Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

I could again see a constant stream of bikes go around Parliament and park. This time it took a full hour for all the bikes to pass which delayed the official start time by fifteen minutes. Not that anyone seemed to mind, as the band on stage was playing some jumping rock music. Finally we were ready to start. As I got to the microphone to welcome everyone I could sense the excitement amongst this huge cross section of clubs and individuals. Besides the usual riders’ rights suspects there were tourers, vintage riders, Ulyssians, Outlaws, Christian clubs as well as road and off road racing types. Darrell Eastlake got a huge cheer as did the other celebrity speakers. Impressively Triple J’s Merrick Watts and Triple M's Brendan Jones rode all the way and spoke passionately about their motorcycling life. Jonesy was particularly impressive having ridden to Canberra after stopping at Goulburn Hospital. On the way down he caught a bug in the eye, requiring it to be bandaged. Even in pain he finished the ride and spoke with passion about his clear love of riding. Politicians from the Liberal, Labor and Democrats all spoke in support of this endeavour, taking the opportunity to present written policies ahead of the next Federal election. Warren Fraser and Ray Newland represented the industry and hailed this united approach of riders, industry and sport to positively challenge society in a pro-motorcycling way. In the end this call to work in unity provided a fitting end to an event that had drawn riders from all over Australia and remarkably, in 2001, appeared as big as many of the rider's rights rides in the United States and Europe.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p60

[Biggles]

However, it was on the way home that the action really started. We had decided to go back to Sydney via the New England Highway and unexpectedly ran into the mother of all inland storms. Not only did it rain heavily but a fierce, driving cross-wind made riding extremely dangerous. Regardless we rode on. As time passed Grunt, who was on the back, started to get ill. It got so bad we had to stop at a servo at one of the small towns near the border in NSW. It was a good thing too. Little did we know that the battery on my bike was in trouble. It couldn't cope with the long ride with the headlight hard-wired on and was on the verge of complete shutdown. It wouldn't start at the servo and the mechanic who inspected it gave it a death sentence. In fact if we hadn't have stopped then, the battery would have been fried. And in those conditions, with fierce wind driven rain and the number of heavy vehicles using the road at the time, we could have easily found ourselves bent around a tree or sharing the grille of an oncoming semi.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p85

[Biggles]

As I walk the bike along the riverbank, following the man with the machete, I ask him how we will cross. He points to an esplanade ahead: "Bac. I'm the captain." Bac is a French word adopted in various countries to describe a raft.
Soon we round a curve and find in front of us a floating wreck- a rusty iron platform, full of holes, 25 meters long and 8 meters wide. It's fixed on top of a dozen rusty 50-gallon oil drums, tied to a rusty, frayed steel cable that leads to rusty pulleys anchored to trees about 200 meters apart on opposite shores. The bac will cross by means of the cable, which has to be pulled by hand. Everything looks as if it will fall apart in midstream, but my biggest concern, as always, is money.
"How much will you charge to take me across?" I ask.
 "If is to the other shore, one million," he says. "You have to settle up with the pullers."
I smile at his term, "If is to the other shore." What could he mean, that he only charges half to get to the middle of the river? One million of his pesos equal $25 a fortune in these latitudes, so I start to bargain. We settle at $10, then I ask, "Where are the pullers?"
"I don't know."
“How can I settle up with the pullers?"
"I don't know.”
"When do we cross, then?"
"I don't know. Maybe when the pullers come."
"And when do the pullers come?"
He shrugs his shoulders.
'OK, who are the pullers?"
 "You. And others who may want to cross." 
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p8

[Biggles]

As an adult I took a job with Pfizer selling pharmaceuticals. One day a sales rep from another laboratory said to me, "I’ve bought a motorcycle, and I have to go to sign the papers. Why don't you come with me?"
I’d never been interested in those types of vehicles, which cost as much as a car but left you looking like a cat rescued from a river when it rained, but I went with him out of my impulsive curiosity. That decision changed my life forever.
At the dealership my gaze fell upon an advertising display picture, a photo of a big, black, bulky, enormous, shining machine. It looked like a bus, a motor home. It had saddlebags, one on each side, a big trunk at the back a large protective fairing with glove compartments, a soft seat that looked more comfortable than my grandmother’s rocking chair, and a powerful 1100cc 4 cylinder engine. The ad claimed that it even came with a cassette player and antenna. Honda Gold Wing Interstate was the name of the hair-raising monster. Like a premonition, big red letters on one corner of the leaflet proclaimed, "Your future has come on two wheels."
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p12

[Biggles]

I went back to the show room with he money and signed the documents. The owner knew that sooner or later the moment would come when I wouldn't be able to pay the instalments, and he would keep what I'd already paid, and the bike, which even used, would cost double the original price, because that was the way things worked in my country in those days.
A few weeks later my wonderful machine arrived from the United States. When they handed it over to me, I found another major drawback- I’d never been on a motorcycle, much less driven one, so I didn't even know how to start it. When I asked, they all looked at me in horror. They took it into the street for me and gave me a 10-minute crash course.
I started up. After 100 yards, I fell off. The left mirror broke.
My monthly salary was just enough to pay the instalments, but I only managed to pay two of them; by the third I couldn't keep up the payments. Everyone who knew me agreed that I'd made the biggest mistake of my life,  dreaming beyond the mark, and that in a few days it would be proven to me.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p13

[Biggles]

But before I could lose the bike, fate intervened. One Monday, the week began with the secretary of the treasury announcing: "Those who bet on the dollar, will lose," as he always did in his speeches. On Tuesday, when the country woke up, it discovered that either the newspapers had printed the secretary's name incorrectly or during the night the president had sent him on a permanent holiday. By Wednesday, a new secretary of the treasury devalued the peso. From that moment, the American currency no longer cost 170 pesos per dollar but the incredible sum of 1,700 pesos per dollar. On Thursday it rose to 3,000 pesos; on Friday 5,000; the following Monday, 6,000 pesos per dollar!
One week before you could buy 170 pesos with a dollar, now with the same dollar, you could buy 6,000 pesos. Generally these economic calamities only serve to make the rich somewhat richer, and the poor somewhat poorer, but never to make the poor richer. Well, there are always exceptions.
My Pfizer salary was fixed to a dollar tariff, so I went on to earn almost 6,000 times more pesos than I earned when I'd bought the bike, and, as the installments were fixed in pesos, the total debt left outstanding for me to now pay became the equivalent of a pack of cigarettes. That's how I got a $26,000 motorcycle that ended up costing barely $3,000. The Honda dealership that sold me the bike survived for another year, but finally closed down.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p13-4

[Biggles]

I arrive upstairs feeling anxious. Sonia tells me that the hotel has no parking lot. I take my passport, and I run downstairs, Sonia behind me. Less than a minute has passed. An eternity.
The motorcycle is totally naked. Empty. Everything has disappeared. Even what was inside the locked fiberglass saddlebags and the rear trunk has been carried off. Everything that was not part of the machine itself is gone. Gone. Gone.
They left me nothing. Not even a thank-you letter.
I'm completely cleaned out. I've been totally, absolutely, undoubtedly robbed. Under the moonlight of Rio, and the neon lights of the street, I walk around the bike, not believing my eyes.
I'm an idiot.
Sonia ask me, "And now?"
"I've been robbed."
"I noticed. Can I help you in any way?"
I can't answer her. I need to think.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p17

[Biggles]

Of all of my essential things, only my documents and the few dollars are left. I'm wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers. And the underpants, of course, which I have on. More importantly, I still have my black flying carpet. What else do I need to go on my vision quest, my walk-bout?
With the loss of all my amenities, I could have been sunk into misery, but instead, I find a good side to the disaster. For the first time since beginning the journey, I enjoy driving. Without the extra 170 pounds, the bike rides like a grand prix racer instead of a garbage truck. Before I had a hundred things to look after, now I have only one: the bike. I can move my body, and I have space to carry Sonia. The robbery was a blessing.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p17

[Biggles]

Here on the equator the days become longer and the heat becomes hotter, but as soon as the sun goes down, the shadows swallow everything faster than it takes me to switch on my lights. My skin roasts, my blood boils, and the motorcycle melts. I've driven all day, without a break, hitting cracks, falling into deep potholes, crossing faults in the ground streams, fjords, rivers. The insects have eaten me alive, and I feel as if I've just done 30 rounds with 10 boxers the same time. More dust has entered my body than I've trodden on in the last 30 years. The people who warned me how difficult it was going to be were right. I've driven 15 hours nonstop. Of the 300 miles to the next post, I've done 40.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p27

[Biggles]

I start the engine. I accelerate. She doesn't move. I look around and, with horror, discover what has happened. The rear wheel is not only stuck in the mud, but is also completely deflated, squashed flat The situation is as follows: I can't get the bike out of the mud, I don't have a pump, I have no tools for repairs, and I have no idea how to get the wheel off the chassis. I've never done it before, and I barely paid attention when some mechanic did it. And it’s raining. No, not raining, pouring. The jungle has disappeared in the darkness of the night, under a curtain of water. I leave the bike in the middle of the track, half sunk in the mud and I walk back about 200 yards. There's a small clearing, with some pieces of wood laid like a roof. I lie on the ground under it, with no strength left. I can't think clearly. I'm out of the rain, not completely, but enough. It’s late. I'm very tired. I need to sleep.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p27

[Biggles]

The fifth day when I'm ready to continue way, the Atroari chief, who has come to the road, goes to say something to someone from the government. It's a request which makes me proud. With a bit of help, we fulfill his wish, and sit him on the bike. The chief is happier than a dog with a bone, and hangs onto handlebars, with his legs dangling to the sides and showing off his yellowish teeth.
When he's on the ground again, he takes one of the shrunken heads off the string round his neck and hands it to me as a gift. Everyone is astonished. This is a treasure more than one of them would like to have, but the Indians do not usually give them away, as it represents their fortune and demonstrates their status. They tell me I have to accept. I do so, and I thank him by giving him a gift in return. I take the shiny key ring which keeps my keys together and give it to him. The Indian takes it and goes back to his village.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p29

[Biggles]

I gently accelerate. I put the wheels in the water and go slowly forward, using my feet to help, preventing the water from knocking me over, or from going into the exhaust pipes. If the engine fails, that's it. I'm not going to let this Buraco [Hole] River be my hole. I just hope God has come to love the bike and helps us. Now I'm in the torrent. The front wheel slides one way and then the other, and the back wheel slips on the rounded rocks. I tighten my grip on the handlebars. We're going dangerously deep, too far. The water is already over the engine. I keep it revving, although not so much that I have to lift up my feet. The current hits us sideways and washes over my head. We're almost in center of the river. The bike is almost completely covered. Only the tank and the fairing are out of the water. If the water touches the air filter it's all over. We're sinking deeper and deeper. I stop.
Bad mistake.
I can't keep upright, and I'm about to fall over. The eddies push the back of the bike and slide it sideways. Now I'm facing the current, which is hitting the fairing so hard it seems it may smash it to pieces. The noise of the flood coming at me covers all the other jungle sounds, even the roaring of the carburettors. I can't go on like this, in the riverbed; I have to face the other bank, but I can't move. I'm petrified.
It's almost all over. Now I know that you mustn't brake when you're in the middle of a river.
When I jump off the bike and leave her to save myself, a message came into my head: "Facing it, always facing it, that's the way to get through. Face it!" My right hand twisted the accelerator more and more, and I’d say I sailed, rather than rode, to the other side.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p30

[Biggles]

I go forward, revving. The sleepers are in pairs a foot so apart, riveted to a labyrinth of iron girders which, criss-cross below, but between them there is nothing, just the ravine. The bike's wheels get stuck in the gaps. I accelerate and push with my feet. Things are getting complicated. After about 60 yards I skid, and to my shame, I fall off, landing heavily and dangerously on my right side. I drop something which falls between the girders to the gulf below. I don't know what it is, but I haven't the time to find out. The trucks are about to run over me. They hoot. They'd like to push the bike over the edge. I pick up the dead weight of the motorcycle using all my strength. I get on and start up. The engine coughs. I try again, pushing the starter button. At last the cylinders fire. I accelerate, but this time I decide not to let myself be intimidated or pushed. I'm going to go slowly, and very carefully. I go over two sleepers, and crash! The front wheel falls into a gap. I give gas to the engine, the tire crawls out, goes forward, and crash! The rear wheel falls into the gap. I accelerate, go over the sleepers, go forward, and crash! The front wheel falls into the next gap. I accelerate, go over, and crash! The rear wheel. Accelerate, forward, crash! And so on, from sleeper to gap to sleeper and back to gap again. It’s as if the bike had big square wheels. It goes up and down, and up and down. The soldiers in the body of the truck in front of me, which is now moving further and further ahead, try to encourage me by waving at me to follow them. Some of them clap when I come out of the gaps by burning rubber from the rear wheel. The truck behind me speeds up and hoots at me a couple of times to get a move on. One thousand feet below I can see the bed of the River Lempa.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p50-1

[Biggles]

A guttural whine from an antique taxi- probably from the time of the Mayas- alerts me to the fact that the taxi’s brakes have failed. "Whoomp!" The driver crashes into the left side of my motorcycle and sends me flying. I make a spectacular pirouette.
Luckily, I'm OK. Only my pride gets a little dented. I raise up the bike, surrounded by dozens of Guatemalans who discuss the accident. My Gold Wing has stoically endured the knock, but will need some bodywork repairs.
I'm in Guatemala, and although the taxi driver crossed the intersection at high speed through a red light, I know the law here is not any different from in any other country in which I have been. I play my part and he plays his; we exchange a few harsh words, and then everybody continues on their way.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p52

[Biggles]

At the entrance to Houston, the cars are stopped on the freeway for miles and miles, bumper to bumper. I go slowly along between two lanes of cars that are almost stationary and hear a siren. It’s a patrol car racing me in the emergency lane, alongside the crash barrier, with its lights flashing. As I am now an expert in this, I move in front of them and stop. Two officers in uniform get out. The one in front starts barking at me; it seems he's unable to speak. He reminds me of a Chihuahua with hiccups. He shouts so much and so fast that all I can do is look at him carefully, because I can’t understand a word of what saying. Anyway I can't imagine that I've done anything wrong. I wasn't even doing 10 miles per hour. Then the other one, as big as Hercules, comes up to me. "Here comes real trouble, Emilio," I say to myself, but he only looks the bike up and down. "Drugs again," I think.
It’s like an obsession with them.
But no, he's not looking for drugs. He quiets his partner and asks, "Don't you know you can't drive between the cars?"
"But they're stopped. In California…"
“This is Texas, not California. Your plates are from Argentina. Why?”
“I’m from there. I'm going around the world.“
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
"When did you leave?"
"A year and a half ago."
“And where are you going now?"
“Houston.”
"Where are you going to stay?"
"At the campsite."
"Campsite! My friend, you’ve just found yourself a place to stay. We’ll go to my house. I have a Honda Gold Wing, too, and it will be an honor for me and my family to put you up. Follow us on your bike."
The other cop is speechless, and I am too. This is crazy. A cop inviting me to stay at his home!
The Gold Wing Road Riders Association organizes a meeting in Shreveport, Louisiana, and we go there: my friend Terry, the sheriff, and his son and daughter-in-law, who follow us in a van. Of the ten thousand motorcycles present, mine is the oldest, but the way the people welcome me makes me feel at home. "Americans are cold," someone once said to me. Well they ought to attend a meeting like this one. The only cold things are the thousands of drinks consumed.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p65-6

[Biggles]

Are there no options for getting out of here? Yes: walking. Leave behind what has become an anchor to me. I look back at the bike. "I'll be back for you, Princess. I'll bring help to get you out of here." I walk off, carrying just the clothes I'm wearing, already in rags. I turn again to see her, before we're separated by the jungle. I know my chances of survival are not very high if I walk, but they are less than zero with the bike. And I'm clear about one thing. I won't go back over those terrible hundred kilometres. I walk off in thick, muddy water, telling myself- "It's only 20 kilometres. Come on Emilio! A little further. Come on!"
Somewhere-I don't know if a hundred yards or a mile further on- my spirit breaks. My legs fold, and I fall in the water and start to cry. I cry because of my failure, because abandoning the only companion I have is a failure. I'm exhausted, soaking wet, hungry, and confused, in the middle of the biggest crisis of my life. I don't want to die, but I fear death less than what awaits me: failure. I have to go on, that's true, but my motorcycle is my spacecraft. How can I get where I want without her? Yes, there is another way of getting out: the way I came, those hundred kilometres, step by step, with the Princess. I start to walk back, maybe a kilometre or two. I don't know. And I find the Princess, and I embrace her. I drink some water and lie down next to her.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p98-9

[Biggles]

Getting the bike up the hills was difficult, but getting her down again is worse. With gravity as an unwelcome companion, I fight to control a vehicle which is heavier than me by a ratio of five to one. She gathers speed as she slides through the mud, and I even have to use my feet as brakes. Then, on a hillside, the front tire hits a stone, and we lose balance and fall. I hang onto the handlebar and pull for all I'm worth, but I'm beaten and forced to let go, and the Black Princess starts slipping down the hill. She slides 30 feet and ends up with her wheels in the air.
I go down and examine the position she's in. I conclude that her position might be an advantage to me. I contemplate pushing her and making her slide some more, using the impetus to get her up, but this plan could miserably if she slips much further down the slope.
With these horrors in mind, I decide to try and get her up without making her slide any more. I manage to upright the bike and carry on downhill. By midday, both bike and I are on level ground; the asphalt road that goes back to Bissau.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p99

[Biggles]

I come to another river, the Chari, which, apart from carrying water, fulfils the function of the border. There is supposed to be a bridge, and in fact there was, but its collapsed and sank into the water. Even so, some people risk the crossing, balancing on a narrow cornice of the bridge which is still sticking out, and which the water rushes over. After a long while I admit there's no other alternative. I see two locals who are about to cross, and I offer them money in exchange for their help. We begin to move forward along the slippery cornice. The water carries all kinds of tree trunks and trash, and we can't see the edges. One man walks in front of the bike, marking with his feet where the edges are. The other goes behind, holding the rear trunk to counter the swaying. The rapids are very strong. As the water hits me sideways, it rises over the tank. Slowly, with great difficulty, we reach the middle of the river, and now the water surprises me, or surprises the three of us, because it comes so strongly that it almost goes over our heads.
A tree trunk hits us and the man in front grabs hold of the wheel so as not to be dragged away, and twists the whole bike toward the river. The wheel comes off the cement, and with the impetus the front part of the bike is left hanging off the cornice, practically submerged up to the engine. The water is about to carry us away literally as if we were a piece of paper. The engine stops, and although I have hardly any firm space at the sides, I triple my efforts, desperately hanging on, trying to save Princess. If we fall in the river, I'm sure I will swim, but she will go to the bottom, and my journey will be over.
"Pull back! Pull!" I shout to one of them. "Lift the wheel back onto the cement!" I shout to the other.
"Let's push! Together! Now! Come on!" I keep shouting, trying to direct the operations in a battle that seems lost already. Then, as if from heaven, another two boatmen arrive and willingly pitch in, holding the bike by the sides, helping us to set her straight and back on the cornice, and then managing between us all to get her upright and heading toward the opposite shore again. We're still fighting the current, but by pushing, we slowly move forward.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p107-8

[Biggles]

When we reach Yaounde, the capital, the driver brings the train into the station to let the passengers off, but the goods wagon, where the bike is, still sits outside the station. I wait for him to move the car forward, but the guy pulls the wagon off to one of the side tracks that make up the immense railway terminal, half a kilometre from the station. He unhooks it and goes away.
I jump down onto the tracks and walk over to where he's stopped his black engine. He asks me for 500 dollars to take the Princess' wagon into the station, and another 500 for the stationmaster. The deliberations last hours, but the bastard laughs and won't accept the 100 of the last 150 dollars I have left. The other possibility is to find some strong, steady arms able to hold the Princess up when she comes off the floor of the wagon. But they ask me for 50 dollars each, with a minimum of 10 men.
They have a kind of union, commanded by a boss who is the one that negotiates with me. They have me cornered, but there's one thing I make very clear-I don't have 500 dollars. My whole capital amounts to 150 dollars, and if I give it all to them, I'll still e stuck in Cameroon. It's a war of nerves, but finally, when it's about to get dark, they give in. They want to go home with something, and I'm offering them something: 10 dollars each.
Finally, nine hours after coming into the station, I manage to get the Princess onto the ground. It takes another while to get the bike over the rails to the street. I ride the last 250 kilometres and reach Douala, on the shores of the Atlantic.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p110

[Biggles]

The third morning they come back. They bring pack of cookies, but there's no sign of the officer. By mid-afternoon I start to protest loudly. I shout louder when I see they're submissive, but they're more scared of the officer, and they ask me not to pass.
At five they leave, ashamed of themselves and apologizing. It's my third night at the border, but I know it isn't their fault. On the fourth morning they come back and finally take me to M'bini where I'm arrested by the border commander. He takes away my passport, the keys to the bike, and kicks me out of his house. I move into a small hotel, and the commander has me at his mercy for four days. Every morning I have to go and stand outside his door and wait.
Finally, on the fifth day, he lets me in. He's sitting with three friends on some moth-eaten armchairs. He shouts at me, insults me, threatens me, and makes me publicly apologize for bothering him when he's so busy.
And I do so. Because this is a lesson I've learned: it's better to swallow my pride rather than have a brainless animal with no scruples swallow up me, the bike, and my future, all in one go. These are the rules of Africa. After my public humiliation, stamped passport in hand, I take to the road again. I pass the village of Kibangou and continue.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p114

[Biggles]

There's no moon, but it's very damp and hot. I'm wearing sports shoes, shorts, and a sleeveless shirt. I have to hurry to get through the difficult exit formalities. In this country, all passengers at airports have to give a currency declaration, prove that they changed their money legally, and then completely undress in a changing room in front of a guard so he can see nothing is being hidden. They explained to me that they even make you separate your buttocks to make certain.
The freeway is also in darkness. As it's getting late, I accelerate to 70 miles per hour. Suddenly I enter a roundabout. The darkness, tiredness, the lack of signals: the crash is tremendous. The front wheel hits the cement border, and I take off like a jet plane. When I come down, I'm on 1,200 pounds of metal that is no longer vertical.
We roll 30,50, 70 meters. The bike slides along in front of me, bouncing off the cement, with pieces of bodywork and sparks flying out in all directions, and making an infernal racket of metal being filed down. My body follows her, like a sack of potatoes, with no will of its own, dragged along the asphalt.
I finally stop.
I get up. "I'm fine, I'm OK," I say to myself. I try to get the bike up, but I can't because my left hand won't respond. I use my leg as a lever and manage it. I try the starter. It takes a while, but finally the engine responds.
"It's all OK, just a fright," I say to myself over and over and try to get into gear, but the clutch lever has gone. I get off and push. I'm only 200 meters from the airport. "I'd better not miss the plane," I say to myself "I'd better get some repairs done in Mauritius or Madagascar, rather than stay here in Tanzania to get them done."
I park the bike right by the glass doors of the central hall. I cross the hall and reach the counter. Philippe looks sees me, and gives a shout. "Mon Dieu! What's happened to you?
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p119-121

[Biggles]

Before long I am crossing the Iran-Pakistan border and find myself in Baluchistan, the dustiest, ugliest, and most depressing desert in the world. This region is the refuge of Afghan guerrillas, so I put pressure on the Princess, urging her ahead, with the intention of reaching some village before nightfall. A mound of soft sand makes me lose control. Body and bike whirl through the air and we both lie on the searing sand. I have a few skin scratches, and the Princess has a broken windshield.
 Suddenly, out of nowhere, appears a decrepit truck. Several men with thick black beards and turbans on their head get out, their Kalashnikovs in their hands. They are Taliban guerrillas. They share food and water with me, and we all stay there for the night.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p156

[Biggles]

From horizon to horizon there is not a soul in sight, but the guerrillas- if they really do exist- are said to appear out of nowhere, like spirits. I manage to keep up my speed, and everything's going fine, except for the sun that beats down helmet and the helmet that burns my brains out. The terrain is mercifully hardy and I don't sink into the sand, as in the Sahara. Then the front wheel of the bike catches in a pile of stones, and the bike, with me astride, somersaults through the air. After making sure I have no broken bones, I start to pick up the Princess, but she is sprawled on a clump of sand, in a clumsy position, and try as I might I cannot straighten her. A truck drives up and stops about 50 yards away, and a group of men get out, bearded, armed with Kalashnikov rifles. They are  Afghanis- Mujahideen or Taliban rebels. I'm a dead man, I think to myself.
They all babble at me at the same time, in Farsi I suppose, pointing at the bike and the horizon, but I don't understand what they are saying. They approach, and I brace myself. They take their rifles off their shoulders and lift up the bike. Then they sit down in a circle and invite me to join them. They take out a large amount of food and water, serve me a generous helping and we sit there eating.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p158

[Biggles]

There are many things that have happened to me that for space reasons, I did not include in this narrative, but that doesn't make these experiences less valuable.  Through my journey, my life consisted simply of moving forward, from Alaska to the Himalayas, from Cape North to Tasmania, from Bourbon Street to Manchuria, from Cape of Tribulation to Tierra del Fuego, from the tomb of Christ to the mines of King Solomon. I was Chinese in China, Russian in Russia, Christian at The Vatican, and Muslim in the lands of Allah. I was a poor man in Calcutta and a wealthy man at the Champs Elysee. But, above all, I was a wanderer. Along 460,000 miles (735,000 kilometres) of highways, roadways, rivers, seas, mountains, steppes, jungles, deserts, and even swamps, I experienced everything that I possibly could, and I always did it with only one intention: to feel myself alive.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p222

[Biggles]

I am not the Marco Polo on motorbike that some newspapers have called me. I'm not even- for God’s sake- the last of the romantics, as a French magazine described me I am only a man, a little bit crazy maybe, who believes deeply that whoever does not invest in dreams is not living reality.
In the end, the world I have known has gone away forever. This book is already a period piece, almost a historic novel. Now I shall say good bye to all of you, my friends. I am going to dream of my roads, my enchanted forests, my yellow and desolate deserts, and the legends of distant cultures that I found at each turn of a wheel of this never-exhausted motorbike. This book is dedicated to all of you, wherever you are. Most importantly, it is dedicated to you Monica, because without you this world that I love so much would not be worthwhile.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p222