Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

Movement other than swirling dust in my rear view mirror made me take a rare second look. I hadn't been checking the mirror very often as there was too much going on in front to take the time out to do it, and anyway, I didn't really expect to see anyone there. But this time there was and out of my dust cloud nosed a 4x4; I closed the throttle to let him by. Perhaps my angel had been having a snooze at that moment as I woke up four days later, in hospital.
The glaring white lights made me think to begin with, that I was still out on the road. With senses just beginning to work there seemed to be something wrong, but I'd no idea what. Whilst keeping my eyes partially closed I took a sneaky look at my surroundings. For some reason it seemed important to look without anyone noticing. Well, it was pretty obvious that it was a hospital; the smell and then the beds and screens around me told me that, but what had happened? Trying to work it out, I realised that it wasn't just my bony backside that was aching - everything seemed to be aching.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  pp240-1

[Biggles]

Rob and Fiona gave me a lift out to the truck depot and there she was, filthy and scratched. She'd obviously been standing outside for a long time, but had a clean bill of health at least. Now, finally, I was faced with riding her and I procrastinated for a moment or two, using checking her over as an excuse. Then it had to be done. Swinging my leg over, all the edgy thoughts instantly disappeared as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be doing. She started first time and though my wrist still felt rather weak in fact it was mv left hand, the clutch hand, which seemed most out of condition. It was aching furiously by the time we all got back to the hostel. But if that was the only problem then it was good news. All that was needed now was some practice and I couldn't wait to get on with it.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  p261

[Biggles]

In the morning Libby wouldn't start. After five hours of searching, nothing seemed to be wrong. Perhaps a good wash and waxing would do the trick; maybe she was annoyed at having been neglected for so long. An hour later, clean again, and talked to, she started first time but ten kilometres away she died on me, and again there was no trace of the fault. This was the first time I'd been stuck by the roadside on my own without a clue how to fix a problem. Fortunately, in my notebook was the address of a garage that could probably help me. I'd been given the name and address of Charlie's by another biker up in Kenya. Wolf and his brother Gerald are a bit of a legend on the bikers' circuit and over the years in spite of the sanctions meaning a lack of spares, they managed to keep many an Overlander's wheels on the road. Wolf came straight out to me with his truck and by the next day he and his BMW specialist Mohammed had found the electrical fault. I like a bike that waits to break down until help is at hand.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  p261

[Biggles]

To get her into Australia without having to pay quarantine fees, she had to be absolutely spotless. This involved literally going over her with a toothbrush and disinfectant; removing no doubt, a little soil from each country since England. The final preparation was to cover her with '3 in 1' oil. With luck this would work as some sort of protection during the passage. She was going on the manifest as 'baggage' and so it would be a free ride for her, albeit up on deck. Even covered with tarpaulins, the salt air and spray were bound to be a big problem so the more I could get oil onto the better. It was a nice job to do whilst sitting on the shady kerbstone outside Ros's house, a constant stream of everyday Durban wandering or chugging on past me as I worked. Strangely, no one took any notice of me - it was almost as if I wasn't there.
Into Africa  Sam Manicom  pp262-3

[Biggles]

He wore a filthy blue denim waistcoat that was decorated in front with embroidered skulls, crossbones and the like. His belly, which seemed to be instantly forming a sheen of sweat, stuck out between the unbuttoned front of the waistcoat. His arms were tattooed with age-faded blues and reds, and around his neck he had a skull suspended on a bike chain that still had oil on it. The chain left a dark mark around his neck, and a greasy pendulum shape on his chest where it must have swung back and forth as he rode. His chin was unshaven with about four days' growth, and his eyes were hidden by the darkest black wraparound shades I'd ever seen. On his shaven head, he had a German Second World War army helmet with a cow's horn sticking out of each side.
I had no sense of fear as I lay there, just the irreverent thought that he looked like an extra from a Hollywood biker movie. He leaned down, without getting off his bike, and said, "G'day mate, how's it going?" Though it was getting rather painful under the bike, and the heat of the exhaust was beginning to burn through my jeans, I was delighted by this absolutely perfect piece of pure Australian. I as a Brit replied, "Not too good actually."
"I can see that mate," he said with a tone in his voice that made it perfectly clear that finding a Brit under a motorcycle in the middle of a dual carriageway was an everyday occurrence. He and the other two Angels got off their bikes, lifted my bike off me, and without a further word roared off in a triple Harley-Davidson blast.
Until that moment, the van driver hadn't realised that it wasn't a Hell's Angel he'd hit, but was walking bravely, honourably and very scared down the road from where he had parked up.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  p11

[Biggles]

It made a lot of sense to set off in the cool of the dawn, and ride only until midday. Or, find somewhere to hole up in the shade during the main heat of the day, then ride on in the cooling hours until dark. The risk out here was that dawn and dusk are the play times for kangaroos, and I'd already seen how much damage they could do to a pickup - they would be lethal to me on the bike. I'd not seen any live kangaroos at all, but there had been plenty of fly-infested, stinking furry bundles by the roadsides. Some had been bigger than a large dog but others had been big enough, I suspected, to have been able to damage even a big truck.
There were very few road signs along the way, but those that punctuated the roadsides with their vivid yellow frequently warned of kangaroos. Obliquely, since they were almost always shot up, they also warned of bored drivers with guns.
The next day, I set off in the peach and blueberry shades of dawn. I'd slept well and if there had been traffic passing my camping spot during the night, I'd not heard a thing. I'd been just a hundred metres off the road, but that had been far enough to wrestle the bike and there'd been enough bushes for me to tuck in behind. In daylight, I'd have been visible, but was well out of sight in the dark.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  pp52-3

[Biggles]

The Singaporean side of the border was decidedly civilised with a special channel for motorbikes, which sped things up no end, and the Malaysian officials couldn't have been more courteous or friendly. It was almost as if the bike had given us a higher rank than the backpackers. We had wealth and therefore, respect was apparently appropriate - it helped that Jan's dreadlocks were tucked away under her helmet!
Once we were through the Strait of Johore we got lost, were given directions by three blokes hanging out of the back of the truck and got on the right road only to find fifty kilometres of roadworks to deal with. Sandy or muddy diversions took us swinging off to the left of the road for stretches that challenged my back horribly. I didn't dare ask Jan how she was doing on this, her first taste of the road by bike. I had hoped that we would be able to ease her into it gently. But by the end of the day we both agreed that the worst thing about the one hundred and fifty-kilometre ride was that our backsides ached miserably. Both of us were skinny and neither of us had the sorts of muscles that regular biking builds up on the backside to protect it from hours of sitting in one place.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  p109

[Biggles]

I'd just heard a coconut hit the ground outside with a thump, and was lazily thinking that the day felt like it was going to be a good one, but I'd forgotten that it was my birthday. Jan treated me to breakfast and had even made me a card. A great day was about to roll.
The odd thing was, except for the fact that it felt like a great day, no one spectacular thing happened. We'd both slept well and eaten well. Neither of us had colds or stomach upsets and my back felt like I had no problem at all. The bike felt good, sounded just right and she seemed to be floating along a road in almost perfect condition, without much help from me, almost as if she knew where she was going and that as it was my birthday, she was giving me the present of an easy ride. Jan was in a good mood too, and she even seemed to have mastered navigating, with her left and right hand problem not interfering - a few days into the trip she'd told me that she struggled with remembering which was which! Roadside flowers made a cheerful contrast to the usual dark greens, and no chickens or dogs ran out in front of us all day. We found petrol when we needed it and a roadside snackbar with great food at lunchtime. The rain stayed away and we cruised at a gentle, road-eating, scenery-watching, ninety kilometres an hour. Life felt absolutely marvellous.
To round the day off, we found a magic place to stay in a town called Kota Bharu. 'Mummy's Hi Tec Hostel' was a gem with a weird name.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  pp113-4

[Biggles]

The raggedy-edged asphalt roads weren't too bad and even though we were still battling with the Thai road signs, we were making good progress, until Roland hit a dog. I'd already decided that Thai dogs had the least road sense of any canines I'd come across so far. They would meander out in front of traffic as if they had every right to be putting their own lives at risk. Sometimes they would sit quite patiently on the dusty verges, usually in the shade of a tree, and then at the most illogical moment they'd casually step out. It was almost as if the dogs were playing some sort of bizarre game of chicken, with the main rule being that you weren't allowed to run. This dog was a fully-grown tan coloured mutt who at the last minute got up and lazily stepped out straight under Roland's front wheel. He had no time whatsoever to react and hit the dog hard, throwing it screaming into the roadside undergrowth. Roland and Sophie did a massive wobble right across both lanes of the road before he managed to get the bike under control again. It said a lot for his riding ability that he had managed to keep them upright, but Sophie was devastated. This was the first time she had been on a bike and had been sitting stiff and nervous behind Roland. She battled to keep calm and was taking large gulps of air as she fought not to cry. Roland was shaking too as it began to dawn on him that they had just had a very lucky escape.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  p130

[Biggles]

It was said that if you drink water from the holy river, you will have a long life. People would bring bottles down to fill, so they could take water home for consumption if they became sick at some time in the future. You could even buy tiny clear glass bottles of souvenir Ganges water to take home with you. The dead bodies were in the water because it is a strong belief that if you are cremated beside the river and your ashes are scattered over the water, you will achieve great rewards in the next life. If you can't afford the wood to do the cremation then the next best thing is to throw the whole body into the river, and let it float away. As we sat in a boat, a head and a pair of knees bobbed by, causing three sets of ripples on the glowing river. A whole body was below the head and knees, and in a sitting position those were the only parts that broke the surface. Moments later, a tiny baby floated past us, a purple shape set in orange. The baby floated just feet away from a man who was dipping his toothbrush into the water before brushing his teeth.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  p190

[Kev Murphy]

A strange and hideous belief. I wonder how many died because of this contaminated water?

[Biggles]

The yard bore no resemblance to any yard I'd been to in England. It looked African with ramshackle corrugated huts lining two sides of the dusty oil-laden space, full of cannibalised vehicles and buses that were being rejuvenated on a shoestring. A welder was hard at work, without any eye protection, and mechanics hurried around in oil-drenched overalls, carrying themselves with the air of magicians. They worked hard and fast at each repair. I liked the atmosphere, and the feeling that these guys could fix disaster cases, however bad. Many of the vehicles should have been in a scrap yard, but I knew that within days they'd be back out on the road, belching smoke and earning their owners a living.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  p208

[Biggles]

It wasn't that the people were being deliberately difficult, quite the opposite. They were being too helpful, and saving face. They wanted to help so much, that when they didn't know the right direction they would point you somewhere that might possibly be correct, just in case. But whatever, at least they had done something to help you, the visitor to their country. It also never paid to let anyone see a map. People were fascinated by maps, but the majority couldn't read them and that just confused matters even more.
It was far better to ask, "Which is the way to... ?" whilst keeping my hands down by my sides. Even when asking for directions in the correct way, I would still have to ask at least five very different people, and then take the route that most people said. Frequently they'd be right. But the best option of all was to go into a pharmacy, and ask the pharmacist for directions. They were always well educated had travelled and could speak excellent English. Not one time did I have a wrong set of directions from a pharmacist.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  p217

[Biggles]

I had nowhere to go, and they weren't slowing down at all. I knew I'd had it, so decided not to watch. I pointed the bike between two of the trucks, closed my eyes and held on for dear life. I was buffeted madly in a sand storm for a few seconds, and then amazingly I was through. I'd no idea how I'd done it, but behind me the roaring orange Tata trucks had flattened every bush. I stopped, got off the bike and shook for an age before having the courage to carry on.
Weeks later I heard the tale of another biker who hadn't been so lucky. He'd lived, but badly shattered both his arms, and smashed his legs so severely that no one ever expected him to walk again. His bike was written off, with one cylinder ripped right away, and the other one forced up into the main engine block by the strength of the impact.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  p219

[Biggles]

He told me that he felt privileged to be able to travel outside Iran, as this was his opportunity to find out what was really going on in the world. "Our own press, radio and TV are so censored we don't know what the truth is." He went on to explain that many people had fixed satellite dishes so they could watch overseas TV and listen to foreign radio, but that in recent months the government had been flying helicopters over towns, locating the dishes, which had then been torn down by the  soldiers. He said, "We knew that CNN was also censored and was biased, but at least between their news and ours we could work out something close to the truth. Your World Service is better, but we see how that is changing for the worse also." He told me that many rich people had smuggled in the technology that would allow them to turn their glass patio windows into satellite antennae. "Not so easy for the government to find those," he said with a small but triumphant smile.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  pp231-2

[Biggles]

The guys managed to look as if it (the broken spring bus) were a drunk staggering home on a Saturday night.
Once Dirk and Jens had stripped the broken parts out from their fixings, the welder could get to work. He took three six-inch nails from a box of rusting bits and pieces, which he cleaned until they gleamed, and then did the same with the springs by first burning the paint off. As he dug a pit in the sandy verge to the road, I wondered what on earth he was up to. He roughly curved the nails to the shape of the spring - by this time a crowd had gathered to watch. Within minutes he had welded the nails to the broken spring, and placed it in the pit, which he rapidly filled with sand. Dirk and Jens knew what he was up to. Because the welder had no way of knowing how close in metal type his nails were to the spring, it was important that the repair cooled slowly and equally - the sand pit helped that to happen.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  p280

[Biggles]

Jens took pity on me - I hadn't realised that the guys had a giant air compressor in one of the holds on the bus, and as a motorcyclist pulled to a halt to watch from his turquoise Russian Ural, Jens took over. Seconds later - BANG! But it wasn't the tyre popping out onto rim; it was the whole tyre shooting off it. Jens had accidentally over-inflated the tube, and badly damaged the tyre. When we replaced the tube with the old patched one, and got the tyre back on the wheel, I could see that I'd be riding with a blister on the side that would only just pass through the forks. But there was no choice and we set off with me feeling very nervous. I'd no idea how much of a risk I was taking riding the bike like this, but had a very good idea of what could happen if the tyre came off at any speed.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  pp291-2

[Biggles]

By the time our food had arrived, the truck drivers had lost interest in us, but the staff of the truck stop had all gathered round to watch us eat. One could speak some English. "I like CDs." he said. "You have magazines; girl magazines?" he added with twitching eyebrows. The other staff laughed at him, but as we hadn't reacted in the wrong way - no we didn't have any girly mags - they pulled up chairs to sit with us. Conversation in an eclectic mix of Farsi, English and sign language bantered back and forth. The guys were fascinated about what we were all doing, and where we had come from. They wanted to compare their lives with ours. We must have seemed rich to them but that never entered the conversation. As always the grass seemed greener on the other side, and the one thing they all agreed on was that Iran was a bad place. It seemed to be such a bad place simply because they weren't allowed to drink whiskey. The staff followed us through the now fierce wind to the bus. They were fascinated with how the guys had kitted it out to be a home, and insisted that we played CDs for them. Within seconds the aisle on the bus was full of men dancing; the bus literally rocked.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  p297

[Biggles]

But I knew that I was a lost cause. I'd developed a raging hunger for the world. I loved being out on the bike and my life was far richer than I'd ever imagined it would be. I'd lived dreams and with perspective, the nightmares had all been part of the adventure. The years had been full of extremes, and each one had challenged, surprised or delighted me. I wanted more!
Libby's thoughts had obviously settled on the land of her birth. Just over the border into Germany, her drive shaft started to vibrate and a nasty whining noise rose up at me over the usual rhythmic tapping sounds of the engine. By the time I was 100 kilometres away from Birgit's home on Lake Konstanz, Libby was telling me she'd had enough. It was almost as if she had waited to go wrong until she was on home territory; she's a bike with class.
Under Asian Skies  Sam Manicom  pp314-5

[Biggles]

It felt like a lot of pressure. Even Ewan McGregor had Charley Boorman as his co-traveller and foil. In fact, because the TV shows the two of them made ten years ago were so good, they almost killed off the genre altogether. There are still some excellent travel and discovery programs, of course. But it's hard to compete with all the contrived TV reality shows, in which people are either bad-mouthing their co-contestants or biting the heads off live spiders, or both. It's frustrating for people like me - non-celebrities who want to share their stories - and I knew it was going to be difficult to convince the people I needed to convince that I could make a show on my own. I just hoped someone would see things my way and realize that the 'Tough Rides' are destination based. The whole point of riding a motorcycle around Brazil is that Brazil is interesting. The presenter is a just a device, to take you there and show you things that are worth seeing and learning about.
Tough Rides: Brazil  Ryan Pyle  p10

[Biggles]

Even the most reliable bike would need some maintenance along the way, so I had scheduled four maintenance stops- one after each of the toughest sections of the journey. What I hadn't realized, however, was just how much damage mud does to a bike- messing up the chain, destroying the brake pads and air filter, and corroding almost every movable part it oozes into. Normally, you only have to tap the brakes to get the pressure you need. After riding through some of the worst sections of the Amazon, I would squeeze them as hard as I could, only to find that I had zero friction because the mud had eroded the brake pads down to thin plates of metal, which responded to my frantic attempts at braking by making a horrible grinding sound.
Tough Rides: Brazil  Ryan Pyle  pp32-3

[Biggles]

We set off on our sand-dune adventure from Natal early on the morning of day one. I adjusted my tire pressure and suspension and spent the first couple of hours cruising along the sand at the edge of the ocean, watching kids playing soccer and fishermen bobbing around in boats on the water. It was as peaceful and relaxing as I had imagined it would be, and I kept thinking "Pinch me, man. This has to be a dream."
Then the route veered away from the shoreline and headed into the sand dunes, which is when the idyll ended and I found myself struggling to ride a heavy two-wheeled vehicle through very fine, very soft sand. Having to lift my motorcycle repeatedly out of sand that not only seemed to be determined to bury it, but was also acting like a massive reflector for the sun, was totally exhausting. But, after a while, I was back on the beach again, riding on wet, compacted sand, watching the sunlight dancing on the water, and filling my lungs with salty air that is infused with the smell of fish.
It was the beginning of a cycle of events that just kept repeating itself as I veered from cheerful beach bum to the motorcycling equivalent of Sisyphus, who was condemned for eternity to roll a huge boulder up a steep hill and then watch it roll all the way down again.
Tough Rides: Brazil  Ryan Pyle  pp60-1

[Biggles]

I did enjoy having that break every day, stopping to eat real food that didn't come out of a candy wrapper. But I'm in two minds about whether it's always a good thing to stop for lunch. Obviously, you need to eat something, so that your blood sugar doesn't drop to too low: some problems are much easier to deal with when there's at least some food in your stomach. The down-side is that a hot meal can make you sleepy, and then you run the risk of creating your own problems later in the afternoon.
Riding a motorcycle is very momentum driven and on days when you need to cover any substantial distance, you have to be in the zone. When you're fully focused on the road, time just flies by, whereas the first hour after lunch can seem like five.
Tough Rides: Brazil  Ryan Pyle  p69

[STeveo]

 

[Biggles]

We had walked some distance when Leo stopped, dropped his backpack on the ground, and announced, "Now, for the repellent." Then he selected a tree and, with his face quite close to the trunk, made a single loud barking sound. Suddenly, the tree was swarming with thousands of ants. Placing the palm of his right hand on the trunk, in the middle of all the swarming, scurrying creatures, Leo kept it there for a few seconds, then rubbed his hands together as though he was washing them, and held one out to me, so that I could smell the pungent, almost minty odour of 'ant juice'.
"When you do this, you must clean your hands well," he told me, rubbing his own hands over his face and the exposed skin the back of his neck. "You don't want to put live ants on your body."
"Because they bite?" I asked him nervously.
"A little bit," he answered. "You will see. You will experience it yourself."
The part of me that enjoys adventures and exploration liked the idea of experiencing the Amazonian way of making bug repellent. The other part of me- the city guy who hates all crawling things that bite- wasn't looking forward to it at all.
Tough Rides: Brazil  Ryan Pyle  p96