From the Library

[Biggles]

During the four days spent in crossing the Nullarbor we saw no one, except that one lonely family at Eucla and the startled homesteaders at Mundrabilla. Over the distance of 1,000 miles it was as if we were the sole human inhabitants of the earth and we became attuned to this form of existence, blending in with the harsh surroundings and marvelling at what we saw. We would possibly open up a conversation at lunchtime over the lizard that scurried away and totally disappeared before our very eyes; or upon that magnificent dance display performed by a flock of brolgas; or on how we very nearly collected a wayward galah seeking to regain the flock by making a suicidal attempt to cross our path. There were a thousand and one things during the day's viewing to absorb the mind, in addition to a thought now and again about our own well-being. A dingo track in the sandy waste under the front wheel would be commented upon, or a goanna raising itself on those peculiar front legs that made it look like hydrofoil raised upon its foils as it streaked for the nearest tree in which to seek refuge, always spiralling to ensure the tree trunk was between it and the human invader. All these things we observed as we went our way, and were the prime subjects of conversation at stopping time.
Around Australia The Hard Way In 1929  Jack L. Bowers  pp117-8

[Williamson]

During the four days spent in crossing the Nullarbor we saw no one, except that one lonely family at Eucla and the startled homesteaders at Mundrabilla ....

Thanks for today's post Bill.

Haven't followed all of your posts, but I opened this thread again today and it brought back some memories, and I wonder if the lonely family mentioned above could've been my Dad with his parents who crossed the Nullarbor in 1929.

Dad told us the story about the crossing many times, particularly the time they broke down and had to wait a number of days for a tow, which was provided by an Afghan camel driver / herder, to the nearest homestead.  I seem to recall that this was at the Eucla Telegrah Station where he celebrated his 5th birthday with a toy truck which his Mum had packed before they left Swan Hill.  Dad has gone now so I can't ask him the Afghan towed them to Mundrabilla, and he'd be 101 anyway, so he probably wouldn't have remembered.

Dad had for many years expressed a wish to do the trip again, and in a Model T.  When we visited Dad & Mum on Dad's 87th birthday he told us that he bought himself a birthday present, a Model T Ford (1st pic).

This T wasn't really up for the trip so a friend, Alan, offered the use of his T (with an overdrive gear, making it capable of 70km/h, 2nd pic), much more suitable, would've been better if it had proper brakes.  Sadly, T's didn't.

Anyway, in September 2003 we set off from Swan Hill to Perth.  When we got to Eucla we visited the (now) Old Telegraph Station (3rd pic) - Dad was like a puppy with two tails.

Good memories.

 

Have got the dreaded message, "Your attachment has failed security checks and cannot be uploaded. Please consult the forum administrator", we be back later with the attachments.

In the meantime, hi-jack over, back to normal viewing.
 

[Brock]

Have got the dreaded message, "Your attachment has failed security checks and cannot be uploaded. Please consult the forum administrator", we be back later with the attachments.

What type of file were you trying to upload, and what size.   I think there is a 500meg (or is that Kb) size limit, and certain file types arent supported.

[Williamson]

Pic 1

Pic 2

Pic 3

[Biggles]

Upon the final stamping and signing of our card, which by now bore stamps and signatures from all the capital cities in the Commonwealth of Australia, our mission was ended. We could now go home and sleep in a proper bed and dispense with our plain flour, cream of tartar and soda, put our firearms away without fear of molestation by man or beast and lead an ordinary life once again.
Despite the hazards of the last eleven weeks- sleeping in the open under all sorts of conditions, drinking water in which lay dead cattle, and living from day to day always dependent on our skill in handling that heavy, unwieldly outfit in all manner of motoring hazards- despite all these hazards we had made it.
We had returned triumphant and were not only the first to circumnavigate Australia on a motorcycle and sidecar, but the fastest for any type of motorised land vehicle. We had also dispelled all doubts those cautious potential sponsors had about man not being able to live with man for long periods of isolation. We really felt as though we had achieved something. And that's a great feeling.
Around Australia The Hard Way In 1929  Jack L. Bowers  pp130-1

[Biggles]

I'd grown used to the chaos and noise of a city like Delhi by this point, but Naiwala Street seemed to step it up a notch. The street itself was barely visible among the abundance of motorcycles, pedestrians, wooden carts pulled by either people or animals, tuk-tuks, food stalls and motorcycle parts on display. But it wasn't long before I became a fixture of Naiwala Street myself. I decided to spend my time gaining some essential repair skills. To me, motorcycle maintenance was like a secret language that only the bikes themselves spoke, drawing from a dictionary written in hieroglyphics. I met Satnam, a man who worked at Shakti Accessories and who was willing to teach me the basics. He had a short goatee and a couple of deep scars on his left cheek. His calm disposition made me trust him. In exchange for his lessons, I bought all the accessories we installed on my motorcycle in his shop.
"I just don't have the additional headlights," Satnam said, clearly disappointed. Then his face brightened. "My cousin has a shop, he does sell them. Come, come, I'll take you," he said over his shoulder while making his way to his moped. "Come," he said encouragingly. I hesitated. I wasn't overjoyed at the prospect of riding pillion with him. I wanted those lights though, so I reluctantly agreed. I'd only just grabbed hold of the grips on the back when he revved the engine and the shabby moped lurched into motion. He skillfully navigated the small streets and kept narrowly avoiding pedestrians, motorcycles, and once even a cart full of gas canisters.
Free Ride  Noraly Schoenmaker  p16

[Biggles]

The mechanic started by unscrewing the air filter's protective cover. Although I only realized that's where the air filter lived once he took it out and held it up. I'd never seen a motorcycle's air filter before, let alone a dirty one, so I didn't know what it was supposed to look like. Given the look on the mechanic's face, it was far from fabulous. He shook his head at me.
"This is not good. Not good."
He turned the key, started the bike and held the filter in front of the exhaust while his assistant revved the engine- which is apparently how you clean an air filter. The dust cloud that emerged was so large that I broke out into a coughing fit. According to the mechanic the air filter hadn't been cleaned for thousands of miles and I started to doubt Pankaj's optimistic assurances about the bike being "shipshape". I didn't know enough about motorcycles to specifically tell the mechanic what else to check though. For the past three years, I'd just dropped off my Ducati Monster at the dealership in the Netherlands whenever it needed to be serviced. I didn't have the slightest idea what they did to it, or what parts needed to be cleaned or replaced or when. And I knew even less about the maintenance of off-road motorcycles. I opted for a general request.
"Could you check everything?"
The mechanic blinked. "Everything?"
"Well, you know, the most important things," I said as nonchalantly as possible.
Free Ride  Noraly Schoenmaker  pp37-8

[Biggles]

I turned onto a side street, parked Basanti next to the kerb, and dismounted to inspect my tires. Completely dumbfounded, I stared at my rear tire. There was no doubt about it: the tire was flat. In Karol Bagh, back in Delhi, they had injected some kind of black slime between my tire and the tube. The black goo was now bubbling out and running down one of my spokes.
"With this stuff, you'll never get a flat tire," Satnam had assured me. I had the unsettling hunch that he had been wrong. I shook my head in disbelief.
"But I was so close," I mumbled quietly.
As I was still coming to terms with the fact that my tire was really flat, I hadn't noticed a man and a woman approaching me from behind "You have a problem?" I heard suddenly.
I spun around. "Yes, I have a flat tire," I replied.
I was met with the friendly faces of a man wearing a colorful shirt and a young woman holding a black umbrella, even though it wasn't raining.
"Don't worry, I'll call a mechanic," the man said.
I sighed in relief. In Delhi, during my crash course in motorcycle mechanics, I had learned that when push came to shove, I couldn't repair a tire on my own. I didn't know where these people had come from, but I was glad for their unsolicited help. It wasn't long before the promised mechanic showed up. Without hesitating, he got to work and an hour after discovering my puncture, I had a new tube and was ready to carry on. I paid the mechanic double what he charged me and thanked everyone again. I realized that Southeast Asia might be the best place in the world to get a fiat tire on your bike, seeing as how it had more mopeds and motorcycles than cars. Patching punctures was the most natural thing in the world here. I'd been lucky.
Free Ride  Noraly Schoenmaker  p58

[Biggles]

I was just exiting the bathroom when I saw a TV crew waiting for me beside Basanti. I felt caught, as if my pants were still around my knees. I glanced down, just to be sure, but thankfully they weren't. I quickly fixed my hijab and walked toward the small group of people that had assembled. A man wearing a dark purple shirt and blue vest was waiting for me with a large microphone. A young woman wearing a chador (kind of like a burqa, but where the face is left uncovered) was ready with the camera.
"How you from?" asked the journalist in broken English.
"From Holland;' I replied.
"Please, welcome to Bafgh," he said.
"Thank you." I didn't know what else to say.
"Welcome to Bafgh and please go to the tourist," he said, pointing at the opposite side of the traffic circle.
"Tourist?" I couldn't make heads or tails of what he was saying.
"You. Go to tourist and television."
Eventually, I understood that he wanted me to come to the other side and that we would film there. Obligingly, I rode Basanti around the traffic circle and stopped at something resembling a market stall. There, the interview began. He asked me why I had come to Bafgh (to pee and have lunch, though I didn't bother to mention the first bit) and what kind of sights there were to see in Bafgh, Yadz, and Kerman (beautiful mosques). He had me shout "Welcome to Bafgh" at the camera a few times, and with that, the interview was over. I got a cup of tea and a fan with the words KHOSH AMADID printed on it, which meant "Welcome". Despite the somewhat stilted interview, my interviewers had succeeded: I really did feel welcome in Bafgh and in Iran.
Free Ride  Noraly Schoenmaker  pp84-5

[Biggles]

I stayed in Khorog the next day. There was rain forecasted, and I planned a rest day. I needed to recuperate, wash my stinking, dirty motorcycle clothes, give Basanti a thorough checkup, and, most importantly, hear more of Ganesha's stories. While examining Basanti's wheel, I was horrified to find a small piece of metal sticking out of the tire. I instinctively pulled it out, then briefly stood there holding the sharp object. I didn't hear any air escaping from the tube, so I assumed I'd narrowly avoided a puncture. I grabbed my tire pressure gauge to make sure. The reading was the same as always, and I breathed a sigh of relief. If I'd kept going for one more day, the metal would undoubtedly have penetrated deeper into the rubber, and I would have gotten a puncture. I'd been so lucky to discover this now! I rarely checked my tires, something I might do daily if I were a more sensible person. I didn't allow myself the time. In the mornings, I was so eager to start riding that it never felt like I had a moment to spare for something so tedious.
Free Ride  Noraly Schoenmaker  p134

[Biggles]

When I was some sixty feet away from them, I promptly stopped Basanti in the middle of the road and hobbled to the passenger side of the truck, which had stopped too. The door swung open before I'd even reached it and without any hesitation I clambered up the two steps and swiveled myself inside. I yanked the door closed behind me. Two Pamiris dressed in thick winter coats and fur hats stared at me, their eyes big with surprise. It must have looked pretty comical- a blond woman with a red nose and blue lips from the cold tottering off her overloaded motorcycle and unceremoniously climbing into their cabin. Without saying anything, I peeled the perforated gloves from my hands and showed my white fingers.
"Cold, I'm so cold," I muttered. I didn't bother trying to say something in Russian and simply spoke Dutch to them. The two men looked at each other and then back at me.
"Adin kilometer," said the man sitting next to me. One kilometer. "House."
"House?" I repeated in English. They both nodded. I blew on my hands for a brief second, breathed in the warmth of the cabin, and nodded too.
"Thanks," I remembered to say before climbing out again, back into the cold. The truck stayed put for a little longer, until I had my helmet back on my head and my gloves on. Then its engine fired, it slowly came into motion and honked. I raised my hand and started Basanti as well. One kilometer. Just one kilometer to go.
Free Ride  Noraly Schoenmaker  p157

[Biggles]

Got another m/c rider's book:

After I inserted about two billion bucks in the swear jar, we burned straight down to Phoenix to Victory BMW, where we got it repaired.
I had used these guys the year previous when I came through to get the bike all sorted for Latin America. The guys were great and took us in straight away. As the folks were working on my bike we decided to head off and find a place to stay. No sooner was Joe's key in the ignition than he had an EWS ignition ring failure and his bike wouldn't start; all of a sudden both of our bikes were on the operating table. The EWS ignition ring is a known weakness in the 2006 BMW, I won't bore you with the details, suffice to say it's something that BMW should have recalled and fixed on the 2006 model years ago. The bike goes as dead as a dodo and you can't even jump start it. I'm certain the engineers working at BMW wanted to recall this problem as it's talked about on all the motorcycle forums but no doubt the accountants at BMW got in the way.
Not Dead Yet Second Edition  Oisin Hughes  pp76-7

[Biggles]

When you're riding a motorcycle there is nowhere to hide. Your head head is stuck in a helmet. There is no radio, just you, the view, the sound of the wind, the vibration of the bike and the world passing by so quickly at your side and yet so slowly ahead.
In these situations especially on the world's open plains, thoughts and images come flooding back into your head in an uncontrollable manner. If you were in a car you could let down the window, change the radio station, put on a different CD, strike up a conversation with the person next to you, and maybe even make a phone call to a friend, anything to change the radio frequency in your head. In a helmet there is nowhere to run, you have to deal with each and every random thought as they torment, amuse and keep you company mile after mile.
Not Dead Yet Second Edition  Oisin Hughes  p96

[Biggles]

We bumped into a couple from the North of England back at the hotel, Grahame and Sue, who were taking a year out to do the Pan American highway- a nicer couple you couldn't hope to meet. The four of us went out to a Mexican restaurant close to where we were staying and tucked into a mixed buffet, which turned out to be a big mistake. The grub moved like a bobsled team down a mountain as it cascaded from my mouth to my arse in less than an hour.
We left the next morning after about four hours of crapping and gingerly made our way to Tulum, a Mayan port near the border with Belize. I had the biggest dose of ring sting.
Not Dead Yet Second Edition  Oisin Hughes  pp143-4

[Bodø]

 

[Biggles]

"There's no road there my friend." So that left the horrible thought of driving through Guatemala City to get to Antigua. There was nothing else to do but get on with it, so off I set. Along the way I drove like a lunatic, you have to, just to survive on these roads. I call it driving "defensively aggressive". Now there's an oxymoron for you- the simple theme is that your best chance to avoid danger is to put it behind you, accelerate past it, so where possible you're always looking at open road. At least three times, trucks and buses overtaking on the wrong side of the road came within a whisker of killing me.
Eventually, I got to Guatemala City and got lost within twenty minutes. The absence of road signs combined with a sign saying veer to the right but there being three roads which it could refer to, meant I was pulled in getting directions almost every ten minutes.
Not Dead Yet Second Edition  Oisin Hughes  p177

[Biggles]

A couple of hundred yards down the road I could see a large gathering of people; I thought it was too risky to chance on my own so I waited for a truck to come along. My thinking was I could use the truck as a battering ram. He would get me through if I stayed right behind him; it worked like a charm. This was a serious crowd I had just driven through- if I was on my own, I would have been in major trouble. Still later at a toll booth another bunch of kids all covered in sewerage and holding buckets of shit and piss were trying to extort money from passing traffic. I scooted around the side of them and rallied down the road. Every mile started to feel like it was taking an hour, I never wanted to get off the road so bad in my entire life. In sixty miles I counted ten of these situations, it felt like be whole world was going mental. A lot of the guys had dyed maroon hair and when I looked at them, there were lots of crazy looking lunatics, it felt like I was on the set of the movie Total Recall.
Not Dead Yet Second Edition  Oisin Hughes  pp260-1

[Biggles]

I passed a digger working furiously to keep back the landslide's onslaught in one area. If the conditions weren't bad enough, the nightmare driving of Peruvian truckers nearly sealed my deal on several occasions. Twice a truck overtaking another truck ran me out to the hard shoulder on a cliff. If you go off the cliff, you tumble to your death. You have about three feet to play with while doing 50mph, that's not a lot of wiggle room. I genuinely thought my number was up on multiple occasions- I'd even taken the time to say to myself, "Well there's worse ways to go..." as the incident was unfolding. I consoled myself with the fact that when they find my body, the sea water below would have washed away all the shite in my trousers!
Not Dead Yet Second Edition  Oisin Hughes  pp306-7

[Biggles]

Route 40 out of Calafate takes you south to a town called 28 Novembre, and then veers east to Rio Gallegos. You can take a different road to Rio Gallegos, it's all asphalt and it's about 50km shorter but honor dictated that I take the 40. I was in a garage in 28 Novembre and they couldn't believe I was going that way. They told me "no one will be on that road- if you get into trouble you're stuffed." I replied, "The story of my life mate!" Of the 515km, about 380km or so was gravel, sand, shite and muck. I've never felt so isolated and alone. At times I would come over the crest of a hill and be looking out onto a plain so vast it would send a shiver of loneliness right through me. Once I started to go east minutes and hours go by, and you continue to not see anyone. You can't help but feel tiny. It brought the quote "Oh God thy sea is so great and my boat is so small" into my head without me having to think about it.
Not Dead Yet Second Edition  Oisin Hughes  pp356-7

[Biggles]

I rode up to the Ukraine checkpoint and was stopped by two soldiers who started making a big deal that I didn't stop when they asked me to. I'd been through this a few times before- the shakedown was on again. After keeping me for about ten minutes and bullshitting on about the fact that I didn't stop and was also missing a sticker, I handed over the ten euro bribe and was on my way to another pack of freshly castrated crocodiles in customs. They told me I didn't have a green card and that I needed to go back. I had done the research and had no idea what they were on about, but one of the other lads there had one, so it looked like I was stuffed. Just when I was about to head off for Poland which would mean entering Russia via Lithuania as you can't get through Belarus (about a 1000 mile detour) one of the girls who worked there called me back and processed me.
I asked them was I OK to go, and they gruffly waved me on. After a reasonably distasteful time at the border, I was officially in Ukraine.
Not Dead Yet Second Edition  Oisin Hughes  pp404-5

[Biggles]

The Cops were everywhere on the road and thankfully most of the folks who are coming towards you will flash you to let you know they are ahead. In most countries the Police normally need a probable cause to stop you. That is not the case in Russia, they can and do, stop you without any reason. The average Police patrol isn't sitting there waiting to catch you when you do something wrong, they just stop you anyway, so to stay grief free you need a bit of luck. To stop you, they stick out a baton and point right at you till you slow down and pull into the side of the road. Although I was stopped a lot, there was never any hassle. I always showed them a sketch of the route I was taking and they'd smile, look at me and then wave me on.
Not Dead Yet Second Edition  Oisin Hughes  pp436-7

[Biggles]

It's a great thing to hear the word "Welcome". I have crossed a lot of borders in my time and the only other country I can remember hearing it was Argentina. At every stage in the processing at the border, the person welcomed me to Mongolia and was very generous and helpful. It was like they knew you just rode through a quagmire to get there, and were trying to make up for it. I picked up some insurance on the Mongolian side and had a conversation with a guy who spoke English about the way to Ogliv, the town I was aiming to get to the following day. He said 28km west, 100km south. That was a defining moment for what was ahead- from then on it all heading and distance- signposts were a thing I'd have to do without.
Not Dead Yet Second Edition  Oisin Hughes  p469

[Bodø]

That makes it more of an adventure.

[Biggles]

Then as I was on my way to Ulan Ude, I hit something on the ground and my front tyre deflated. I figured that because I'd hit something and it went down almost right away, I must have shredded the tyre. I pulled off the road but couldn't find anything wrong. What I didn't know was that I'd dented the rim, and because I was running tubeless tyres, the tyre was no longer able to seat on the wheel frame. If I had known the problems this issue was going to cause me further down the road, I think I would have given up and flown home right there and then.
I pumped the tyre up with the compressor and waited for a few moments to see if it went back down, it didn't, so I continued on gingerly to Ulan Ude.
Not Dead Yet Second Edition  Oisin Hughes  pp544-5

[Biggles]

Earlier in the day I'd also met a German chap called Denis, who'd ridden across the Trans-Siberian Highway on a 650. He was on his way to Japan. The lads were giving me serious style points for going to Magadan and doing the Road of Bones. The Swiss lads went for a very interesting strategy when picking their gear- it was all old. One of the motorcycles had 160,000km on it. Their thinking was that the older the gear they have the easier it would be to get parts for in Mongolia, Kazakhstan and Russia. They steered a mile clear of anything with complicated electronics simply because if it went FUBAR, they'd have no way of getting it up and running in the more remote areas. We went out for some grub and beers and shared stories from the road and had a great laugh about the Russian Lonely planet phrase book.
Not Dead Yet Second Edition  Oisin Hughes  p600