Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

While waiting to be locked down after bathing, I lean against one of the wooden support posts holding up an outside wall of the ranchita when an unexpected explosion booms through the air. The noise is so loud I feel the concussion against my skin. Stinging debris sprays across the front of my body accompanied by the irritating acrid smoke of discharged gunpowder. My first thought is that someone had detonated a cherry bomb as the echo under the porch painfully resonates like a slap against my ears.
 It takes a few moments to realize the pole I'd been resting against had disintegrated into wooden fragments and splinters across the front of my shirt and face. I'm baffled by what's happened until noticing one of the younger rebels, who had been carelessly cleaning his gun, sheepishly looking up at me with a "woops" expression. Even stranger is my lack of reaction- I'm so numb over what has occurred in the past several weeks, I'm unfazed and merely shuffle back inside and fall asleep. Life has evolved onto a new level: I now exist within a psychological vacuum, without emotion, mentally withdrawing at every opportunity from this world of misery, my captors' and mine. They too, along with the local campesinos, live within a prison of despair.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p132-3

[Biggles]

Liberated from other people's time schedules, chronic delays, and bureaucratic complications, I tumble back joyously into the freedom of the road and excitement of adventure that only motorcycle travel can create. Dark moments are gone and negative images are on hold. I emerge from a foggy haze and what was so frustratingly dancing at the end of my fingertips is now in the firm grasp of my heart. Even the slow pace of traffic is welcome. Inquisitive children at gas stations, gently banked turns through the mountains, and the sweet smell of fresh-mowed meadows all remind me of why I'm here. Tantalizing exotic fruit peddled roadside next to open-air restaurants serving sizzling local meals cooked on open fires once again tease me with the urge to lay down another mile.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p190

[Biggles]

Ahead there's a string of monstrous semi-trucks spewing black clouds of filthy fumes big enough to command my immediate attention, and the race is on to the rapidly approaching curves. I'm back into the rhythm of duelling with multi-wheeled, rolling monolithic beasts hell-bent on ignoring little motorcycles. The lumbering danger quickens my pulse, reminding me that speed and agility are all that a motorcyclist has to compete with. As anyone who has ever travelled roads like these is well aware, size does matter.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p191

[Biggles]

Traffic in Peru lives up to its reputation as some of the wildest in South America. Drivers play a non-stop, nerve-racking game of bumper-car chicken. The rules: vehicles travelling in the same direction must maintain light contact, barely tapping the next car’s fenders. Amidst the synchronized chaos, horns are used in the same way that motorists in other countries use their brakes. Travel reports indicate Argentina is even worse- I can hardly wait.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p199

[Biggles]

With nothing to hinder the relentless winds, blurs of blinding dust spin into malicious sandstorms, ending as unpredictably as they began. The abrasive crud accumulating on the outside of my body also accumulates inside my nose and throat. This irritates my sinuses but I'm more concerned about the air filtration system on the carburettor and effects of abrasive grit on the inside of my panting little engine.
Two-man teams of bored Transito police inhabit scattered isolated military outposts, sporadically flagging over unlucky motorists as a means to pay their rent. They usually wave me on: I'm too insignificant to bother with. If they do stop me, it's only to ask about my journey and relate a few tales of their own travels. Everyone is amiable in Peru, even the cops.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p200

[Biggles]

We turn to plan B- finding someone to rebuild the factory shock. One man tells us to come back at five o'clock and he will have it done. I explain in broken, near impossible to understand Spanish, this won't work, it must be earlier. No problem, how about three o'clock? That's perfect. I can be on the road by five and only have a few hours of difficult night riding ahead.
Later that day, with the sun gracefully retreating below the horizon, I blast past the last tollbooth exiting Lima and ride onto the autopista, hoping for an overnight in Pisco. From there, I'll deviate off the Pan American Highway and spiral back into the Andes.
Yet in my hurry, I failed to inspect the rebuilt shock when we re-installed it and later discovered that all the mechanic did for the fifty bucks I paid him was clean it. Even though there was no improvement, there is still a bright side. At least toll roads in Peru are free for motorcycles and the government does something here that I found in few other countries- they repair their potholes.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p203

[Biggles]

As the winds subside, a light ocean mist deposits a film of salt on my face shield, which I stop to clear every twenty minutes. During these moments, I shut down the engine just to savour the roaring silence. Marvelling at the enveloping chilly desolation, it's difficult not to linger. I love the desert as much as the mountains the jungle, and am continuously captivated by the contrasts this planet has graciously offered its inhabitants. While a prisoner in Colombia I dreamed of these moments, knowing if I survived, I would one day complete this ride no matter how long it took. Once again, I eagerly plunge southward, overwhelmed in the pure ecstasy of feeling alive.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p204

[Biggles]

There is a paved road leading to Cusco that would have been much easier to travel, so why would anyone intentionally set out into such extreme conditions? Because on a journey like this, challenges define life and make a man feel alive. Also, it's the best darn ride since departing California. Storybook Andean scenery opens like secret pages of ancient mountain marvels unfolding for only those who witness it firsthand. Grinning until my jaw aches, I peer outward through my face shield at the sharp multicoloured canyons and towering peaks above- it's as though I'm ricocheting through time with little to indicate what century this is. For hundreds of miles in all directions in the frigid mountain air, no two viewpoints are alike, rendering me breathless in awe of this natural phenomenon that I've only imagined. This is the reason to experience Peru and it's worth every second of hassle and discomfort.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p205

[Biggles]

As the back end of the bike abruptly begins to sway, I'm not sure if it's due to a rutted road or my rear tire going flat. I don't want to stop and find out which. The bike is too unstable to shift out of second gear and suddenly the road ahead leads downward. Yet this is a sword that cuts two ways; I’m rapidly descending but also out of control on frozen ground. My brakes are useless and all I can do is keep my legs stretched out, wildly paddling with my feet in an attempt to remain upright.
Within thirty minutes I'm exhausted from struggling for stability but at least I'm descending. As the foul weather lessens and temperatures climb, the frozen road returns to mud. Another mile down the steep grade, twinkling lights appear. Maybe a car, a truck, a farmhouse? At this point, anything means relief from shivering. My rain suit is completely soaked but my electric vest pumps lifesaving heat.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p212

[Biggles]

When my rear tire finally fails, within seconds, I 'm riding the rim, wobbling all over the road. I could possibly continue rolling at a slower pace but would quickly destroy the tire. I opt for running next to the bike, guiding it downhill toward the distant lights. For the last two months, people from around the world have sent emails wishing me well and praying for my safety- and maybe tonight those pleas were answered. There's no other way to explain how, on this miserable stormy night, the only other vehicle on this deserted mountain road happens to be a flatbed truck with a crew who have just finished unloading their cargo at a distant farm.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p212

[Biggles]

Even though the road is well paved through open spaces and nearly all straightaways have zero traffic, we agree to a limit of sixty mph. Back in the States this would call for ninety mph cruising but here, I'm driving him crazy riding slow and eventually, foolishly allow myself to be drawn into matching his pace.
Suddenly out of nowhere bolts one of the thousands of dogs that chase motorcycles in South America. Unaware there are two of us, El Fido attacks the lead bike travelling at seventy-five mph. Unable to match the biker's speed, he slows to a fast walk, directly across path of my fishtailing Kawasaki 650, infamous for its poor braking ability. Were both lucky, as he barely leaps out of the way while my front tire gobbles up sections of tail fur.
Collision with anything at this speed means loss of control and a tenth of a second difference could've brought us both down. I consider how this might have ended. There are no emergency helicopters here to whisk an injured biker off to high-tech trauma centres. I likely would lie here until a speeding truck or bus rolled along to finish the job.
My companion never notices or looks back, violating a cardinal rule to keep an eye on your partner. The lead rider should always keep track of the rider behind in his mirror, in case he runs into trouble. This distraction increases the hazard of riding lead, yet it is part of the responsibility that comes with that position, a reason I prefer to ride lead.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p218-9

[Biggles]

The upcoming ride across the southern half of the Bolivian Andes will cover some of the most remote and scenic regions of the country. From here on, I'll be experiencing the Altiplano at altitudes of 14,000 to 17,000 feet, across hundreds of miles of salt flats and deserted plateaus. Vast segments are unmapped and those maps that do exist often disagree about where, or even if, there's a road. Even my GPS shows only open, high-altitude plains of barren landscape between international borders. Mostly, I plan to follow tire tracks in the sand or salt across immense, dry lake beds- tracks that may not show up in the rain.
There are several 300 mile stretches with no fuel available but my bike's range is about 260 depending on conditions. Even with a spare three-gallon fuel supply, if I take off in a wrong direction against a headwind, it could mean trouble.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p224-5

[Biggles]

An extended stretch of windblown decomposed granite quickly becomes the worst washboard surface imaginable. The cross-grooves are from six to ten inches deep and are spaced wide enough to prevent smoothing the bumpiness by riding the tops a little faster. There is an inescapable, violent jarring at any speed with no relief from the relentless punishment of eyeballs jiggling so bad I can barely focus.
When the road is not washboard, it turns to soft coarse sand, without any visible warning in advance. A firm wrenching of my handlebars as the front wheel digs in signals its too late to slow down. What's left is to accept the new direction the front wheel is twisting into, and fight to remain upright. These stretches drag on for miles and, for the last few hours, I can't shift out of first gear without sacrificing control. Even at five mph, at this altitude it's an exhausting struggle to maintain a straight line.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p226

[Biggles]

The first stretch of wet clay whisks the bike out from underneath me, sending us both sliding sideways, tearing a saddlebag off in the process. There's been no other traffic all day, so I'm alone trying to pick up the bike on a sloping surface I can barely stand on without slipping. With some serious grunting, I turn backwards, lifting with leg power, and just as I manoeuvre the bike upright, my boots slide and we both go down again. I use every bit of remaining strength on the next few tries until finally managing to put the kickstand down and rest for a moment before jumping back on to continue. There's a second to waste; I'm already behind.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p227

[Biggles]

The final bouncing blast to catch the elusive Land Cruiser lasts only seconds, just long enough to build up enough speed to kick into third gear. Instantly the front end washes out from underneath me, and I shoot forward, head first over the handlebars, straight to the ground like an arrow. An excruciating crack is followed by silent, empty black.
At first I think it's Dutch being spoken, then Hebrew, then German. Somewhere in the swirling unconsciousness surfaces a soft familiar echo ... "I think he is still breathing." Finally, in a distinctive Kiwi accent, I hear a young New Zealander ask, "You spyke English? Can ya 'ear me, mite?"
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p233-4

[Biggles]

When it's first switched on, the GPS screen features a series of rotating balls that spin around the viewer screen to indicate a search mode for satellites. I know from experience how fast those balls should rotate. Not only does the screen fail to cycle on time to the next phase of satellite signal strength readout, but they process in slow motion as the balls barely move. I recall reading in the manual that this unit should operate in sub-freezing temperatures. I can only guess that it must be more than ten degrees below zero. I chuckle at the thought of going for a motorcycle ride when it is cold enough to shut down an all-weather instrument like a GPS.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p238-9

[Biggles]

I planned on staying in Santiago for three nights, but after only two, I yield to the familiar pull of the road and ecstatic rush of asphalt passing under my butt at ninety feet per second. Since the ordeal with Colombian guerrillas, the psychological aftermath has been gaining on me. I know the bullet I dodged will eventually catch up, however I figure if I keep moving, I can stay ahead of whatever is in store. At times, the turmoil feels as though I'm charging down a mountain trying to outrun an avalanche. For now, I need to continue on so whatever is going to hit will do so when I'm safe at home. Motorcyclists know the therapeutic effects of twisting a throttle- I keep twisting mine to outrun the avalanche.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p246

[Biggles]

Worse than predicted, the ride south on Route 40 becomes a steady fight to remain upright for 320 miles- average speed is twenty-five mph while I'm on the edge of control the entire time. The gravel is deep and loose, forcing my front tire in directions I don't want to go. There are twelve-inch-deep tire grooves carved down to solid clay. If I remain within them, employing total concentration, it's possible to hit third gear.
It's hard to believe what is happening as the fiercest crosswinds imaginable blast in laterally. A gas station attendant casually remarks, “You're lucky- the wind is not too bad yet." Still, it's as though enormous, invisible hands randomly slap me across the road without warning. With each explosive gust, I veer off uncontrollably across the deep ridges of gravel with outstretched legs, wildly wobbling back and forth.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p261

[Biggles]

Although the road is solid enough to support speeds up to fifty or so, incredibly ferocious winds blasting in off the prairie force me to slow into a second-gear crawl. If someone had described these conditions earlier, I wouldn't have believed them. Even in the midst of a vicious gust, it's difficult to comprehend turbulence of such intensity. Leaning to the right as far and hard as possible, raging wind currents not only hold me up, they lift the bike off the ground, shoving us sideways. As the wind snaps my neck from side to side, I feel like a crinkled paper bag being smacked around the landscape. Why I've not been blown across the desert is beyond me. It's so crazy I laugh out loud.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p263

[Biggles]

When gale forces revert to a tailwind, the silence sweeping in from behind evolves into a spooky tranquillity. A light pressure against my back indicates the wind blowing faster than I'm moving forward. My curiosity aroused, I slowly increase my speed to seventy mph, trying to determine how fast the forward air is blowing. Equilibrium is reached at seventy-three mph in a still pocket of air. If I'd wanted to, I could've kept a match lit. I raise my face shield and feel nothing. Dead calm.
Normally when driving at a rapid pace and spotting the shadow of a cloud on the ground ahead, it takes only seconds to overtake and pass through it. Today the shadow remains a few feet beyond my front tire as we travel at the same speed- continuing in unison until the wind shifts, then the shadow flashes behind me in an instant as though the world suddenly skipped ahead.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p268

[Biggles]

The angular headwinds switch directions unpredictably, flinging me about while I struggle to maintain lane position. On the plus side, there's no traffic and the road is paved. Even with the throttle wide open, the seventy to eighty mph headwinds keep me at fifty. Gas mileage drops from fifty miles per gallon to the low thirties. I crouch behind the fairing, throw all my weight toward the gale-force blast, and hang on. When slowing down to stop for fuel, the moment I pull in the clutch, it's as though I squeezed the front brake. Once, I came to a complete stop without braking and actually started rolling backwards, blown by the wind. It's far too intense to ride more than six hours at a time, but there are 1,200 miles left to Buenos Aires, and I want out of this madness.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p275-6

[Biggles]

Waiting at a small-town traffic signal, above the sound of the engine's idle, I hear the dreaded noise that sickens hearts of motorcycle riders- metal to metal contact. The low-pitched grinding noise, barely audible above the roar of the wind, compels me to stop and inspect, hoping it's my imagination. Perhaps something caught in the fender. No such luck.
Motorcycles are not popular in South America and outside of major cities there are few shops that sell or repair them. Even in capital cities, Kawasaki dealers are rare. Argentina is more up-to-date and I keep my fingers crossed while asking around for a repair shop. Yes, two blocks down and turn right- a small miracle. Close enough to push and coast. A lucky day after all. The owner is a professional motocross rider who also builds motors, and is about as good a man as you'll ever find. We unbolt the top end to check the valves and work downward from there. Finally we pull the timing chain and alternator to discover an ear broken off the crankcase and the balance chain tensioner is  shattered into five pieces. No parts available in the hemisphere.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p276

[Biggles]

The motocross team shows up to assist. Amazingly they reassemble the components in the correct order with no shop manual for technical guidance. To remanufacture the broken part, they saw off the end of a case-hardened wrench and weld it on to what's left of the original balance chain tensioner. Then they countersink the bolt hole inside the crankcase for the broken ear and use a longer bolt to hold it. The balance chain has stretched too far and won't adjust any further, leaving excessive slop. Add to that, the alternator is missing a magnet and out of balance. Still, I'm going to give it a shot, hoping it provides enough charge to keep the bike running.
A few hours later, I make it farther north to the city of Trelew where the lone motorcycle dealer only handles Yamaha. He says I may be able to order Kawasaki parts up ahead in Bahia Blanco, another 450 finger-crossing miles. The engine noises are getting louder, but I opt to roll those dice again and take a chance.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p276-7

[Biggles]

A hundred plus is the norm and apparently without consequence, as I've yet to see a cop anywhere. Speed seems to be a popular though perilous pastime, despite the vehicles being packed with families. When cruising at 100 mph and encountering a vehicle in the distance they wish to pass, drivers accelerate to 120, get as close to the rear fender as possible, and then barely drift to the left to overtake at the last second.
Used to zero traffic, I allow myself to be lulled into ignoring my mirrors. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a two-ton rocket blasts by, close enough to buff the bugs off its bumper, using the rubberized fabric of my saddlebags as a rag. In Argentina, this type of driving is the rule, not the exception. Everyone drives this way as if this manoeuvre is taught in school. I ask myself if these maniacs are the same helpful folks I met earlier in roadside cafes. They had been so friendly. What happened to these wonderful people when they got behind the wheel of a car?
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p278

[Biggles]

Nothing surprises me anymore. What was before considered bizarre is now the norm. Sometimes while lost in thought, I realize there is no baseline anymore. I’m no longer certain of who I am but, more important, who I'm expected to be. Nothing is written in stone and I feel as free as the winds of Patagonia. Reality is still foreign to me. It wouldn't surprise me to wake from a dream still a prisoner of the ELN in the mountains of Colombia. In moments of depression I still wonder if these are the final seconds before death. Am I awake or asleep? The avalanche is still closing in, and in times of open nightmare, I seek the only refuge I know- a twist of the throttle and another new town. At times, I sprint to outrun the lunacy.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p284