Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Bill Held]

There are those that ride motorcycles and those that wish they did.
 

[Biggles]

I spend much of the next day at the  Mauritanian embassy applying for a visa.  Still finding it difficult to judge the width of the panniers on the bike, I leave a deep scratch and a dent in the side of the ambassador's Mercedes, which is parked outside.  The incident is spotted by some sharp-eyed villains lounging on the bonnets of three parked Mercedes waiting for their own visas.  They say the won't tell anyone as their own Italian-plated cars are in transit to Mauritania.  I am a little uneasy that they treat me as one of their own.
With the visa stamped in my passport, I make Casablanca in an hour- and spend another hour fighting my way through the city's traffic to my next Tea Encounter.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p18

[Biggles]

Marrakesh is much further than I anticipated, and with dusk approaching the petrol gauge seems to be dropping like a stone.  After a worrying half hour, I
finally reach a village.
No fuel.
"Prochain village?"
"Vingt-huit kilometres."
Oh shit. Twenty-eight kilometres to the next village and no guarantee there is anmy fuel there either.  I open the fuel cap and give the tank a shake.  I can
hear a feeble slosh of petrol and decide to take a chance.  I ride on at around 50 kph now to conserve the precious fuel as darkness falls with just the feint
silhouette of the mountains for company.  I reach the village and allow myself a small inward whoop of joy when I see the gaudy, battered sign of a gas
station.  There is no 'sans plombe' but this is no time for having a crisis of conscience about CO₂ emissions, and I fill up with lead-rich Super.  In fact,
it is many thousands of kilometres before I use unleaded petrol again, and in any case, the bike runs better on the more polluting fuel.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p27

[Biggles]

For weeks before the send-off I would show up at the dealership and pump Philip for some much-needed spare parts and supplies, or ask him to show me how to change a tyre or adjust the chain tension.  In return I said I'd arrange some puff for him through local media interviews, for which I was to wear his branded T-shirt for photo shoots.
I asked him if he thought the bike, now fitted with an impressive collection of mostly free off-road extras - making it even heavier - would successfully complete the trip. 
Without a moment's thought, he said, "It'll be reet."  (That's Lancashire for 'don't worry about it').
He then braced himself for yet another request for bike extras, but instead I asked, "Do you have any advice, Philip?"
He asked, "Are you going to Nigeria?"
"Yes."
"Well, if you get kidnapped by some crazy militant group and they force you to make one of those hostage videos... just make sure you're wearing my bloody T-shirt!"
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p34-5

[Biggles]

Bwedra, for it is he, greets me warmly and, seeing that I am struggling to find my way, trots off ahead with the dog.  I follow, but soon lose the front wheel and fall.  Seeing me hit the ground brings Bwedra running back to help me right the bike and then wait for me to catch my breath before continuing on.
I try to keep up with him jogging across the dunes (I can't believe he is jogging anywhere in this searing heat), I drop the bike, he runs back, we pick it up, I pause to catch my breath, and so it goes on. The sand is now so deep and fine that it is difficult to get the bike moving at all, and when I do, I drop it again.  This routine happens six times in quick succession, each time with longer rests in between.  I am soaking, I'm gasping to draw a decent breath, and I;m so far out of my depth it's comical.  I use a million excuses to Bewdra to cover my embarrassment but he speaks no English, which is probably just as well.  He keeps encouraging my futile efforts while indicating the encampment is not far away now, his expression never changing from cheerful optimism when he should be laughing at me.  This carries on for forty tortuous minutes while I murder the clutch.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p47-8

[Biggles]

I cross a couple of dry riverbeds and ride over some rocky outcrops where I lose the track completely. I ask for directions in a small village, but I can barely
believe the track I've been sent down: an overlapping succession of large boulders emerge out of the ground down a steep decline over which I must wrestle the bike. If I stop or hesitate the bike will certainly go over, and this is not forgiving soft sand; if I drop it here the fall will do some serious damage to it and to me. I fortify myself with advice from an earlier Tea Encounter in Burnley with Dave Edmundson ('Whatever happens, keep going') and get back up on the pegs. The decline in first gear soon segues into an equally steep incline. It's impossible to sit down, even for a second, as the seat bounces around
underneath me like a rubber ball.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p104-5

[Cerebral Knievel]

Are you on the road to perth yet Biggles 

[Brock]

On the way tomorrow
I think

[Biggles]

He calmly explains, in little more than a whisper, that there is no way I am going to reach my destination today, but so what. I should take it easy and slowly ride to the next town: "Manger, du the, reposer... apres, Bafoulabe." But Bafoulabe is only another centimetre or so further on the map, and he can see my disappointment.
I am beginning to feel this man's sense of peace, the kind often found in the familiar act of brewing tea, as formal as any religious ceremony. I take the glass offered to me and drink; the tea tastes as sweet as sin, like the first and last pot of tea ever brewed. The moment thickens into something unexpected. Is this the cup I have been searching for? Is this the end of the quest? As a feeling of serenity gradually bubbles up from inside, he looks deeply into my eyes and repeats, "Manger, du the, reposer.'
Even though I am out of my depth, I am meant to be here. It is as if he has been waiting for me, for the last six weeks on the road, for the last forty-odd years, sitting here waiting to give me the advice I need: "Eat, drink tea, rest." As Tea Encounters go, it would have to go in the 'poignant' file.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p107-8

[Biggles]

Next day the stay becomes memorable when someone tries to sell me a rifle. It isn't a surreptitious rendezvous under a bridge or in a deserted car park but in broad daylight while I am waiting for the lights to change.
I make the mistake of using sarcasm. "If you can find any room on this bike for a rifle, I'll have it," I say.
At which invitation the man begins unfastening the bungee straps to wriggle the rifle onto the back of the bike.
'NON, NON, NON!' I yell, and manage to ride off, leaving the arms dealer in the road holding aloft two rifles, looking like Jesse James.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p147

[Biggles]

My new tactic approaching roadblocks - sometimes nothing more than a piece of rope stretched across the road - seems to work: I wave, signal as though I have something urgent to attend to on the other side of the barrier, thumbs up, then nod convincingly. This usually results in some bewilderment from the guards, crime control units, bandits or whoever they are; they relax their weapons and uncertainly wave me through, especially when I time it so they are interrogating a car driver ahead of me. For the ones that look more menacing, I slow down to put them a bit more at ease, wave, yell 'THANK YOU!' and then give it some gas. It seems to work well enough until on one occasion a mischievous thug pulls up the rope at the last second nearly garrotting me in the process.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p173

[Biggles]

One particularly nasty-looking group of glassy-eyed teenagers swishing machetes who have set up a slalom of roadblocks around some deep potholes look as if they mean business. But there is no way I am stopping for them. I slow down and indicate as if preparing to stop, then manage to slip past all four individuals shouting menaces at me as I weave perilously around the huge holes in the road. Three scream vicious threats and tear after me while another scrapes the tarmac menacingly with his machete, but I'm off.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p173

[Biggles]

"Quick, Mister Alan, the rain is up. Continue!" calls Tabot. With no more warning the rain pelts down as if someone is emptying a bath of warm water over us. The ground quickly turns to a greasy sludge - even the solid bits - and the bike slides out of control off the edge of the road. We pick but I have to keep it down to a cheek-rippling 10 kph in first gear to prevent coming to grief again.
I paddle with both feet as I protest through the roar the downpour, "Tabot, we can't go on like this! If I went any slower I'd be in reverse. This is ridiculous!" He has an answer for everything. "But we are moving, are we r not? Keep going!" he says, echoing the Lancastrian Tea Encounter advice of Dave Edmundson and Paul Burke. At this moment, I hate them all.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p209

[Biggles]

The hills also make it difficult for the taxis to get about, especially going uphill, as no taxi driver will ever shift out of top gear, no matter how torturously slow the going gets. He will be hunched over the steering wheel trying to kick the accelerator pedal through the floor with a look of mild despair on his face while the bronchitic car strains and creaks and rattles and shudders and the engine threatens to cut out before it reaches the summit. I want to shout, "FOR GOD'S SAKE, MAN, CHANGE GEAR!" but I remain silent, shudder and rattle along with the loose interior and pretend it's perfectly normal to be going nine kilometres per hour in the outside lane. The drivers' body language changes dramatically on the downhill sections when they slip their cars into neutral and freewheel as far as the traffic allows. Then they're all smiles and slip off their baseball caps to wipe the sweat from their faces in preparation for the next minor Kilimanjaro.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p224

[Biggles]

The next day the mechanic and I take around six hours to correct the tricky problem with the overflow tank using makeshift items from the town dump. Then I somehow succeed in using two thin strips of electrical wire to jump-start the bike from the battery on the hospital ambulance. By the time the bike fires into life there is a mixed crowd of the sick, the lame and the plainly curious all cheering me on.
I take the bike around the hospital car park a couple of times in the rain, which is a strange sensation for which I am unprepared. The sheer speed of the bike relights a sense of freedom and purpose, and it is exhilarating. I knew I was missing the bike, but I had not allowed for how much I physically craved the act of riding, how my muscles had missed certain repeated functions. Now that they are required to be of use again all the comforting, familiar routines start to re-engage. When the crowd sees me smile, I get a round of applause.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p272-3

[Biggles]

The road gets wetter and the puddles deeper with every immersion, and I'm now permanently wet from the knees down. As it reaches the hottest part of the day, I ease the into a thirty-metre stretch of standing water. Halfway in the bike hits a rock under the surface that stops it dead in the water. I put my foot down to steady it but my boot sinks into the soft mud; the bike is going, Oh NO!... beyond the point of no return, it's gone. I manage to get my leg out from under the falling machine but lose my footing and splash backwards up to my neck. After thrashing about like a baby having his first bath I manage to stand up when all I can do is stare at the bike - submerged except for most of the right pannier and the exhaust - slowly sinking with a taunting gurgle as the pannier fills up with water.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p283-4

[Biggles]

Necessarily, in the act of retelling the African Brew Ha-Ha in book form, I have had to leave out much of the random nature of the trip, which in many ways is what made the journey so unforgettable: a glance, a smile, a helpful lift of the bike, a delighted child, a curious immigration officer, a generous maman by the roadside, a big-hearted sweaty hug, a talented mechanic and all the time the ingenuous smiles in the villages and towns and along the roadside. How do they do it? Three months before I left, the advice from one of my Tea Encounters was to bring a smile with me; well, that wasn't too difficult on this astonishing continent.
In this and in many other ways, Africa has never failed to surprise (more than the word, as Tabot would say). I may not have been able to rely on systems, institutions, timetables, road signs, the law, embassies, petrol stations, brand names, medication, plumbing, electricity supplies or opening times... but I could rely on the people. And I'm fully aware of that paradox. Essentially, I have learned to expect the best out of people - someone who has fallen over and needed rescuing as many times as I have can reach no other conclusion.
African Brew Ha-Ha  Alan Whelan  p348-9

[Biggles]

What more could a girl want?  For some strange reason she wanted to pray about it.  I can't understand why... a few weeks later though she said yes and we made plans for our wedding and a long honeymoon riding to Cairns in northern Queensland.  The wedding went well, although I got so nervous I forgot my vows.  Other than that everything was coming together and we headed off from Arcadia in north western Sydney for our first night on the Central Coast.  Just around Gosford on the Old Pacific Highway my 1979 Triumph started to misbehave.  Large amounts of oil kept coming out of the engine breather and so we were forced to spend several hours of our first night trying to repair a 750 Bonneville motor.  Who says I'm not romantic?
My Motorcycling Life Part 2  Greg Hirst p1-2

[Biggles]

Seeing them coming I headed off down to meet them.  It is standard practice for me to do this as   my club role as Sgt-At-Arms is to try to head off any potential trouble.  Because we had seen and experienced times of unjustified Police harassment I also wanted to make sure this was going to be a friendly visit.  Thankfully it was, although not in a desirable fashion.  One of the local "boys in blue" wanted to date one of my daughters, so he and his mate had dropped by to say hello, all in front of my motorcycle and church mates.  I recognised him and shook their hands.  Patiently my motorcycling friends watched.  Their apprehension was clearly visible.  Was I going to be arrested?  Finally my daughter Jemma appeared and took over this friendly conversation.  Sheepishly I went back to my motorcycling friends.  In their faces I could see the unanswered question.
"What's going on?"
I told them of a daughter whom Policepersons wished to date (this was the second one) with the expectation I would cop a stir of gigantic proportions.  I was right.  What I got from one biker was both to the point and a reflection of the antipathy towards the Police by many who ride.
"You haven't brought up your kids very well!"
My Motorcycling Life Part 2  Greg Hirst p16

[Kev Murphy]

 

[Biggles]

Treating with respect and friendliness those who are different is not an attribute of many in this country.  There seems to be a prevailing view that if you are different then you must be less.  In 2006 a rider on a new model Triumph motorcycle and wearing a helmet arrived at the entrance of the Ministerial car park at Parliament House in Canberra.  He was there to start a new job in that section of our national political edifice but was refused entry.  Even after he explained he was the country's new Minister for Defence, Dr Brendan Nelson was met with incredulity.  After all, no government mister would look like a "biker" and ride to work.  Surely he'd come in a Commonwealth car, wouldn't he?  Well, no.  He rode his bike to work like many other long term motorcyclists in Australia, but he ran into fully fledged "bikism", that is, discrimination based on the appearance of being a biker.  Not uncommon, I reckon.
My Motorcycling Life Part 2  Greg Hirst p51

[Biggles]

Generally speaking being judged by your appearance is not something you want to have happen to you. It happens to all sorts of motorcycle riders. I once heard an ABC radio personality refer on-air the Ulysses Club as a 'gang'. Nothing could be further from the truth as they are simply a bunch of older Australians who have discovered motorcycle fun, many of them having returned to motorcycling after the kids are gone and the mortgage is paid off. I have been told by someone who should know that even Police motorcyclists have to deal with this type negative stereotyping. I recently spoke to a retired officer active in his knowledge of these types of motorcycle groups. Apparently there are two of these, the Blue Liners who are a touring motorcycle club and the Blue Knights who wear a back patch. Now having an outlet for their typical Aussie behaviour with other serving officers clearly meets an important need for them but interestingly, the Blue Knights are regarded with concern because they wear 'colours'. I have it on good authority that in America, where they originated, the Blue Knights are regarded by some enforcement authorities as a 1% group, even though their members are part of the 'Thin Blue Line'.
My Motorcycling Life Part 2  Greg Hirst p56

[Biggles]

They did this at a tri-partisan level, which is quite rare I believe, joining together at the entry to the Federal House of Representatives on Thursday December 4 for an historic press conference where they came out of the closet... that is to say garage, and publicly called for the positive side of motorcycling to be recognised and encouraged amongst governments of all persuasions. Who were they and what do they ride? In the Labor Government Chris Hayes the Member for Werriwa and Government Whip rides a Honda Firestorm. He replaced controversial MP Mark Latham who vacated this seat. Chris Trevor the Member for Flynn (Qld) rides a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy around his geographically large electorate. Steve Gibbons the Member for Bendigo (Vic) restores British bikes and has a much more realistic view of the biker scene. He realises that the stereotypes don't apply to most riders. Then there is Senator Kate Lundy. The Senator rides off road in the ACT and is a great advocate for motorcycling in her territory.
My Motorcycling Life Part 2  Greg Hirst p59

[Old Steve]

One of the candidates in the upcoming election for Mayor of Auckland rides a Bonneville.  Guess who's getting my vote.

I was at a fair the other weekend, wearing a Norton Tee-shirt, and he came over and said he wished he'd never sold his Norton.  Never mentioned a word about the election, just wanted to talk motorbikes.

[Bill Held]

Old Steve, A lover of motorcycles is no proof that he would be a good politician but it woyld be a good place to start.
GOF54

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