Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

As the sun sank over the ocean, I rode back to Santa Monica Boulevard, where Route 66 ended the journey it had begun 2,448 miles ago in Chicago, and where I would now end it too.
I sat on the grass under the waving palms and thought how trips like this can change a man. For one thing, it would take a while to get used to waking up every morning and realising that you don't have to ride a motorcycle for hundreds of miles through icy rain, savage wind or baking heat. But it was more than that. Journeys like this awaken the restlessness which is in all of us. I looked down the coast at where I had lived for a summer when I was a young man, and then out at the ocean as it finally accepted the dying sun, and realised that my life would never be quite the same again. But then I realised that it had never been quite the same again. But then I realised that it had never
same before.
Way To Go  Geoff Hill  p234

[Biggles]

It wasn't until last summer that I picked up the book for a third time, looking for something to read on the first vacation in five years during which I could relax from some of the responsibilities of parenthood. That time, reading with a whole new perspective, I sailed right through. The guy got it! He wasn't just looking for a nice vacation; he wanted to figure out "quality" as a thing in itself, not just a description— a noun, not an adjective. He wanted to learn what's needed for his life- my life, everyone's life, to move up a notch, to be the best it can be, truly harmonious in a world swamped by so many improvements that they buckle under the weight of their time-saving intentions. As a busy parent juggling work with family, that perspective struck close to home.
But it's showing its age, this book. It's written in a folksy style that reminds me of my parents, and it refers constantly to the paraphernalia of a previous generation.
Zen and Now  Mark Richardson  p6

[Biggles]

It's 91 degrees in Elbow Lake, still in Minnesota, and time to stop for lunch. Most people ate a couple of hours ago, but I'm on my own time here, stopping when I want, riding when I want. It's time to cool off now and eat something.
The Pirsigs would have had a proper meal, so the Heartland Cafe seems about right, here on Central Avenue, and I park the bike carefully outside the front window. When your luggage is secured only by bungee cords, it's a good idea to keep an eye on the machine. As well, the pavement is very hot, and the weight on the side stand might push it into the asphalt, creating its own little pothole and causing the bike to fall over. That could break a mirror, leak the gas, and- most important- look very uncool.
Zen and Now  Mark Richardson  p20

[Biggles]

"I love to fly," says Bill. "I bought my first airplane in the sixties, and now I've got six of them." He names several- a Piper Cherokee 180, a 1947 Stinson 108-1, a couple of J3s. "But in the seventies," he continues, "I had an argument with the city airport when they told me I couldn't do something, so I said I'd start my own airport. They said I couldn't do that, so I said, 'You'd better sharpen your pencils!' If anyone tells me I can't do something that just makes me want to do it all the more.
"I started this place in 1978 on four square miles of land. There are forty lots sold now and probably another ten left to be developed. I sell them to pilots who want to keep their plane near their home. Bush pilots mostly, who don't like to be told how to do stuff, people like me.
"I can't fly my planes anymore because of this Parkinson's, but when I get the urge, I call up a neighbor and they take me for a ride. They do the taking off and the landing, but I take over when it gets upstairs. Planes are like motorcycles: once they're in your blood, they're always in your blood."
Zen and Now  Mark Richardson  p86

[Biggles]

At the best of times, riding in the rain is a miserable experience. On the way to Minneapolis, there was a whole day of rain and wind and cold, with the spray from the trucks knocking visibility down to a minimum.
For much of the time I'd been stuck behind a window-frame delivery truck and unable to pass- the truck would speed up whenever the road widened and slow right down when traffic appeared. There was a picture on its back door of a window, painted to look like you were peering through the panes at the pretty landscape on the other side, with sunshine and flowers and green leafy trees. "Kolbe and Kolbe," it said. "You'll like how we do the curves." But its slipstream was bashing me from side to like a beaten boxer, catching the broad sides of the luggage and pushing around the bike's tall front wheel. It was a cruel irony to be stared down by the scenic countryside on the truck's door. I didn't like how it did the curves at all.
Zen and Now  Mark Richardson  pp101-2

[Biggles]

It was Zen that brought me here and Zen that helped get me to the top. Just as readers who like motorcycles are attracted to Pirsig's book, so are readers who appreciate Zen. And both sides are often disappointed that Zen and the Art isn't really about either motorcycles or Zen. But then, Pirsig states this clearly right up front.
The title came a year or so before the journey even began. Pirsig knew what he wanted to tell an audience about "Quality" and had prepared an essay for Sutherland that touched on their differing views on motorcycle maintenance. As students of Eastern philosophy, they were familiar with Eugen Herrigel's seminal Zen in the Art of Archery, published in English in the '50s, which argues that even ordinary tasks can have a spiritual dimension- tasks like shooting arrows or fixing bikes. "The 'art' of archery" wrote Herrigel, "does not mean the ability of the sportsman, which can be controlled, more or less, by bodily exercises, but an ability whose origin is to be sought in spiritual exercises whose aim consists in hitting a spiritual goal, so that fundamentally the marksman aims at himself and may even succeed in hitting himself." The title of Pirsig's essay, and the larger book he knew he wanted to write, came from this text.
Zen and Now  Mark Richardson  p113

[Biggles]

Why spend an hour fixing your bike when you can do it in ten minutes and move on to the next thing? And why spend ten minutes doing it when you can give the work to someone else, even though it will take you half a day to earn the money that the service provider will charge? The big problem, as Pirsig sees it, is that the service provider won't always do a better job, and your life may be a little bit worse off on account of his or their lower standards.
After all, why should the service provider do a good job? He or she will probably never see you or meet you. Nowadays service providers may not even live in your country. Overseas laborers will be paid more if they can double the production rate of somebody like Pirsig- probably they can churn out a dozen motorcycles while he's still tinkering over his valves or his drive chain. Third world laborers can make a hundred cheap workbench drawers in the hour it would take Pirsig to think through the roller mechanism and disassemble his son's skates and construct a drawer that will still slide smoothly thirty years later.
Zen and Now  Mark Richardson  pp143-4

[Biggles]

The sky is completely blue, a contrast to the pine trees and small green grazing fields to either side of the road.
I can't go too fast because it's uphill, so I lock in comfortably at the speed limit and sway casually with the highway as it climbs toward the next state. This is relaxing, almost meditative. The temperature's perfect when the breeze slides through the sleeves of the leather jacket and wraps around the back of the neck. The road is dry, and soon there's the pass and the 'Welcome to Idaho!' sign. The GPS shows that the Pirsigs pulled over at the rest area here, where there used to be a restaurant and store, so I pull over, too, not so much to copy them anymore but because they've led me to some pretty good places so far.
Zen and Now  Mark Richardson  p167

[Biggles]

I love this photo because my older boy, Andrew, is smiling and standing with his arms clasped in front and his younger brother, Tristan, is standing beside him, a little shorter and goofier and a little toothier in the grin. They're pleased to be wearing smart adult clothes and anticipating the joy of the wedding that's about to take place.
In their eyes is a light of innocence and happiness and excitement for the future. But now I look at the picture and wonder if it might also be a Peter Pan photo. As I've seen so many times, even just an hour ago in that ditch, anything can happen.
But that's not the lesson of Zen, which tells of living for the moment and having no problems right now, enjoying the strawberries for their sweetness. So far as I know, both boys still have that light in their eyes. Now, though, it's a reminder of one of the greatest lessons of all: live as if you'll live forever, but live each day as if it were your last.
Maybe Pirsig's advice to son Chris- just be honest- wasn't so bad at all.
Zen and Now  Mark Richardson  p176

[Biggles]

The dry camping gear packs quickly, but before the bike gets loaded there's some time to check her over for the day. That reference to watching Chris through the wheel was a reminder to inspect her spokes, which can work loose over bumps and throw off the symmetry of the turning tire. I work my way around the wheels with a small wrench, tapping each spoke to listen for a difference in the sound of the tap or feel a difference in the rebound of the wrench. All seem fine.
The rear tire is not in good shape, though. It's worn almost flat in the center, leaving very little tread to dissipate water on a wet road. Cornering is riskier with the tire's square profile. With more than a thousand miles to go, it seems to be wearing much more quickly now that the chunky rubber knobs have been eroded. My plan had been to change both tires in San Francisco, but with so little tread left, I don't think the rubber will make it there. Soon the steel cords will start to show through, and the tire will probably blow.
Zen and Now  Mark Richardson  p198

[Biggles]

There's nothing else to think about as I press on along the lake. Do I have the notes of Pirsig's later description of the place? Will the GPS work if it's dried under a hair dryer? My mind is five hundred miles away, along the coast, when the main gas tank suddenly runs dry.
The bike stutters and coughs. I reach down to twist the fuel tap around to reserve and it chugs back to life, but then I look around and realize this is the middle of nowhere- more than fifteen miles from the nearest gas station, back at Klamath Falls. The lake is receding behind me, and there's nothing ahead but trees. I pull over for a check of the map and shut off the engine immediately. The map shows some sort of settlement way up ahead, but there's no guarantee of gas.
The reserve won't get me back to Klamath now. Nothing to do but carry on.
Zen and Now  Mark Richardson  pp228-9

[Biggles]

There's a sound from the woods to the right, music of some sort, and soon a small car drives into the sunshine. As it comes out of the trees and into the town, the music from its open window grows louder and louder until it's as loud as it can be, some kind of rock guitar, but then it fades away at the end of the track. A young woman is driving the car, a blue Chevy Tracker, and the stereo is probably worth more than the vehicle, for the sound was clear and musical even at full volume.
A pickup truck backs out from the store's parking lot, and the Tracker comes to a halt to let it pull into the road. The music has ended now, and the silence is more pronounced because of it. The pickup drives away.
And then a voice comes from the Tracker with no music behind it, clear as can be. It must be the next song on the CD it's so loud it's as if it's all around.

BE NOT AFRAID— THIS TOO SHALL PASS.

And as the voice speaks, the young woman turns and looks directly at me. Her eyes are very dark, almost completely black.
Silence. She looks ahead again and drives off to the south, toward my stranded motorcycle. As the Tracker pulls into the forest, there's the sound of rock guitar starting up again and disappearing through the trees.
The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. I'm waiting a gust of wind to blow through.
Zen and Now  Mark Richardson  pp255-6

[Biggles]

But this voice was completely explainable. It must have been gospel rock and the timing pure coincidence. It was just a woman driving a Tracker, looking my way as she waited for the pickup truck because she had to look somewhere. I was looking at her, after all.
I'm not a religious person. But riding south now toward the turnoff for Highway 1 and the coast, I feel like a heretic who's recanted.
Zen and Now  Mark Richardson  p259

[Biggles]

With the headlight on full beam and my thumb on the horn I felt sure that as usual we'd make it through the chaos.
We didn't. There on the right stood an Mzee who was carefully looking both ways before stepping out into the road. I'd never seen anyone do that before in Africa. Normally the inevitable potholes, the condition of the vehicles or the enthusiastic yells of the conductors meant that a pedestrian could hear something coming, and they wouldn't need to look.The old man stared straight at us, and hesitated before trying to make it across, but try he did.
With just two steps he was in front of us; there was no time to react as the front wheel hit him with a sickening thump. As we hit the road, I saw him somersault almost in slow motion over to the rubbish-strewn roadside.
Somehow, I ended up on my feet with just the sleeve of my jacket scratched, but John was rolling in agony in the middle of the road. Seeing that there wasn't a lot to do for him, I rushed over to the bike where petrol was spewing over the hot engine. A passer-by helped me pick it up from where it had landed almost upside down in the ditch. Another spectator yelled in Swahili, "You must not move your machine, the police will be coming!" After squatting down to turn the petrol off, I looked up to see that I was surrounded.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  p2

[Biggles]

Before me, two cars had also got caught in the excitement. I let them make a path through the crowds for me. Then the red Fiat indicated to go right through a gap and as he turned I sped up a bit not wanting to lose the other car. The next thing I knew was that the Fiat driver had changed his mind and was heading almost sideways towards me. Life turned into slow motion, and the inevitable happened. With a loud crunch the car collected a deep pannier shaped dent. The crush of the crowd stopped me falling over but within seconds I was faced by four arm-waving, decidedly angry men. The crowd stepped back a pace, and everyone turned to watch the new entertainment.
There was no escape. I'd learned enough arm waving and shoulder shrugging to plead innocence but it wasn't working. The situation started to turn really ugly and I thought I was about to get thumped. Then from above, a stern voice rapped out at the men and several hundred eyes swivelled upwards in unison. There on a wrought iron balcony stood an old man dressed as if he had just stepped off the set of a gangster movie. Clad in a double-breasted pin-striped suit he'd seen the whole thing and after a few moments of firm talking the crowd parted and I climbed onto the bike not quite able to believe that I was free. I had a moment of electric-start bliss, and we left before the spell was broken. Pompeii could wait for another trip.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  pp14-5

[Biggles]

Hay, Jose, Mike, Sally, Deit and I linked up again to head south down the banks of the Nile. It's a bizarre ride. You can see desert on both sides of the valley. There's a lush green strip of land that's bordered cream-coloured sandy desolation. In the middle of the day the heat becomes intense and the only way we found to keep cool was to keep riding, with stops only in deep shade. These bum rests were always an adventure as five bikes stopping on a seemingly deserted section of road attracted a crowd of spectators from thin air. Orange sellers, old men on donkeys, mischievous kids and the inevitable mangy dogs would descend upon us. It was never very restful, but always an event.
Pulling away from one such rest, the bike felt wrong, sluggish. Kids would often try to hang on the bikes as we rode away so I checked my mirror. There were no uninvited passengers, but behind billowed a large umbrella. Some cheeky child had hooked it to my luggage and fifty faces behind us were split with broad grins.    
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  pp34-5

[Biggles]

In the morning before setting out across the scrubland we had to report to the police again. Three valuable riding hours were wasted when a bout of aggression and chaos started as we'd finished our breakfast of bread and bananas. 'Officers' came to the hotel before we could get to the police station. They were in plain clothes and had no identification papers. Their faces mirrored the mood of the town and Mike took an immediate disliking to them. All three were thin, sallow skinned and unkempt. The leader had a skinny face that, underneath a hooknose, held a set of blackened and broken teeth. His breath smelt of rot and he talked in a demanding, weasel-like manner. His belligerent and surly second in command had a face that was moon shaped and badly pock marked. This one was the 'heavy', though he struggled with the role. The sycophantic runt of the litter hovered behind, hopping from one foot to the other.
For all we knew, the three of them could have been in league with the bandits down the road. So, we demanded to see ID before allowing them to inspect our papers or gear.
The men disappeared to return with identity cards whose mug shots didn't match theirs.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  pp67-8

[Biggles]

Tyre off, we found a foot long split in the inner tube. How it had got there was a total mystery, as there didn't seem to be anything sticking into the tyre.
A group of boys herding goats straggled past us. They were entranced by our mirrors and they acted as if they had never seen themselves before. We guessed that if they had, it was probably only in the still waters of the village pond. They stood in an orderly line, everyone waiting their turn to stare at themselves. Each boy was a delight as he poked and stroked his face, the others in fits of giggles.
With the wheel almost back on, a car screeched to a halt just down the road. It was the first car we'd seen outside a large town in Ethiopia. The driver leapt out and ran back up to us. "Can I take your picture?" he yelled. After all the pictures we'd been taking of the locals, it seemed only fair.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  p88

[Biggles]

One of the horsemen saw us and spurred his horse across- a race was on. I could hear the horse snorting and its hoofs thundering on the ground as we sped down the road. The horseman was flashing a white against dark tan grin at me. These few minutes brought home to me what an amazing country we we were in, and suddenly, the risks seemed worthwhile.
In the next town, we had to refuel. There were pumps, (the first we'd seen since Gonder) but no fuel. There wasn't a drop at any of the five stations. While waiting at one pump for an answer I noticed a face that stood out clearly from the rest of the inevitable crowd. This face beamed a cheeky grin at me and then disappeared only to return a few moments later. The young lad, face still beaming, proudly opened out centre page spread from a motorcycle magazine. It was a bright red Ducati. He seemed to be saying to me, "Look, I'm a biker too." I still wonder where he got the pages.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  p89

[Biggles]

Much of the route we'd been riding was the same as Ted Simon had done on his Triumph way back in the mid 70s, when riding a bike through Africa was a decidedly brave thing to do. Every so often we recognised sections of his journey - some things don't really change much in this part of world. This next section of road through lush farmland around the base of Mount Kenya made me feel that I was almost riding the pages of his book 'Jupiter's Travels'.
Just  south  of a town with the wonderful name of Nanyuki, the Equator slices across the main road to the capital. We stopped amidst the ramshackle market stalls to savour the crossing moment and take photos in front of the mustard yellow Equator sign.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  p125

[Biggles]

It turned out that he had been on the checkpoint between the border and Eldoret the day before and had seen me ride through. Normally in Kenya I'd been just waved on through the checks, so hadn't thought twice about it. As I breathed a sigh of relief my new 'friend' started walking round the bike muttering such things as "What a machine." "A super bike," and "Oh yes, indeed, a car on two wheels." He then chortled again with laughter and pushed his rather forbidding hat back from his eyes, which shone. Here was a uniformed bike enthusiast. "Would you like a ride?" I asked.
"Me,on this?"
"Sure", I said, and within seconds his hat and rifle were in the surprised hands of one of his mates, and he was on the bike. We set off down the road with him yelling "Faster!" So I did. One hundred and thirty ks an hour was quick enough on that road though, so after a few kilometres I turned around to deposit him swaggering with glee back at the roadblock. Was that a bribe? No, too much fun to be a bribe.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  p148

[Biggles]

We talked on for a little while and then Beth stood, saying that it was time for her to go. We said our goodbyes and she started down the track but had only made a few paces before stopping almost in mid stride. After a moment she turned round and came back to me. Under her cloak was a bag that was made out of an old flour sack; I hadn't noticed it before. Reaching inside, Beth pulled out two tiny hard-boiled eggs and putting them into my hands she said, "You will need your strength for such a journey." Then she turned and set off again leaving me absolutely stunned at her gesture. I'd no doubt as to the value of these two little eggs to her.
A quick rummage in my tank bag turned up my pot of salt and a new bar of soap. I'd read that these were always in short supply in the more remote areas and knew that I must give something back. When I caught up with her and put them in her wrinkled hands, she bobbed a little curtsy and then cried. It seemed that things of little value back home had great value out here, but it wasn't so much the objects, but the point of the gifts that felt so important. I'd just been part of something special and found myself thinking that this was one of the things that I'd not forget when the trip was over.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  p153

[Biggles]

Perhaps, unlike the media's apparent view of the world, most people are in fact inherently good. We hear so much of the bad things that a few people do, we easily forget all the every day fine things that most of the other people do. Now, months away from reading my last newspaper and equally long away from hearing radio news, I was free enough to think about such things. When you spend hour upon hour astride a motorcycle, with a helmet on and a strong slipstream to snatch away any attempt at conversation, you have a lot of thinking time (in between the potholes anyway). Nearly everyone I'd met on the trip so far had been great. Perhaps to begin with I'd been so cautious that I'd steered clear of anyone who looked even remotely dodgy and now maybe my senses did the steering automatically. It was time to start looking for them, but how to recognise them? Should the customs officers' behaviour class them as dishonest, or should I just accept that in true African style, they were just making a living?
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  p172

[Biggles]

I'd learned a lot more about the bike and was still learning every day. In fact it even developed a personality. It was a girl, she just felt that way and I even discovered a few traits that fitted in with some of the girls in my past life. For example, if I didn't treat her well, then she'd always do something rotten to me. She'd got me a little too close to Africa from time to time, but I'd lived through all my falls; there'd been twenty-one hard ones by now and I'd lost count of the more gentle tumbles. Each had taught me something and I never made the same mistake twice, either with the road, or with the bike. Over the months the bike went from being 'it' to 'she' to 'Libby'. With her name, (short for Liberty because that was what she gave me every day) she developed even more personality. Fresh out of Jersey I'd never have believed that two thirds of the way down Africa, I'd be talking to her!
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  pp221-2

[Biggles]

It was quite a sobering moment. I made a coffee and sat looking out over the valley, my mind wandering over all the things that had happened on the trip, especially all the things I'd got away with and almost certainly shouldn't have. Why hadn't my inexpert usage of the bike caused problems? It had been bizarre to make it through Ethiopia. Why hadn't the militia shot first and asked questions after as was normal for them? Why hadn't the bullets from the roadblock hit us? Why had we missed the ambush of the bus? Why had I so often missed darting animals? Why hadn't my foot been ripped off on the road from Marsabit? Why had I never broken anything when failing off? Why had I not killed the man in Tanzania and in fact, why had John been in the truck and able to save him? Why had I not ended up in prison the three times I'd come close to it? I carried on running through my list of good fortune, never having really thought about it before. I'd always been just too busy getting on with life.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  p229