Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

Grab six or seven friends and take off for nowhere in particular. After about 10  minutes, have the leader fall back to the last position. In another 10 minutes, that leader falls to the rear as well. Continue this procedure until the original leader is back at the point position. During the ride, all leaders should be encouraged to get the group as lost as possible, since it would be someone else's responsibility to get the group back on track. The larger the group, the more lost you can get. After a couple of these rides, you learn to have an eye for detail, believe me. One thing to remember, don't take this ride too seriously. Enjoy the companionship and tuck those memories in a safe place.
You'll want to pull them out some cold winter night.
Road Tales  Steve Reed p26-7

[Biggles]

Do you know how to tell if you live next door to a motorcycle rider? Tall grass in the yard, weeds in the garden, dirty gutters, windows that need washing, house in need of painting, all signs of the 2 wheeler's creed, "If its nice enough to work outside, its nice enough to ride." My long-suffering wife, Angie, can (and has) testified to witnessing my possession by unseen forces once the temperature climbs above 70 degrees. Gotten the mower out of the shed, gassed it up, went by the garage, and the next thing ! know, I'm cleaning bugs off my Gold Wing's windshield.
Not only did I claim to have a 10 hour memory gap, possibly caused by alien abduction, but those rascally aliens put 350 miles on my bike as well! And not one of them was thoughtful enough to cut the grass for me! In their defence, they did fill the gas tank before returning the bike to my garage.
Probably in the name or intergalactic peace or some such thing.
Road Tales  Steve Reed p45

[Brock]

Oh so true
  Car is also dirty and bike is spotless.

[Biggles]

"So many roads, so little time". That phrase rings true with so many of us. So many places you haven't seen. So many adventures yet to experience. So much to see and do and so little time. And finally, you get it. That elusive answer to the question you've been asking yourself these many years. You come to realize that each ride is the best ride you've ever been on. The saying" "there are no bad rides, just some better then others" takes on a special meaning to you. When you hear a guy whine about being cold and wet you smile quietly to yourself. That guy over there telling about his 800 mile ride, the kid with the gauze on his forearm, the couple in their matching vests, all give you an inner peace. You know that they are part of you and you are a part of them. All of you are taking the same ride regardless of where you're at on the journey. You say to yourself, what an incredible and wondrous adventure I've been on. It's been more fun than I could have possibly imagined all those years ago. Now, I can't wait to see what's coming up around the next bend in the road.
Road Tales  Steve Reed p110

[Biggles]

After a hot shower and a great dinner (thanks Dear), I can now reflect on the day's events. The elation of the morning had been replaced with pleasant weariness. The overcast skies had been replaced by the glow of my wife's smile. The coldness of the ride had been replaced with cosiness. Strange how two totally opposite sensations are so dependent on the other? Without cold weather riding, you cannot truly appreciate the pleasures and comforts of a meal in a warm home. Without winter, how can you appreciate spring? And, if you don't go away, how can you come home?
Philosophy is not my forte. I just love to ride motorcycles. However, could the two be related? I may have to ponder that puzzle for a while, perhaps over some carrot cake and coffee.
Road Tales  Steve Reed p113

[Biggles]

Rouen is one of those places that, having visited once, you wonder why on earth you haven't been before. However, as I'd never visited previously I was keen to find somewhere to park my bike and take stock of my journey so far. Like most large towns, Rouen is a nightmare to navigate, particularly on a motorbike. It took about two hours of riding around in something like circles before I learnt the most important lesson of the trip: whenever you arrive at a new town or city, always make a beeline for the tourist information centre (they're usually located in the middle of whichever town or city you find yourself in, and are usually pretty well signposted).
The lady at the information centre was very helpful; unnecessarily so, some might say. She kept me talking (or rather, she kept talking to me, I've no idea what she was on about) for the best part of half an hour, and when I finally managed to flee, I did so under the weight of a hundred folding maps, brochures and pamphlets. Still, she was kind enough to point me in the direction of a cheap and cheerful hotel near the train station which I found with remarkable ease.
I booked a “chamber pour une nuit avec salle de bain”, and - with literally nothing else to say - dragged my luggage up three flights of stairs before cracking open a bottle of red wine and collapsing on the bed, a big, idiot grin writ large across my grimy face.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p10-11

[Biggles]

I spent the next couple of hours wandering around the city, taking in the various sights, stopping every now and again for a relaxing drink, but mainly worrying about my bike. The Suzuki SV650S isn't a particularly desirable machine, but it was all I had and, in the run-up to my trip, I'd heard countless horror stories about bike theft in France, which, if the tales were to be believed, was pretty much a national pastime.  Conveniently, the Suzuki has an under-seat storage area just big enough to accommodate a hefty chain and padlock - it's always a good idea to chain your bike to something, even if it's just a tramp - and this, coupled with a front disc lock and an alarm, meant it was pretty much theft-proof. Even so, I couldn't escape the nagging fear that, as I sank my third beer, my pride and joy was being wheeled into the back of a van. I decided to return to the hotel earlier than planned to check on her.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p14-15

[Biggles]

I was hugely relieved to find my bike shackled to the post where I'd left it. Maybe it was the glow from the setting sun, or maybe was the half bottle of wine and five beers, but the SV had never looked better than it did there in the cool French evening light: the jet black, slightly bulbous semi-fairing exposed the dull silver engine casing, like a satin dress slipping off an elegant thigh. Well, not really, but in my drunken state I found myself lapsing into that strange, singularly male state of mind that equates fast bikes and cars with the female form.  I’m sure Freud would have an explanation for it, but honestly, I don't think I want to hear it. Anyway, for whatever deep-seated psychological reason, I couldn't resist the urge to throw an ungainly leg over the tank and sit there for a while, watching the world go by, ,just me and the Suzuki.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p15

[Biggles]

From the word go I was hopelessly lost.  It quickly became apparent that the city's commuters were not in a tolerant mood. Like an ant in the middle of a football pitch I swerved this way and that, attempting to read road signs for any hint of direction. Cities aren't pleasant places to ride in at the best of times due to the sheer number of risks you encounter, but when you're lost, stressed and tired, mistakes become likely, and mistakes on a motorbike tend to hurt. Especially when they involve forgetting you're in France and turning left onto a busy roundabout instead of right... it seems that Lady Luck was riding pillion on that occasion.
Having received the sort of wake-up call that could feasibly raise the dead, I decided to call it quits: I rode the Suzuki onto the nearest pavement, took off my crash helmet and sank to the ground next to the bike exhausted and broken at 9 am.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p18

[Biggles]

Then an unusual thing happened: an angel appeared out of the traffic in the guise of a rough-looking chap on an old Honda CB500. He stopped next to me and gestured to the madness behind him, "Eez fun, yes?" he said, with a big grin. I replied that if by 'fun' he meant a complete bloody nightmare, then, yes, it most certainly was! We chatted briefly and I explained, in my sub-GCSE French and via steering wheel gestures, that I was looking for the Le Mans racetrack, which he kindly offered to lead me to. I couldn't believe my luck. Thanking him profusely, I pulled on my lid and fired up the Suzuki.
Unfortunately, my saviour had neglected to mention that he was suicidal, and that he had chosen this very day - the journey we were on, in fact - to be his last on this earth.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p18

[Biggles]

He rode like an absolute lunatic and it was only by following suit, ignoring every conceivable sense of self-preservation, that I was able to keep him in sight. We squeezed through gaps in the traffic that wouldn't have been possible had I had a slightly bigger breakfast that morning, and gambled with our - and every other road users' - lives at each and every junction. It quickly became apparent that my guide viewed traffic lights as a form of street decoration, pleasant enough to look at but of no practical value to a man in a hurry. In our wake a thousand car horns beeped furiously, while just feet ahead pedestrians dived this way and that, thrilled no doubt to have had their dull morning routine injected with such excitement. Through all of this my insane companion rode with heroic abandon, and I remember noting in a fleeting moment of calm that I hadn't seen his brake light come on once since he'd launched me into this hell just ten minutes earlier.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p18-9

[Biggles]

But the roads are so smooth and virtually empty that big speed is almost a pre-requisite, at least on the larger roads where the throaty V-twin will wind up a hot 120 mph without a glitch and sit there comfortably while you tuck down on top of your tank bag, a big grin spread across your face.
Pin the throttle on a downhill stretch and the needle edges slowly toward 130mph, but now the SV's engine is straining. The red line approaches for both bike and rider, as instinct begins to tighten the muscles until your arms cease to function as useful shock absorbers. At this point you have to step back, at least mentally; not necessarily by rolling off the throttle, but by consciously relaxing, forcing the brain to release its stranglehold on the sinews, to unlock the talons clenched around the handlebar grips and let the forearms cushion and iron out the natural imperfections of the road. Then everything becomes slower, easier and paradoxically, faster.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p24

[Biggles]

I'd anticipated freezing, snow-covered highways and roaring blizzards, but in reality the roads were clear and smooth, the sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky, and the entire Alpine experience turned out to be one of the most enjoyable of the journey. In hindsight I wish I'd spent days, rather than hours, amid that rugged and beautiful scenery. Parked at the side of the road, gazing out across the mountains, it was wonderfully peaceful, with nothing but a light breeze caressing my face and a long, empty winding road stretching off into the distance: the only indication I wasn't completely alone in the world.
Alpine roads demand a certain respect; not only because they are twisty and awkward and often flanked with drops measured in hundreds of feet, but also because if you do throw your bike down the road and hurt yourself, you're unlikely to be found for a while (if at all). I rode along those treacherous mountain paths with fear as my pillion. I couldn't shake the notion that the smallest mistake might end with me either plummeting to my death or lying in a heap at the bottom of a frozen ditch, totally obscured from the view of other road users and utterly helpless.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p96

[Biggles]

Eventually, the road stopped going up and began to descend, gently first, and then with unexpected severity. It’s surprising how much physical effort is involved in riding a heavy bike downhill continuously for the best part of 90 minutes.  Under braking - which happens quite a lot – your forearms and wrists take the full weight of your upper body, including, in my case, a rucksack which was full to bursting. It’s like doing countless push-ups while also trying to concentrate on the road ahead, noting and avoiding that innocuous looking patch of gravel that could so easily rob the front tyre of its grip, or the pothole ready to hammer and send a bone-shaking jolt through the bars and down your spine. By the time I got to the bottom of the pass I was exhausted
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p96

[Biggles]

I was alone up there on top of the tower, with no one to tell me when or where or how to be. Just me and the clouds and the breeze. It's how I feel when I pull on my crash helmet and close the visor. Alone and at peace.
 I looked out beyond Nurburg, Adenau, beyond the rolling hills and the Eifel Mountains, beyond Germany even, to Europe - a vast, sweeping mass of triumph and tragedy, romance and despair, heroism and  tyranny; as diverse geographically as it is culturally. This way for scorching Mediterranean beaches, that way for the snow-capped Alps and great swathes of excitement and challenge - and I had barely scratched the surface. Still, the time had come to say goodbye, for now, at least. With a heavy heart I made my way back down the castle's spiral staircase, through its ruined walls and along the pathway to where I'd left the Suzuki leaning heavily on its side-stand. After a final look around, I slid the key into the ignition, dabbed the starter, and with the sweltering heat of the Mediterranean now a distant memory, reluctantly began the final part of my journey back to London.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p130-1

[Biggles]

If you get a bit jittery because it's been two days since you last rode, or if you've ridden in torrential rain telling yourself 'there's no need for wet weather gear because it'll stop soon.'  Even if you find yourself talking to any rider about their bike, although the postie is getting tired of my questions about his CT90, either way, motorcycles are all consuming. Once bitten it s hard to shake them. The lifestyle that goes with them is just the same, not to mention the camaraderie. You don't see car drivers having an amiable chat at the lights.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p ix

This is the Greg Hirst Streak talks to on the radio all the time.

[Biggles]

The very first time I sat on a bike was as a young teenager. A well-meaning mate talked me into hopping on the back of his Honda 350. He gave me a helmet and we took off. Unfortunately, he did little else and when we came to a major left-hand corner he did what was required and leant to the left. This didn't make sense to me at the time, and thinking we were getting too dose to the road surface, I leant as hard as I could to the right. As a result we missed the corner and speared across the traffic into a petrol station. Thankfully we had room to stop and managed to avoid all sorts of stationary objects.  Then it dawned on him to explain to me how important it was for the pillion to lean with the rider.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p xi

[Biggles]

Then there was the time I was pulled up in Victoria at another biker rock concert. I encountered yet another Police roadblock, surely the bane of many major motorcycle events at the time. As I waited in line for the 'boys in blue' to get to me I wondered what would happen. This time the wait was short before a plain-clothes cop approached me. He asked for my license and questioned my reason for coming to this particular event. After looking me over he proceeded to write me a ticket for an illegal helmet. It seems that my helmet didn't have the appropriate Australian Standards sticker and he decided this was the way to make my visit to Victoria memorable. Initially I was dumbfounded. I knew I was being done-over in order to get at the event organisers but how to prove it? Then I asked the officer to explain the Victorian helmet law to me. Was it required to wear a legal helmet or was it required to show an approved sticker? I then explained how my helmet was, in fact, an older and legal one. Suddenly he went quiet and stopped writing the ticket. He looked up at me and then in a measured voice announced he was showing me undeserved favour and was not going to issue me a ticket. As he walked off I thought how fortunate that the law in Victoria was not clear. Perhaps he just didn't know it. Either way I was not shafted by a cop bent on harassing those who ride.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p 11-12

[Biggles]

The crowd present was made up of acting and media types plus a selection of the 'beautiful people'. This was my first TV launch and I got the invite after an acting appearance in the 3rd episode. The launch was held at a suitably decorated studio in upmarket Balmain. It was fitted with all the necessities, a boxing ring, a Jacuzzi and, of course, a mud-wrestling pit. When I arrived there was plenty of security at the entrance and I parked my Harley in their view. Inside was packed and after looking around I found a place to set my helmet down and went off to get a drink. When I returned my helmet was gone. Security helped me search but with no luck. Pizzas 'Pauly came by and spent some time checking out possible hiding places, but at the end of the night it was clearly stolen. And by one of the beautiful people no less. In all the years going to biker events, pubs and clubhouses, I've never had a helmet or gloves stolen. But in two visits to what are supposed to be upmarket and safe venues, venues frequented by people who society looks up to, I ended up having crucial riding gear stolen within minutes. I guess you can't go by any sort of stereotype.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p16

[Biggles]

For the uninitiated a gymkhana is a series of motorcycle games such as the slow race where the last bike to the finishing line without going backwards or putting feet on the ground wins. Another favourite is the blind race where the pillion guides a hooded rider to the finish line. This particular event has proven less popular after a number of broken friendships. And, of course, the famous keg-roll with the front wheel of a moving motorcycle. This one often requires the consumption of a great deal of amber fluid, in order to provide enough empty kegs for the race.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p20

[Biggles]

Just the other side of Redfern I had cause to stop at a set of traffic lights. Unexpectedly the bike stalled so I prepared to kickstart it just like I had been instructed at the shop. Colleen had dutifully slid towards the back of the seat to give me room to stand and put my weight into the kick, and it started easily, which pleased me to no end considering I got the hang of it so quickly. I returned to a seating position and headed off through the lights and down the road. Around half a kilometre later a car pulled up next to me and called out, 'Mate, you left something back there!' I turned back in time to see Colleen dodging traffic as she tried to get off the road back at the lights. It seems she did a little more than just slide back on the seat.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p26

[Brock]

 

[Biggles]

Getting blamed for things is a biker's lot. Many people think that if you get in trouble or hurt in a road accident it must be our own fault. This way of thinking has its roots in the early history of motor vehicles in Australia. From the earliest times motorcycles have been associated with risk and rebellion. Some years ago I met an old Aussie bloke who reminisced with me about riding a motorcycle down the Hume Highway to Melbourne when it was mostly dirt. He spoke in terms that riders today understand. Adventure, challenge, thrill and a sore backside. He also remembered something else; being regarded as a temporary Australian and treated as someone who needed to be looked after. Riders today get angered every time someone suggests motorcycles are dangerous. And with good cause as those who often make this claim have never had to face the reality of the car driving public.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p17

[Biggles]

I had the opportunity to lead out a group of entertainers onto the Sydney Cricket Ground for a promotion for the movie Mad Max 3. Heavy rocker Angry Anderson was to be interviewed before the game and was escorted by a number of cars and lead out by our Harleys. During the week I had trouble starting my bike. An electrical problem, I thought, and spent many hours working on it. Problem solved as I rode around in the lead-up to the game. It started without difficulty for several days, but to be sure I made a point of testing it regularly. Even during the lead-up time to the game I kept up the testing. It didn't miss a beat. As we sat at the northern entrance to the ground on two Harleys ahead of an assortment of dancing girls, off road cars and celebrities, my machine turned off and on without trouble. Finally the call came to head out onto the hallowed SCG surface. Wheeling to the right we headed out and past the Members’ and Ladies’ Stands and finally stopped in front of nearly 9,000 enthusiastic rugby league fans.
As the commotion died down, Angry disembarked from his vehicle and mounted the small stage for his interview about the latest Mel Gibson flick. As a precaution I kept my motor running- after all I didn't want a problem in front of such a lively crowd. Suddenly, one of the Channel 10 crew approached. Apparently one of the producers was worried the noise from my motor could drown out the interview and I was asked to switch it off. I confidently and dutifully complied. Some minutes passed and Mr Anderson finished, jumped off stage and headed to his vehicle. My mate and I took this as a cue to start up again. To my dismay nothing happened as I pushed the starter button. In desperation I moved to the kick-starter and frantically kicked and kicked. Nothing was happening, except that the crowd was starting to realise my predicament. Finally the other vehicles moved around me and exited the field leaving me in front of the Brewongle Stand as the entire crowd roared with laughter. Even after the players had emerged and the game got under way, there was still no roar coming from my motorcycle. I acknowledged defeat when a crew member asked me to push it off the ground. I can still hear the roars of laughter as I left. To make matters worse I had a couple of friends in the crowd, one of whom had a camera. He kindly preserved my embarrassment in several glossy black and white photos. Eventually I succeeded in reaching the haven of the carpark. In frustration I gave it one last try. The bike fired up immediately. My embarrassment was complete.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p34-5

[Biggles]

We came across the other riders and together we roared around underneath this famous Olympic venue, thirty bikers, most of whom were athletically challenged yet doing something that most in our world could only dream about, and in front of 80,000 plus screaming fans. It was a blast (fully sick, if you are under 25).
 As we neared the exit ramp something else happened that to this day has me shaking my head in disbelief. Coming around the final section of the road and on our way to head up the ramp we came across about eight cops. To my amazement they began applauding us as we passed, all of us. It was a moment to savour. Usually bikers and Police keep pretty distant from each other in social situations. Here they were reacting to us in a positive, friendly even supportive way. Even when an older sergeant stepped in at the death to stop this public bonding exercise, it was too late. Something had happened that none of us expected to see in our lifetimes. Police clapping riders instead of reacting in a negative way. I guess anything can happen at an NRL Grand Final.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p40