment broke over me as I sat watching the scene unfold before me. For a moment I'm 21 again, off to see the world with the fresh eyes that only youth can see through. I was living by the day, by the hour, not knowing nor particularly caring what would happen next. I didn't know where would sleep that night, or what these feckin soldiers wanted. But I wasn't worried. Something will happen, so whatever! This was one of those moments that travelling is all about. Completely outside any norm, and totally separated from the planned and expected. It was an instance of pure selflessness, not caring about anyone else. It's just me and the bike.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  pp72-3

[Biggles]

I reached the outskirts of Kathmandu, the road evened out, and I stopped for a photo. Disaster! My iPhone should've been in my back pocket, but the pocket was empty. My phone, camera, GPS- all gone. It must have bounced out one of the times I went airborne. Now most likely flattened by a truck.
Then a lorry parked up next to me. The young Nepalese driver wanted to know if I had lost my phone. "Yes," I said as I climbed up into the cab. The driver and his two mates were all smiling. The cab was decorated like a 1970s brothel, with garish green carpet on the ceiling and fluffy toys hanging in the windscreen. "Is this it?" he said, showing me a Samsung. "No," I said. They laughed and held up another phone. "Is this it?" The three guys were in stitches at this joke. They were playing a game with me, finally taking my phone out of his pocket. Now I laughed too. They explained they were driving behind me when they saw the phone flying out of my pocket. They managed to stop and rescue it. I couldn't believe it. I had the luckiest iPhone in the world. I thanked them profusely and offered them some money, which they wouldn't take.
I pulled into Kathmandu and shut off the engine, I suddenly felt exhausted. I was running on adrenalin since Pakistan, so now I was suddenly and totally wiped out. Travelling alone can be hard work.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  p77

[Biggles]

Once everything was back together it was time to say goodbye to my hero, the taxi driver. Haval had been helping me for nearly four hours. I'd read about the taarof custom in Iran. This is a customary back and forth of polite gestures when paying, or receiving gifts, often to show respect and for politeness. I understood that it was common for vendors to say, "Don't worry about the bill," several times.
With Haval this went on for 10, 11, and then 12 times. He just wouldn't give me a figure. I tried to put a sizeable wedge of rials in his driver's cab, but he slammed the door in my face with a grin, and then pulled his palm to his chest to show friendship. He got in the front of his cab and the mechanic loaded his toolbox into the boot. I thought this was part of the game, but the taxi's wheels started to turn. I grabbed the back door as Haval began to pull out into the traffic and was nearly mowed down, but I managed to tuck the money into the back seat. There was no way he was getting away from me without any recompense for all his time.
No amount of cash could express my gratitude for Haval's help or indeed the guesthouse owner, the soldiers, the mechanic, or Mr Raza and his daughters, the doctor, the bank manager, or the endless stream of people who have helped me on my trips. Their faces are etched onto my mind. I have so much good karma to repay. I ride with tools in my bags most days, hoping that I may have the one thing someone may need to get themselves out of a pickle. I have experienced the kindness of strangers from many people, but I was humbled by the Kurdish taxi driver of Tabriz. He forever changed my humility.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  pp95-6

[Biggles]

Having crossed the second crack, I try to make out the island of Ayon in the distance, but I can still only see the frozen surface of the ocean, a thick layer of white snow, hardened by continuous storms to the density of a stone. The cold is biting, and I stop to warm up. In extreme cold, the hands and feet start to be disconnected from the warm blood supply. Heat is directed to vital internal organs bypassing the limbs. Fearing freezing my fingers, I hug the hot engine until feeling returns.
After the second bridge, the cleared road ends, deteriorating into rutted tracks churned up by the trucks. My speed drops, and I struggle to ride in a narrow deep rut. Paddling with my legs, I try to keep moving forward, but the rear wheel spins and the front wheel gets stuck in a rut, throwing me to one side and off the machine. I fall into a snowdrift and the motorcycle stalls. I press the starter button, but the dull sound says that the battery is frozen. The motorcycle will not start. Attempts to push start in a snowy rut prove futile, with the motor rapidly cooling, soon to freeze completely. I'm alone, and in the matter of a few seconds the adventure has become a crisis.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  p102

[Biggles]

The first half of the crossing was shallow, around 30-50 centimetres deep. The riverbed sharply descended to a metre deep and the water rushed down into my boots. Holding a heavy pannier above my head, it felt like I was forcing my way through the rushing waters with concrete shoes on. Within a few yards we were back up to more shallow rapids again, and repeat.
Now the bikes. The power of the rapids forced the front wheel of the first, partially submerged bike, downstream.
Walter had to yell loudly over the roar of the rapids and the sounds of the revving motor. He instructed me to walk beside and push against the front wheel. That forced the water to send the back wheel downstream while he throttled. So I switched and pushed against the back, and repeat. Eventually we had both bikes across. It was tough.
Looking back across the water at what we'd just achieved. Walter was elated. He said to my video camera with pride, "After 48 hours, we completed the Old Road of Bones, unassisted, just us. And I'm knackered."
We repacked the bikes and rode up the hill to the main road, and a welcome fuel stop. How grateful I was to be sponsored with a Safari long range fuel tank. It would have been much harder to make it to this point without it.
Fuel storage tanks were above ground in this part of the world due to permafrost and at this fuel stop they used an empty tank as an office. In Russia, you have to pay for fuel first, and I knew the drill. Here goes: walk up to the tiny window. The window swiftly slides open and a human hand pops out (I could never see the person inside). Hand over a chunk of Russian Rubles, hoping it's enough. The window slams shut. After fuelling, back to the window where the hand gives back some change (hopefully). The window slams shut.
"Spasiba," I murmured as I walked past the guard dog to my bike.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  pp143-4

[Biggles]

When I applied for the Chinese visa a week earlier, I made no mention of my motorcycle. I now hoped for a miracle and that somehow, I could sneak the TT in. On this motorcycle journey of four years from Australia across Africa to London and now across Europe and Central Asia, I believed, without question that everything would always work out for me. I lived devoid of worry. I lived energised by a constant sense of knowing an energy moved through me and through us all. It saturated all life. It was a guiding force that helped us fulfil our purpose- our dreams. It was shown to us through chance encounters and coincidences and helped nurture a deep trust in our intuition.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  p152

[Biggles]

We turn off the bikes' engines and contemplate how to get my rear tyre unsuctioned from the mud. It's really quiet. There is no breeze, just a faint buzzing sound which is growing in volume. A small man on a scooter buzzed into sight. The gentleman is wearing a crisp white shirt, snugly buttoned to his collarbone, and tucked into his pressed black dress-pants, accented by his shiny black shoes. His hair is perfectly parted and held in place by a good cut, and lots of product. He is riding the thin line of solid soil where the jungle ends and the road begins.
The man stops when he sees us, gets off his bike, and without conversation, proceeds to help us clear my tyre of the muck. In minutes he is back on his bike, sitting on the tattered seat; he pulls a handkerchief out of the briefcase strapped to the back and returns the shine to his shoes. As the buzzing sound of his tiny engine diminishes, we look at each other with a common thought. To us this is a great adventure; to him, it's just Tuesday.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  p201

[Biggles]

The following day, after several hours of wet riding up the not so Dusty Highway, I was flagged down. Another passport check, or so I thought. "Do want to see a snow leopard?" he asked. Why not? I thought. He waved me into a walled compound and closed the metal gates behind me, which felt odd. I realised he wasn't dressed in a police uniform. Four other men stood around. One of the men was cleaning out a white van. I imagined he was washing out the evidence of the last biker they sliced up and fed to the 'snow leopard'. It suddenly hit me. "I'm going to be robbed! How stupid I've been!" At that moment, a man came from behind the building followed closely by an unchained snow leopard.
It seemed huge, but it was just a cub, they said six months old. The first man put the leopard onto the seat of the bike and then thrust it into my arms. Although only a cub, it felt strong and, after a few hasty photographs, it wrestled itself out of my nervous grip and bounded across the dirt. I breathed sigh of relief as the men gathered it up and took it back to its pen. It turned out that they were park rangers and had saved this abandoned cub from a premature death in the wild. Much later, a BBC documentary would make me aware as to how rare these creatures are. It was a truly unique experience.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  p221

[Biggles]

The colonial French gastronomic influence in Cambodia and Laos complemented the local ingredients. Georgie worked her way through as many crabs and clams as possible, while I noodled, porked and developed a liking for aromatic Kampot pepper. We travelled north from Phnom Peng through the busy junction town of Skuon, which prides itself in serving the finest cooked spiders in Indochina. We were told to head to the bus station where local women sold deep-fried, hairy arachnids to the passengers in need of a snack. These would often be purchased through the open bus windows. Georgie selected an eight-legged treat from a large pile, and crunched hard through the body, taking in four legs at the same time. The video I shot has her talking to the vendor, with the sound of me gagging in the background. Crispy and garlicy was her verdict on the spider. Insanity was my verdict on Giorgie.
Laos seemed to be huge and empty, but baguettes and fried eggs for breakfast kept us fuelled during long days riding up into the jungles. I was trusted to source dinner one night in Luang Prabang and earned extra Brownie points for finding crispy roast belly pork.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  pp270-1

[Biggles]

H took the plunge and went through the river and right up to the soldiers with no effort. Following his lead, I crossed the river, but just as I exited, bang! The front wheel hit a bowling ball size rock hidden in the soft shingle. The front end of my bike reared up and, as I fell backward, my hand pulled throttle open wide. My bike was suddenly going skyward- but what goes up, must come down. I landed in a boulder-strewn field a good 5O yards from where I started. I landed with me under my bike, whose engine was screaming while petrol leaked onto me with enthusiasm. I could just reach the ignition to kill the engine.
Realising I was trapped, but unharmed, my major concern was that as my leg was twisted underneath the bike, someone would just lift it up, and that would break it! I could now hear all the soldiers running down to help.
I shouted as hard as I could, "For God's sake H, don't let them lift the bike," while Henry did a fantastic Kirk Douglas impersonation and bounced from one giant boulder top to another- and reached me before anyone else. I explained to Henry how I wanted them to lift the bike slowly, so I could corkscrew myself round as they lifted. A dozen pairs of hands slowly eased my bike off me as I untangled myself.
Free of the bike, I breathed a great sigh of relief. A dozen excited soldiers manhandled my bike up to their command post. Once I reached the top and they realised I was totally unharmed, laughing and punching my body armour, they started doing impressions of Superman and me going skyward. The commander appeared with a bottle of vodka and three glasses; handing me and H a glass, he looked me in the eye, flashed a gold-tooth smile and said in broken English: "Stuntman." Filling our glasses, we raised them. The toast?
"Hooray for Hollywood."
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  p289

[Biggles]

I have spent many months in India over the years and, coming from a country where horns are rarely used, the India-wide cacophony remained a mystery until it was explained to me that motorists do not use rear view mirrors and so drivers have to announce their presence to the person in front. Even so, in city traffic jams, it's no holds barred; everyone leans on the horn even when nobody within sight can move! Sometimes I join in the noise just to feel part of the craziness. Not for a minute will a 'No Entry' sign be obeyed if inconvenient, and roundabouts might just as well not be there. On this journey, I am waiting to enter a roundabout. It is in the middle of a town, put at a busy junction to ease the traffic for the smooth transit of all. However, the queue to it is too long for someone wanting to turn right, so the waiting traffic is overtaken to enable reaching the roundabout quicker. Going round it the wrong way and turning right is the norm. Even at a filling station, as I wait for a pump to be free, someone darts in front of me and takes my place. It is not done with any aggressiveness. I am told that there is little concept of personal space, and that no offence is intended when someone queue-jumps.
A railway crossing? Barriers down. Traffic builds up and waits on the left until it's just too tempting to get to the front on the right side. The riders on the other side are doing the same. Once the train has gone through and the barriers are raised amidst much honking from everyone, it's CHARGE! Head on collisions are avoided as riders weave around each other, overtaking slower buses and lorries. I am told that you don't need to pass a driving test in India. Just pay enough money and you're fit to drive. I can well believe it.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  p326

[Biggles]

Showering at last, I grin under the water, trying to comprehend how we've just come from a long, hot day of riding that included a border crossing and a nasty old lady in her haunted hotel, to a vibrant wedding reception with live techno and free horsemeat. Our first day in Kazakhstan is already proving to be a great reason for coming to the country. I knew we'd find something better than what the woman older than petrified wood offered, and no way would she be showing us a good time right now.
A quick leg-and-armpit shave and I'm ready to party. I have just one semi-nice clothing item to wear - the same green sundress I've been wearing since the beginning of our trip. It's faded from sun and shower-laundering but is far nicer and cleaner than my riding clothes. The dress has an opening in the back that shows my bra, so Dave ties it out of the way using dental floss. Back at the reception, I'm asked to dance by a drunk uncle. The music has shifted from techno to something with a slower beat, and it's hard to find the right moves. Dave remains seated at the round table, eyes darting left to right, clearly terrified that someone's about to invite him onto the dance floor as well. I'm certain he'll fake a sudden knee injury, or bad heart, should there be a solicitation.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  p338

[Biggles]

We only saw two  spills. They were eye-openers, too. I'm not sure if I was pleased, disappointed, or surprised to to find that the average sort of speed we were achieving was around 35km/h. Those sorts of speeds mean that when people did hit each other or fall off, it was done so slowly that potential damage was minimised. With both the accidents we saw, the riders collided, and hit the deck. The rest of the traffic swirled around them, hardly slowing at all. The riders picked themselves up, apologised with straight faces and little bows, helped each other pick their bikes up, climbed aboard their bikes again and headed back into the traffic. No drama, just good manners, and a matter-of-fact attitude. Yes, they and their bikes had collected a few scratches, but that was all. The lack of shock and aggressiveness, or the yelling and outrage that would follow any spill in some more Western countries, just didn't happen. It's against the Vietnamese culture to lose one's temper in public. How nice.
The worst reaction I saw was a cut-you-dead, incredibly scathing look from a young, grey-suited lass on a very tidy bright red Vespa scooter. She'd just been cut up by an idiot with go faster stripes on his 125cc Honda Wave. When she saw that I'd seen her glare, she looked momentarily embarrassed and then giggled under her facemask before roaring off. If you can say that a Vespa roars anywhere! She was wearing a suit with a skirt so short and so tight that she could only sit on the front 10cm of her saddle. If she hadn't, she'd have been unable to dab her shiny black stiletto-heeled shoes onto the road.
The Moment Collectors- Asia  Sam Manicom and Friends  pp351-2

[Biggles]

On our previous trips Frank and I had used a coffin-like box attached to a motorcycle in lieu of the more comfortable and upholstered standard sidecar, mainly because a box-like structure carried more gear, could not be easily scratched or dented, and was made of much sturdier material. Seeing no reason to stray from this practice, we constructed our box accordingly, with one or two small variations. The box was of one-inch solid planking, fastened with screws at the joints, and the bottom section was made to extend fifteen inches beyond the rest of the woodwork, providing a shelf on which could be bolted the extra petrol container, which was in reality an eight-gallon tank used in the Ford T Model motor cars of the day. A seat was installed a few inches above the baseboard, upon which would rest a circular inflatable rubber cushion. The box was kept narrow enough for spare tyres to be secured on either end with a minimum of lashings, but was wide enough to allow the passenger some comfort. The two end sections were partitioned off to stow essential spares and commodities. Unobtrusive brackets were screwed on either side, one for the shotgun and the other for the heavy repeating rifle, which could then be brought into action at short notice. We knew our skill as marksmen could mean the difference between a meal and starvation, and also took with us a Browning automatic pistol.
Around Australia The Hard Way In 1929  Jack L. Bowers  p17

[Biggles]

These are just some of the running repairs we had to carry out with the 7-9 horsepower Harley vee-twin engine. Despite the rough treatment it had received, with the occasional and necessary usage of windmill oil for lubrication, the greatest problem was the oiling up of the magneto in some isolated location or another. However from time to time, we took time out to completely dismantle the engine, scrape the carbon from the pistons and cylinder heads, grind in the inlet and exhaust valves and adjust valve tappets. This usually took us two days and we always reserved this chore until we arrived at a camping site where we would not be beset by a crowd of curious and inquisitive onlookers who might hinder our progress. On these overhauls each of us had his own side of the machine to work on, when it came to removing the engine from the frame.
Around Australia The Hard Way In 1929  Jack L. Bowers  p32

[Biggles]

On occasions when we had no suet, we flattened the flour-and-water dough to cover the bottom of the frying pan like a pancake, and fried it very slowly over a low fire. The result looked like a bread board which we cut fair across the middle. Half each, no more, and no less. Spread with treacle it made quite a good substitute for bread and became our regular breakfast meal.
Frank is a bigger, better, and faster eater than I am. Seated on his favourite meal-time seat, the flour tin, he would ravenously devour his half pancake with obvious relish, then sit back silently like a hungry dog, watching me as I slowly ate mine. However, I could not afford to yield a crumb.
Another dish which regularly appeared on the menu, also of flour and water, with a little suet added, was mixed and rolled into little balls, like a golf ball. These would be boiled in the billy until they became almost as large as tennis balls. The billy-can could only hold two. Boiled for twenty minutes, then spread with treacle, they would be our one hot meal of the day.
Almost like dessert.
Around Australia The Hard Way In 1929  Jack L. Bowers  p38

[Biggles]

The station cook was most apologetic that we had missed lunch. He had been advised that we were coming by Mac- one of the Brunette hands with whom we had dined the previous evening and who had returned during the night. A matter of 70 miles meant little to the locals, for this was the nearest neighbour anyway.
The cook quickly made us a meal and invited us to tuck in, all the while repeating how sorry he was that we had missed lunch.
An hour later we were on our way once more, but there was a strange sequel to this story. Two years later I pulled into a Sydney service station for petrol, and while the attendant was seeing to my needs I heard a voice I knew inside the building. I also knew the name of the owner so I went inside and there was Mac. I had dined with him at Alexandria station 2,000 miles away a couple of years earlier, and on the following day had chatted with him for a short time at Brunette Downs. It was an amazing coincidence.
Around Australia The Hard Way In 1929  Jack L. Bowers  p51

[Biggles]

Our fire was unusually small that night as we cooked our johnnycakes and boiled the billy. The mosquitoes having joined us, we rigged up our mosquito net, crawled underneath it and composed ourselves to sleep. Before long a long drawn-out note of a curlew broke the silence of the darkness, shortly followed by another and yet another until it seemed we were surrounded by them. It became obvious to us that the Aborigines had found us, for curlews do not call to each other in such numbers, and from so many points of the compass.
We had overlooked the fact that our engine made such an unholy noise in this part of the world that we were reasonably easy to locate. So we crawled from beneath the mosquito net took out our rifle, the Browning automatic pistol and the Winchester torch, and sallied forth amongst the trees, flashing the torch beams from left to right. The curlew noises stopped immediately and we returned to the mosquito net, crawled under it once more and fell asleep.
Around Australia The Hard Way In 1929  Jack L. Bowers  p64

[Biggles]

If the worst came to the worst we would abandon the outfit and commence walking the 80 miles back to Katherine, carrying the two gallons of water with us, and our flour. At Katherine we could telegraph the Harley-Davidson agency for whatever spares we required. They could then despatch the article by the monthly boat from Sydney to Darwin, from where it could be forwarded to Katherine by the once-weekly train. Then all we had to do was walk the 80 miles back to our abandoned vehicle and commence work. All this could take two to three months.
By the time we retired for the night we had determined that the engine failure was most likely caused by the magneto. We had no spare parts for magneto repairs, so things looked grim.
We were eagerly astir at dawn. There was no wood handy for a fire so we ate remnants of a loaf of bread purchased in Katherine, and commenced work. We pulled the maggie to pieces, carefully examined each part, cleaned everything and put it together again. By this time the sun was well past the meridian. Well, this was it. Would the motor start, or was this the end of the venture?
We jumped on the kick-starter and the motor roared into life. It was music to our ears, beautiful music. The magneto had simply oiled up.
Around Australia The Hard Way In 1929  Jack L. Bowers  pp71-2

[Biggles]

One morning we looked for a pinhole puncture in the leaky tyre, but without water to show us the air bubble we could not find it. So, putting all the temporary sleeves back in the tyre, each one covering a wall fracture in the canvas wall lining, we placed the leaky tube back in the tyre, pumped the tyre up once more and continued on our way. Fortunately the much used hand pump never faltered at any time and just as well. We had no spares for hand pumps. We had travelled on just one mile when the tyre blew out with a loud bang. There was no further need to look for a slow leak. We now had a much larger one and we put our last remaining spare tube in, replaced the seven sleeves once again over the seven fractures, and departed.
Around Australia The Hard Way In 1929  Jack L. Bowers  p98