Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

At first light, I was packed and in a determined mood to make Honduras by nightfall. An hour later, I was still searching for anything that resembled a road south. Most locals could not be bothered to offer directions and displayed a definite attitude problem. In most countries, youths gather round the Triumph asking, "How fast does it go- how many pistons- gears?" All they wanted to know in El Salvador was "How much?" Naturally, they did not receive an honest answer and the dark, sinister looks were quite unnerving. Eventually, a young man offered to lead me to the Pan Americano Highway. Posh name for a heap of rubble all the way to the capital. I followed in the dust of the guy's pickup for about half an hour along unmade roads before suspecting he had taken me for a sucker. By the time he pointed the way, I was ready to fight for my bike, but he was the only local to show any kindness to a lost old biker and was rewarded with half a packet of Marlboro cigarettes.
My frame of mind may have influenced my opinion of San Salvador, but it seemed a festering capital city that hit an all-time low in the desirability stakes, with crumbling buildings, garbage everywhere and nothing working.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  pp66-7

[Biggles]

For some reason, the urgency of travel was diminishing and an enjoyable experience was becoming more important than just "getting an there". More out of curiosity than respect, I stopped on the roadside to let a funeral procession pass. All the other traffic pushed its way through, but I could not see the need, so I pulled over and removed my helmet. Six elderly pall-bearers solemnly carried the coffin as trucks forced their way past. Those guys looked really old and not far from their last ride on this earth. One of the leading ones lifted a hand from the modest casket and touched his forehead in salute at my gesture. A woman dressed in threadbare black leading the dignified group of about a score of mourners stopped momentarily, turned to me across the narrow road and made the sign of the cross before continuing her task. There were a few nods from others in the procession and I was glad to have witnessed the sombre event. Being a spectator of the lives of others is, to me, a big part of the travel experience and I had a warm, comfortable feeling about receiving a blessing from a stranger.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  pp72-3

[Biggles]

The taller one with a weather-beaten face under a broad-brimmed hat raised an arm to point at the ridiculous white man fighting to keep vertical. He was telling his amigo that the silly bastard on a big bike is lost, I thought. The next few seconds were the longest of my life. The ear-shattering bang and windscreen fragments hitting my visor happened simultaneously. "What the hell was that?" I said out loud, attempting to fathom two apparently unassociated incidents. If a tyre had burst, I could not see why that would cause the windshield to shatter. I needed to stop to investigate, and if I had a problem, the  two guys only a few yards away may be able to help. I did not relish the idea of being stuck in such a remote spot and the tall one was still pointing at me so surely they would come to my aid. Even riding at a jogging pace through mud and rubble, care has to be taken with the brakes to prevent the wheels locking up, but despite the terrain, the bike handling had not apparently changed. "What's going on?" The answer came with a second explosion, which seemed like years later, but in reality was only a few pounding heart beats after the first. The noise of a handgun pointed in your direction is fantastic and quite different from when it is pointing away from you.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  p95

[Biggles]

When the blatant facts of the situation are unwelcome, the brain takes longer to compute information. By this time I had worked out that the person who I had thought might be a saviour was pointing a pistol at me, not a finger, and the first bullet must have narrowly missed my left shoulder. The second shot confirmed my suspicion that not only was I a target, but the bandit's aim was getting better. My head suffered the sensation of being kicked very hard just behind and above my right ear by a determined man wearing hob-nail boots. The velocity of a bullet travelling at twice the speed of sound colliding with a robust crash helmet wrenches the neck so much my head made contact with the handlebars as I was launched forward by the impact. A vague memory of "life flashing before my eyes" was followed by an instant of semi-consciousness and then blind terror.
Adrenalin tried to take over but, curiously enough, the part of my brain still functioning pleaded caution, so I avoided doing a wheelie into the nearest mud-filled ditch, and instead managed to accelerate away from the brink of disaster. All the senses become sharpened in life-threatening situations. Eyes are forced wide open to avoid blinking as that is all the time needed to make a fatal mistake.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  pp95-6

[Biggles]

The national hero of Chile is an Irishman by the name of O'Higgins. Banks, parks and streets are named after him. His father was affiliated with the Spanish court in the early 18th century, and after an English education, the young O'Higgins returned to Chile to rebel against his father and the Spanish government, liberating the country. He then did the same in Peru. This real Che Guevara character is now immortalized in statues all over the city, and his birthday is a national holiday.
All packed up and ready to escape to a new continent I descended the four floors loaded with luggage and heard Annie Lennox singing A Whiter Shade of Pale on a radio somewhere. Shortly before I departed England, Marian had bought the CD to listen to on our Saturday morning lie-ins. They had been very special times, eating breakfast in bed, chatting, making love. Hearing the song made me burst into tears and I had to climb the million stairs back to my room to recover my composure.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  p113

[Biggles]

The overnight bus spat me out onto the cold deserted streets of Byron Bay at 4:00 am. Fortunately I had left most of my heavy gear in Sydney, making my progress round that very pretty but tiny town to a youth hostel relatively easy. Byron Bay has developed from the relatively new industry of backpacker tourism and supplies its demands brilliantly, attracting an international set of travellers to its acres of immaculate beach, set in surroundings notable for their natural beauty.
The biting wind inspired another bus ticket to Hervey Bay, the farthest point north possible in a day. The Greyhound bus drove through the grotesquely over-developed Gold Coast Surfers Paradise and the superbly laid out town of Brisbane, following a well-trodden hippy trail. There were many places worth stopping in to explore, and I became more frustrated that travel was dictated by a bus timetable rather than a whim.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  p121

[Biggles]

All over the world, people's tempers are being put to the test at traffic lights in every major city, leaving me wondering, Why?
We all have our own thesis on what normal is and a good deal of it, like commuting to work with millions of other people, is unappealing. What I was doing for fun may be very unappealing to many people, but it is remarkable how normal it felt, and I was beginning to get concerned about my ability to slot back into the rigid structure of contemporary Western society when it was all over. The popular conception of normality had been a way of life for me for nearly half a century before "the big adventure". The experience of travel was profoundly moulding my attitude to life, and I was resolved to embrace the re-awakening - change the rules, move the goal posts, anything but jumping back on to a bandwagon playing unpalatable music. The how, when and where would have to wait, as the Triumph was stowed in a container and I was off to a different, but familiar, culture in Southeast Asia. Not for the first time, I had placed myself in someone's debt, and there was no real way of showing appreciation for their tolerance when Slim drove me to Darwin in readiness for an early morning flight.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  p149

[Biggles]

Chulia Street is backpacker city, with cheap guest houses providing rooms to Western travellers for a few pounds. I was resolved to stay for a couple of days to sort out an increasingly painful problem with my right hand. The strain of holding the throttle open all day, every day, had damaged a tendon in my wrist. A doctor in Darwin had given me painkillers and anti-inflammatory cream and told me to rest it for six months, as tendons take forever to heal. I was not in a position to take his advice, so I had to ride the length of Malaysia holding the throttle open with my forearm. I had even tried bandaging my hand to twist grip, but any flexing of the wrist sent stabbing pains up my arm and across my shoulders. Continuing without a short rest would have exacerbated the problem, potentially terminating the adventure, so it was a good excuse to sit still for a couple of days with an arm in a sling.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  pp155-6

[Biggles]

The local buses may have been slow but for a couple of rupees passengers can ride in or cling to the outside, and on that occasion, I managed to get a seat next to a window. Well, it was more of a hole in the side of the vehicle than a window as recognised by most transport companies. A fat, sweaty woman carrying a large box of squawking chickens decided there was plenty of room for her as well as the other three people to sit on a seat made for an intimate couple, pinning me against the hot bus side. In heavy traffic, we lumbered over a railway line, and the engine stalled while we were across the track. Attempting to get some air into crushed lungs I stuck my head out of the window and saw a goods train doing warp nine in our direction. All efforts to restart the bus on the starter motor failed as the train accelerated towards us. I started to fight my way past the mountain of flesh in a bid to escape via the window for fear of joining the obituary column in Motoring & Leisure Magazine.
About 120 people nearest the doors jumped out and started pushing. The bus coughed into life and several hundred tons of rusting metal that had not had a hope of stopping missed us by a couple of feet leaving most of the paying customers on the other side of a very long freight train.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  pp185-6

[Biggles]

I made the mistake of riding late into the night in tortuous traffic. Rounding one tight bend I was presented with two trucks abreast hurtling towards me on a road wide enough for only one and a half of them. Each truck only had a single headlamp working, so I was a little confused at first about how many vehicles were about to end my life. The overtaking truck teetered at a precarious angle with two wheels off the road so he had slammed into the other to get a better foothold. The plan did not come up to the driver's expectation as he bounced off, leaving nearly enough room to scrape between them. The truck's bumper squarely caught a pannier, bursting it open, spilling my possessions over the road, before smashing into another truck a few yards behind me. The impact and steep verge forced him off the road holding up traffic long enough for me to pick up the important belongings strewn about in the halo oŁ headlamps. Precious foot pump, sleeping bag, document file were stuffed back in, and amazingly the lock still worked.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  p205

[Biggles]

I set about the media in the hope of attracting a sponsor but only managed a few articles in the Gulf News and one TV interview that lifted a flagging ego but did nothing for the bank balance.
One gratifying result of the media attention however, was an invitation to a charity bikers' rally. Bikes are strictly weekend toys for wealthy people in the Emirates. About fifty Harley Davidsons gleamed in the sunshine posing for TV cameras all trying to steal the show. The son of a sheik turned up on a gold-plated Fat Boy which most riders thankfully found a little distasteful. A couple of inches off his front mud guard would have repaired my bike and got me home in style. Breakfast was followed by an hours ride to lunch where I was asked to speak about my travels to the assembled company. Unscripted and unrehearsed I was a little apprehensive but it went well with most people laughing in the right places. An English couple who ran a bar for US Marines invited me to the opening of their new bikers' bar and asked me to speak again to raise a little cash for the cause. The crew of the USS George Washington were in fine spirits and after I had thanked Harley riders the world over for their help an amazing amount of crewmen pressed a dollar into my sweaty mitt with every handshake. I was grateful for every donation and the hospitality of some extraordinary people, but importing necessary parts for the Triumph was causing dreadful problems and I still did not have the funds to pay for the rebuild.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  pp219-220

[Biggles]

It blows my mind how apparently insignificant incidents completely change the direction of a life and the sequence of events that led up to that sultry evening as I packed up my rucksack with sweat running into my eyes was no exception. How far back do you take it? A day's delay in Peru for repairs had meant I had had to wait weeks for the Triumph to be shipped from South America to Australia. As a result I had seized the chance to see New Zealand and ended up on a train opposite Sue. The war in Myanmar had forced me to change my route across India where I was nearly annihilated by a truck - and Dubai just happened to be the nearest and only accessible repair shop. Obviously, if those events had not happened, equally strange ones may have done, but it does make you wonder if there is someone pulling the strings. Without Sue, there would have been no Sonja to shelter a tortoise without its shell- no Edroos, without whose help continuation would not have been possible and with a team of that calibre behind me, I was feeling optimistic about the way ahead.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  p227

[Biggles]

Suddenly like the Red Sea parting for Moses the crowd fell away as a Masai, wiry as a thorn twig and well over six feet tall, flanked by two warriors carrying machetes and bows with arrows in the firing position approached. My hand closed on the .38 concealed by a sodden T-shirt and my matted hair stood on end. They had the advantage with the sun behind them and all I could see squinting into the furnace were skinny black things and I was an illuminated target.
"English?" demanded the stately leader. I nodded not knowing if the gesture meant yes or no. His next question floored me completely and not just because he spoke my mother tongue so well. "Do you think John Major will still be premier after the next election?" After recovering my composure all I could do was laugh hysterically.
That elegant man dressed in traditional vivid scarlet loin cloth and shawl over one shoulder, sat and talked of Westminster, the Commonwealth, the Royal Family and British agriculture. He was chief of his tribe and had learned to speak English from listening to the BBC World Service on the radio.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  p251

[Biggles]

The bike had received a thorough wash, the crippling pain had miraculously disappeared and a gangly adolescent was fighting his way up the steep track with two plastic containers strapped to his back. He quickly grasped my message that a drop of Benzene would go down rather well and both cylindrical containers were released from their moorings. One contained water- the other smelt about right for petrol. I could not believe what was happening, but took the precaution of pouring a little of the urine-coloured fluid into my Zippo lighter to test its flammability. The flame gave off thick black smoke, but it was worth a try. He only had about a litre but it all worked remarkably well and he would only accept a few Birr as a reward for saving my life. If I had been stuck there for another night a second flash flood caused by torrential rain higher up the mountain would probably have drowned me and the bike would have been lost forever under mud slides. After stuffing the money in his pocket the youth loaded himself up again and walked off in the direction he had just come from. I will never understand how he knew where I was or what was required to keep the Triumph team moving but the bush telegraph is mighty efficient in Ethiopia.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  p267

[Biggles]

I lay a hand on the tank, wiped a tear from my eye and headed for Simon Jones, the man who had phoned me in Dubai to give me the race date strode forward with an outstretched hand. Then there was a shout. "He's here! The old bastard made it after all." Marian gave me a hug and long awaited kiss. Someone put a beer in my hand and the celebrations began- rejoicing was the order of the day.
A notebook fell from my pocket and someone picked it off the floor and handed it to me. It was the very first one I had scribbled thoughts in at the beginning of my adventure. The cover had been ripped off a million miles ago revealing the very first words recorded on my departure, "This is definitely the very first day of the rest of my life". It was as true then as it is now, and is true for every mortal soul. We only get one stab at life, so we have an obligation to enjoy it and make it as rewarding and as fulfilled as we possibly can. Say it to yourself every morning and however you spend that day- make it count.
Triumph Around The World  Robbie Marshall  p286
---
In 2003 Robbie swapped his life in Brighton for a life in Spain and set up home in Almeria where he wrote articles about bikes and biking. In October 2003 he was involved in an accident on his bike and died three weeks later.

[Biggles]

I find a motorcycle a convenient tool for following these lines. It can carry me hundreds, thousands of miles, distances that would defeat my legs. When I turn off the key I don't have to give it water or hay. It consumes relatively little gas, and as it takes up little space when necessary can be squeezed onto any ferry. It can go down narrow trails, be carried across unbridged gaps, hoisted over a fallen tree. If it gets properly stuck I don't need a wrecker to get it unstuck, just a couple of brawny locals.
And when I come to the edge of a continent and face the Big Water, I can usually convince some passing ship to winch it aboard. Or load it into the belly of some cargo plane. It is my own mechanical Passpartout.
How did I become interested in motorcycling in the first place? Perhaps the devil made me do it. Or perhaps it was Uncle Erminio, who gave me my first ride on a motorcycle at eight impressionable years. He was an Italian country doctor who, on a warm summer's evening thought it preferable to do his rounds on an aged 250 Sertum, rather than be cooped up in a car.
No Thru Road  Clement Salvadori p4

[Biggles]

"Squish!" Flat rear tire. A close look at the tread showed some cord showing, but no nail was apparent. It must have been sharp stone that did the damage. I had definitely made a false economy by not replacing the tire in Anchorage. Nothing to do but go forward.
The shop keeper, having seen all this, came out to offer commiseration, a complimentary soda, and a couple of rags. I took the wheel off, took the tire off, patched the tube, and then stuffed a folded t-shirt between the tube and the most worn part of the tire.
"Good luck," said my host, and I believe he truly meant it. I rode the next 230 miles slowly, making the distance without need of the spare can of fuel. Proof that an easy hand on the throttle does extend mileage.
No Thru Road  Clement Salvadori p40

[Biggles]

And there was that same S-curve I had crashed on once before. Wanting to see how fast I was going this time I looked down at the Smiths speedometer. But at night it took a bit longer than expected to read the figures, especially with six-volt lighting, and while I was looking down at the speedo I saw dirt coming up under my front wheel. I was headed for a ditch, and not wanting to bend the bike I put it into a slide bringing the front end back around 90 degrees and heading towards the pavement. My sideways movement was faster than my forward motion, but I believe I would have made it safely if a Nazi tree had not intentionally jumped in my way. I hit the tree going sideways with my right leg taking the blow right behind the knee.
I ended up sitting in the road, in shock, with my right foot strangely flopped over. That looked odd, so I reached down, picked it up, and it flopped the other way. Not good.
No Thru Road  Clement Salvadori pp63-4

[Biggles]

We waited about 15 minutes, watching record-oriented bikes whizz past. Get ready, one of the staffers said, and another staffer came around and secured our sidestands with zip-locks. The first rider went out 50 yards to where another red-shirt was standing with a green flag. A little discussion, green flag waved, the rider went forward 20 feet and turned right onto the track, just in front of the yellow one-mile flag. And then accelerated away.
My turn: Go out to the flagman. Track clear. Flagger told me to check that my visor is down, chin-strap tight and loose end secured, waved the green flag and I went forward to make a 90-degree turn onto the track, scraped smooth and flat. I was over-enthusiastic, or nervous, and as I twisted the throttle the rear tire spun. Back off, get straight, and now I had a mile to accelerate to the max, red line in first, second, third, fourth. In this gear the engine peaked at 6800, not 7000, rpm. Fifth. The two-mile marker flashed by as the speedometer read 105. I held the throttle and hunkered down. Three-mile marker flashed past. I backed off, half a mile later I turned onto a well-beaten escape road, over to the return lane, and back to the pits.
No Thru Road  Clement Salvadori pp86-7

[Biggles]

I sliced through the Yorkshire Dales, stopped at Hadrian's Wall, and rode around the Cheviot Hills. In truth I was wondering if would ever have the nerve to use all that throttle. I had already adapted to left-side riding, and breezing through the gearbox was a snickety delight.
Next morning I was up at the crack of dawn to make it through the highlands to John's place. Speeding out of town, a Rover car came up behind me. Whoops, busted. Two constables got out, looked at my paperwork, and, more importantly, the Bonneville T120, which they had never seen, only heard of. The end result, "Looks like you won't be coming back this way, and you're a well-mannered lad, so we'll let you go with a little warning about city speed limits. Have fun."
Now there was full throttle capability, but I was righteously nervous; 46 horsepower may not sound like much in the 21st entury, but it was more than this 20-year-old American was accustomed to. Shifting out of second at 6000 rpm, pushing unheard of speeds for the likes of me.
No Thru Road  Clement Salvadori p109

[Biggles]

Having already had the better part of a year to practice my riding skills, I was proceeding briskly through the curves until at one point I heard a BANG! CRUNCH! SCRAPE!, looked over my shoulder, and Dick was sliding along the road on his butt, while his bike fetched up against a large stone kilometer-marker.
He was unscathed, but picking up the bike we realized that the front forks had been severely bent, rendering it unrideable. In a nearby village we found a blacksmith who had not only a forge and an anvil, but a set of tools as well. Of course he was familiar with straightening-out motorcycles, as it happened all the time. Organizing a flatbed truck and a couple of layabouts, he picked up the BMW and brought it back to the smithy. "I'll call when it's done," he said.
Two days later the call came. We rode back to the village and stopped in front of the blacksmith's shop. No sign of him. A local sitting on bench informed us that the smith had gone on a little ride just to make sure the work was done right. He reappeared an hour later, obviously having stopped by a bar or two, announcing that the motorcycle handled better than when it was new. We headed back to Rome to get ready for our trip.
No Thru Road  Clement Salvadori pp132-3

[Biggles]

We cheerfully hurtled round and round all day; it was about 3.5 miles done in a very, very narrow figure 8, with an arched cross-over in the middle, tight 180s at each end. One nifty aspect of the Yamaha test track was that the more serious corners had spring-loaded nets to catch anyone foolish enough to wander off course. Some tracks have what is called run-out, acres of grass bordering the racecourse which gives the rider who runs off the pavement time to get back under control. That requires space. Or they might have gravel traps, slowing an off-track bike rapidly, but even those need a bit of room. Space is at a premium in Japan, and  run-out had been sacrificed, replaced by these nets.
Fortunately, none of us tried them. But they looked as though they should work.
No Thru Road  Clement Salvadori p170

[Biggles]

In Agra I was riding down to the railroad station to see about getting the Beemer on a train when I happened to pass mechanics row, a stretch of palm-fronded huts with loin-clothed mechanics under the hoods of everything from a Tata truck to a Mercedes-Benz. I stopped to look.
A well-dressed gent strolled over, introduced himself, and asked if I were there because perhaps something was wrong with my motorcycle. I told him about the bearing problem.
"Well," my new friend said, pointing, "there is the best wheel-bearing expert in the city; perhaps he can fix your problem." The expert had a pair of greasy shorts on, sandals, and was doing something under the hood of a taxi. Not quite like Mr. Goodwrench. I grimaced.
My friend noticed. "Ah, I understand you Westerners. You do not trust the mechanical ability of us Indians. That is understandable. Though not justified. I think that perhaps this man can help you." Okay. I rolled the bike over to the shanty, took the wheel off, uncovered the bearings, and the mechanic inspected them closely, moved them with his fingers, and then said something to my host.
"The bearings merely need to be tightened," translated my friend, "and he can do the job easily." I agreed, and then my host, who was having his Mercedes worked on, and I sat down on chairs in the shade and a small boy brought over cups of tea. The job was done right, the bill so minimal that I added a large tip, and my host invited me to dinner that night.
No Thru Road  Clement Salvadori p213

[Biggles]

Next morning I calculated the chances of my surviving two more days of fun and frolics were not good- if my head didn't split wide open from the daily hangover, something else, like a bull's horn, would get me. I hadn't even fired up the Bonneville since I had arrived. Time to leave, while the leaving is good. Alan was writing in his journal; he looked up and said, "You are one crazy man."
I loaded the motorcycle and headed towards Madrid. It was a beautiful day, and as I climbed up and over the Sierra de Cantabria I was feeling exuberant. I had run with the bulls. I was brave! I was reckless! I was a man! To prove that, I kept the throttle twisted hard, scraping pegs around the curves, charging up the road.
At the top of the pass a group of back-robed seminarians were having a stroll through the mountain meadow, and passing them at speed I gave a wave. Some waved back, others made the sign of the cross.
Hurtling down the hairpinned road on the south side, accelerating down the straights, braking heavily for the turns, I knew that the young priests-to-be were aware that I had a little bit of divine intervention on my side. Which I needed, as those skinny little brakes soon got really hot and began to fade; I slowed down. No point in being too foolish.
No Thru Road  Clement Salvadori pp242-3

[Biggles]

This trip had begun two weeks before in West Germany, where the folks at BMW had been kind enough to loan me their latest luxury touring motorcycle, a K100RT. From Munich north to where the paved road ends at the edge of the Arctic Ocean was about 2000 miles, I would do a gentle loop up and down, 28 days, 4000 or so miles, piece of cake.
Even time for a little sidetrip through East Germany to Berlin to have a look at The Wall, and ride through Checkpoint Charlie. I expected a few East Berliners to be attracted to this flash motorcycle, but obviously nobody wanted to be seen talking to an obvious Westerner, and I was totally ignored. I got a few furtive looks when I parked beside an outdoor cafe, on the Lindenstrasse, sat down at a table, and ordered a coffee; nobody pulled up a chair to talk about that motorcycle.
No Thru Road  Clement Salvadori pp308-9