Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

"We will now escort you to see the fine, splendid scenery," the delegates announced.  The leader raised his hand, the motors raced more madly.  And off we went.  We were out of Kobe and into the suburbs in one-minute-flat.  The Kobe Motorcycle Club members did not believe in speed laws.  Nor did they believe in allowing their visitor to find aught but a clear path before him.  Every one of the thirty-three took it upon himself to be the pathfinder, with the result that I tagged along like a tired child after a day's trip to the country. They do say that the scenic route along the Inland Sea outside of Kobe is one of the really beautiful sights of Japan.  I’ll probably never know.  The dust cloud raised by sixty-six whirling wheels was far too thick to see through.  My escorts roared into Osaka, to come up with a flourish in one of the downtown squares.  There they lined up and there again a speech was made.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 333

[Biggles]

Then late one afternoon I drove into the Avenue, a slicker buttoned about my mud-caked corduroys, and my boots took the splashing of the New York delivery wagons and shiny limousines alike.  It was the day before Christmas.
As I lifted my foot over the saddle in the courtyard of an apartment building, I shed a surreptitious tear.  The haughty doorman, watching from behind the grilled door, didn't see that tear.  Or perhaps he thought it was rain on my face, if he thought anything other than that Mr. and Mrs. Fulton were having a strange visitor. 
So from Christmas to New Year's the motorcycle stood in the courtyard.  I looked at it when I came and went, but I did not touch it.  And when I glanced down from the lofty windows it appeared forlorn, a small thing in a vast wilderness. It had looked that way when I strode out with the Commandant at dawn to start across the Syrian Desert- so small a thing in such a large place.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 346

[Biggles]

To my mother's horror, at age 12, my father suggested constructing a homebuilt, mini-scooter using an old lawn mower engine.  The freedom and power of a motorized bike was like a match to gasoline for a troubled young rebel growing up in the 60s.  A lifetime lust for adventure had been ignited. Fiercely independent and anti-authority, I was constantly rejecting the status quo, and that made me feel more alive.  In high school, while others were elected most likely to succeed, my teachers often remarked that I would surely spend life behind bars, and I did - handlebars.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 5

[Biggles]

After only a week on the road, my first casualty is a broken kick-stand.  For increased ground clearance, this motorcycle was designed without a centre stand, a handy tool for raising the bike to change tires and lube the chain.  Normally it's easy to tilt the bike over onto the kickstand high enough to sweep a rock underneath and then pull it upright to balance the rear wheel off the ground. It's a simple move on lighter bikes, but with 200 pounds of extra equipment and fuel, today the hollow support tube buckled.
A loud crack before the kickstand bent in half afforded the split-second needed to catch the bike before it tipped over.  Now what?
Even simple problems in Japan are community affairs that require lengthy discussion considering all options.  After leaning the motor-cycle against a tree, a conference begins, prompting the first of several long winded telephone calls. After the third, I ask, "So what did they say?" The answer: "Wrong number."
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p18

[Biggles]

Since this was a small town, we felt safe and decided to use my one heavy-duty cable lock and Yasutomo's two chain locks to secure them to a tree outside our window.  Not possible the cop declares, followed by motions indicating they would be stolen.  They take us outside to show how other hotel visitors secured their vehicles at night, even removing their windshield wiper blades.  They pointed to our mirrors and seat cushions and flicked open their hands demonstrating how they would disappear.
So far, everywhere in Russia we've been warned that our bikes or equipment would be in instant jeopardy if left unattended.  It's nice to think the best of people, but we are finally convinced into wrangling our bikes down a narrow hallway to park them outside our room. It's been a long day in Friendly Russia.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 38

[Biggles]

Exactly a half-hour later he appears with his private driver carrying a hardbound Russian road atlas. "A present for you my friends."  Then he leads us back to the dirt-surfaced Trans-Siberian-Highway, and were off, kicking up pea gravel with spinning tires.
We've only had to stop for document checks three times a day, including when caught on radar for speeding. Each time we end up humouring the cops and posing for pictures.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 43

[Biggles]

Occasionally we pass directly next to the Trans-Siberian Railroad, and, for a moment, catch glimpses of comfortable passengers in lighted railcars. I imagine them sipping wine and nibbling French cheeses in their steamy, warm carriages.  Yasutomo must hate me at the moment. Before we left together, he'd asked about taking the train to Chita instead of riding.
My bellowing reply was, "Are we motorcyclists or what?" I wonder now, as we ride into the night, blue with uncontrolled shivering, if he regrets his decision.
Humming loudly inside my helmet is Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again" and I tell myself once more that it's good to be here.
 Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 45

[Biggles]

Gravel roads, although firmer than mud, cause mild wheel-wobbling, making the bike sway as though riding on flat tires.  Cognizant of variances in surface conditions, especially when the front wheel twists off in unintended directions, we lack proper control and have to resist the urge to fight the handlebars.  Like flying an aircraft, good motorcycling requires delicate steering.  To stay relaxed, its best to control the handlebars by pinching the handgrips with your outside two fingers and use the other two for brakes and clutch.  Caution is critical. If we slow abruptly the weight shifts forward, loading the front end and digging the front tire into the gravel instead of rolling over it.
This plowing effect can send the bike sideways into a horizontal slide.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 46

[Biggles]

On a long journey, it takes a month of adjusting to erratic routines to find the rhythm of the road. There is a point where weary travellers either flee for the comforts of home or cross a magic line beyond which home is redefined.  After four short weeks in Russia, the road is now home.  Long, hard days end in rain-soaked tents, cheap hotels or on mouldy couches in the tiny apartments of newfound friends - temporary shelters that reveal the starkness of how the other side lives.  A month is a year when travelling, and as each day passes, swinging through a forest of adventure, I release an old tree branch to grasp a new one, often dangling in the breeze, awaiting another life lesson.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 53

[Biggles]

After they ask why I'm favouring a left shoulder, I relate the afternoon's events.  They want to look at the bike; maybe they can fix it.
"Have at," I say, "but there is little we can do out here without tools."
At first, it confused me why they just laughed.  But an hour later these surgeons from heaven were busy straightening the frame, welding steel fasteners and using superglue with duct tape to piece together the shattered windshield.  Bundled metal water pipes served as a circular anvil to hammer round sections of the frame back into perfect shape. Within four hours, the Blue Beast was restored to health.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 57

[Diesel]

A Herc pilot's recall of taking off overloaded one day... (and comparing that to overloading your ST with pillion and gear...



A pilot I was. Overgross take off I have done.

Peacetime max Gross for a C-130E is 155,000 pounds. I thought I was at max gross. The load teams had calculated the loads incorrectly, however.

Lawson AAF, Ft. Benning, GA is in the bend of a river that is down about 100 feet below the field level. The runway lines up with the river to the north. We took off to the north. The runway was about 5300' long and at max gross we should have come unstuck at about 4500' roll.

We didn't. We were just at unstick speed when we crossed the overrun, I horsed the beast into the air, it shuddered in a stall, I stuck the nose down into the river valley, the CP yanked the gear up, we went about 30 to 50 feet down in the river valley as the beast struggled for air speed.

Finally after about a mile we had enough speed to initiate climb. We were cleared to climb to Flight Level 230 (23,000 feet). Traffic control kept asking when we were going to climb. The best we could get was about 50 feet a minute. Gradually, as fuel burned off, we climbed faster. We were headed to the Dominican Republic with steel planking for a bridge to be used in flood relief. We were past St. Augustine Florida before we passed FL180 and were well down the east coast of FL before we got to our assigned altitude.

We used the performance charts to do reverse calculations to determine what our actual Gross Weight had been. Yes, it's possible for a C-130E to get airborne with the unique conditions of having a place to dive for speed past the end of the runway with a Gross Weight of 195,000.... This "war story" is to illustrate, there is a safety margin built in.

Others have pointed out, when you get heavy, handling changes. A bike with 2 up, unless your GIB is rather small, is going to handle differently. Be prepared for it.

Taking off that day, we knew we were heavy. We just didn't know HOW heavy. That was DUMB. We trusted the wrong people to be accurate with their weight calculations.

In my years after that, such an event never happened again to me. I never was so trusting again.

JM - www.st-owners.com

[Biggles]

It's way too easy to be overloaded with sheet steel.  I've had the experience in PNG in a little Cessna 206 carrying 6 foot sheets of corrugated iron.  A full load looks like an empty plane.  It's only 83 sheets which is only about 200 mm thick.  Have a load crew miscount (or even put on a double load as happened to a pilot out of Rabaul) and you've got your hands full.

The other hazard back in those pre-GPS days when you relied on your magnetic compass was that flying magnet that your aeroplane had become with half a ton of iron on board.  The compass could be more than 30 degrees out.  You would have to track out on your ADF to establish the error so you knew the correction when the beacon dropped out.

Anyway, back to the programme...

[Biggles]

Halfway through a can of sardines and stale bread, I am suddenly aware of a presence at my side.  Looking down, I am startled to see a four-year-old girl staring up, holding an aluminium pail and porcelain bowl.  A scan of the surrounding terrain reveals no sign of nomads or their Gers, and it's impossible to determine from where she came.
“Sain ban noo" I say.  (Hello).  Her smudged face is frozen in an emotionless gaze upward at the Martian someone in her family sent her to assist.  Because of their deep Buddhist belief in karma, it's in the nature of the nomads to feed and care for strangers. This is a training mission.
Accepting the pail and bowl, I pour myself a drink of hot, sweetened goat's milk. Finally, something I've been offered offer tastes good. "Bai ar laa" (Thank you).  Still no response, just little brown eyes of apprehension.  Nothing moves her.  Funny faces and wiggling fingers in my ear changes nothing; she never flinches.
After a second cup of milk, I hand back the containers, flip the bike ignition and beep the horn.  Suddenly, she breaks into bright childish laughter.  I see her in the mirror as she scurries back across the desert to where she came from, and when I turn to see her one last time she has disappeared.  The sweet taste of goat's milk on my lips and a digital photo are my only confirmation that she ever existed.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 63

[Biggles]

A quarter-mile sprint later, me following on my bike, we reach an ageing cement-block apartment complex where he pulls me by the arm upstairs, rambling out questions and answers in Russian. Hungry Jack points to himself and declares, "Sasha!"
Once inside his 10-by-io-foot kitchen, he flings open the antique refrigerator door with one hand and pitches jars of sweetened fruit with the other. Soon a steaming pot of tea and Russian ravioli arrive, with crackers and homemade raspberry jam. He points to everything in sight, asking if I want some. After force-feeding me whatever he can, we re off to the living room for home videos and invitations to accompany him and his wife to their dacha for a Russian banya. It's already nine o'clock, and, fearing an all-nighter, I decline and instead politely request a hotel.
Back on my bike with Sasha leaping ahead like an eager puppy, we reach the only hotel in the village. While I unlock the aluminium panniers, he grabs the nylon tote bags, stuffing whatever he can under his arms. After hauling my gear inside, he surveys the room as if searching for something written on the faded wallpaper. I assure him everything's fine and that I now just want to sleep. His farewell is a Russian bear hug, picking up my 210 pounds and shaking me like a rag doll. Disappointed that we couldn't hang out more, he lopes back down the road, turning every few steps to wave.
I am going to miss Russian hospitality.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 67

[Biggles]

Later, back in the storm, I realize it would have been wiser to quit at the one-hour mark when the shakes first started. Now there is nothing but freezing rain and fierce winds pounding the empty Siberian plain. By nightfall, when a small village appears, the stages of hypothermia have already hit and my thinking grows mushy. Two federal marshals driving in off the roadway find me spinning my tires through muddy streets.  They know something’s wrong and pull alongside, displaying hand-signs asking me to follow. Six blocks later, we arrive at a grey cement hotel without lights.  Before I can step off the bike, they grab me by the arms.  Shivers had turned to uncontrolled shakes, and I'm unable to walk on my own.  Inside the ageing hotel lobby, an overweight matronly desk clerk is bundled in sweaters and overcoats.  So much for heat.  I need to get warm immediately, so the marshals lead me next door to a warm, smoky cafe crowded with uniformed men playing cards.  I'm uncertain if they are Tartars or Buryats, but they are friendly, bringing cups of steaming tea and huge metal bowls of vegetable soup. While I sit shivering, one of them pries off my helmet and motions me to remove my soggy riding suit.  Siberians know the dangers of hypothermia, and they bring a heavy wool blanket and towel.  After gulping down hot liquids, the shakes subside enough for me to strip off the rest of my clothes.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 69

[Biggles]

High-capacity fuel tanks provide extra-long-range riding when needed and can be left half-full when it's appropriate.  That morning, I had deliberately filled mine only halfway, to help me maneuver through the slippery conditions ahead.  Five gallons less means 40 pounds lighter, a significant plus when trying to wrangle a 600- pound bike through mud.  Even when the low-fuel light blinks on, it still means that there's 120 miles left — provided the electronics are functioning.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 71

[Biggles]

I always stash a set of spare keys on the bike where they are easy to access in emergencies.  They are wrapped in soft duct tape and tucked up underneath the rubber boot on top of the gas tank, under the seat.  But constant pounding and jarring from washboard roads disturbs everything, no matter how tightly packed.  Pills turn to powder and even the foam padding in the rear top-box gets beaten into gum, sticking on the instruments it's intended to protect.  Most items change shape after only a few days off-road.  Even knowing this, I never imagined a set of hidden keys could cause such a problem.
About the time I started looking for a place to stop and get warm, without warning the motor quit.  Not with a sputter- an abrupt cutoff.  After a brief inspection, it becomes apparent that repeated attempts to restart will only lead to a dead battery. Bikes with carburettors are easy to fix.  Even a motor mower can be cannibalized for enough parts to get home.  New BMWs come with electronic fuel injection, a superior method of metering fuel  and supposedly bulletproof, but it's also difficult to repair without tools.  There's a nagging fear, wondering what to do if this system malfunctioned here or in Africa.
My brain overloads analyzing the problem.  Is it a broken wire buried somewhere in the yards of electrical tubes?  A burned-out circuit board?  A malfunctioning computer?  Chips gone haywire?  How could I repair defective electronics out here?  And what about that slowly expiring Russian visa?
---
Now, suspecting it's a dirty filter or a faulty fuel pump, I unbutton the tank-filler to discover the real problem- no gas!  Inside the lid, my set of jangling spare keys had severed the wires connecting the low-fuel light, the reason there had been no warning my fuel was about to run out.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 72-3

[Biggles]

As cowboys love their horses, riders love their motorcycles.  We get to know each other through customizing and maintenance checks.  From meticulous tinkering and studying specs, we memorize their features and weaknesses while constantly drooling over the latest gadgets.  Forged steel and machined aluminium rolling on vulcanized rubber become sacred vehicles that we name. 
My mighty Blue Beast, survivor of a rugged Tran-Siberian crossing and stained from the red clays of Mongolia, has earned its place as my faithful companion. Capable of taming the roughest terrain and gobbling up long stretches of highway, its reliability is important to the success of my journey. On top of all that, it goes fast! Russian police checkpoints, machine gun-toting guards stop me to point at flashing red numbers on radar guns.  They don't seem angry so I laugh aloud- only 80 miles per hour?  But they are more interested in where I'm going, and before they wave me on, I must recite a list of recent destinations. So far, Russian cops have been friendly to the "Amerikanski" from "Calleekfornia".  Once, I'm even given the emblem off a police uniform, a souvenir from an otherwise forgotten moment in a distant land.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 74

[Biggles]

A passing summer squall  sets me squinting through my face shield at the glare from a setting sun glistening off slick black pavement. Twenty-one hundred miles to go - from Novosibirsk, it's a straight shot over the Urals to the onion domes of St. Basil's.  After a loop around the Kremlin, I'll be off to the Middle East via Europe, but for now it's a ride into rapture.  With a twist of the throttle, my iron steed snorts and stretches its legs, winding through the gears in a mechanical fury, flowing through the drive train to rushing asphalt below.  Captured in the euphoria of rapid acceleration, as always, I can't imagine a better state of mind.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 74-5

[Biggles]

Motorcyclists welcome motorcyclists on motorcycles.  It's a sign of respect when I see a dozen bikes heading toward me in the rain outside a city, ready to escort me in. Actually, it's often easier to ride in alone, but it's also impressive to see the spirit of like-minded fanatics infected with the same fever. The first question from the diehards: "Did you ride the stretch between Chita and Khabarovsk or take the train?" A cheer erupts when I tell them I rode it.  Even by Siberian standards, it's one of the toughest roads in the world. They are further impressed when they hear of my anticipated trip around the planet.  For most motorcyclists, this is a fantasy ride.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 76

[Biggles]

The Other Men, a local club from Omsk, come to greet me on motorcycles, guiding me back to their bike shop clubhouse.  A few of the riders have casts on their legs, reminders of the price of our passion.  No drunks either - they ride sober, in sharp contrast to the Russian truckers I met, sucking on vodka bottles at breakfast.
Until 10 years ago, the only machines available here were comical Soviet Urals, unreliable copies of ‘40s model BMWs.  Now big, meaty imported Japanese sport bikes dominate. The locals have learned how to keep them running without access to the proper parts - they make their own on old, rusty lathes. When I discover another broken sub-frame bolt from my ride in Mongolia, they machine a new one from an otherwise useless chunk of steel.  Drowning me in hospitality, they've taken to calling me the Siberian Viking.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 76-7

[Biggles]

I’ve been warned that friendly country cops turn aggressive as you near Moscow, demanding money after flagging down speeding motorists.  In preparation for foreigners, they've learned to make commands in English: pay up or else.  No one wants to find out what "or else" means.  The only way to know for sure would be to call their bluff. In 60, 000 miles of Third World shakedowns, the most I've surrendered is a pair of scratched-up Korean sunglasses in Peru.  Despite numerous Russian speed traps, I am determined to maintain that record.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 78

[Biggles]

After the first straightaway, blowing off a string of lumbering big rigs, a lone highway cop holding a radar gun steps from the shoulder, pointing his red reflector paddle directly at me.  I've been gambling all day, ignoring them, pretending not to notice, but my luck was sure to run out eventually. Although unarmed, the cops could have radios with them to notify comrades ahead of a belligerent speeder.  This time there is no way around the man in the roadway - I rein the Beast to a halt. As he fixates on the California license plate, I blurt out in rapid-fire English, "Howdy, how's it going? Can you tell me how to get to Poland from here?"
He goes on the defensive. "Ni panimah" I don't understand.  I continue sputtering nonsense until he regains his footing, demanding "Documenkis!"
He points to the blinking red numbers on his radar gun and then growls at me. "You!"
Showing him my watch I say, "Oh how interesting, is that a clock like this.  He holds out his hand. Rubbing his thumb and index fingers together, he hisses, "Muneeeee."
More babbling about Poland and pointing to the sky taxes his patience as I refuse to admit understanding a single word. Exasperated and convinced a shakedown is futile, he says in Russian, "Never mind just get out of here and slow down."
I smile and say "Spa cee bah." (Thank you). His head whips around and with a glare of suspicion he says, "I thought you didn't speak Russian.  I cover my tracks with a big stupid smile, "Pree vee et, pree vee et, spa cee bah, spa cee bah" (Hello, hello, thank you, thank you).
Aware he's been had, he reluctantly lets me go.  His time is better spent squeezing speeding drivers of expensive German cars.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 78-9

[Biggles]

The Czech Republic is a well-kept secret for motorcycling.  Fresh asphalt roads slice through thick-forested scenery with plenty of quaint cafe stops for delicious local food at half the cost of most of Europe.  Czechs cook like the French, organize like Germans and greet like Mexicans.  Avoiding touristy Prague, I stop in a medieval stone block village just on the outskirts.  Podebrady, population 15,000, is an orderly town plucked straight from the last century, with prices to match.  Twenty bucks a night for a mini-suite, color tv and a desktop computer with free high-speed Internet.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 86

[Biggles]

A darkening overcast sky cools the landscape with mist as early evening fog creeps in mischievously to alter the odds for motorcycle riders. Against piercing headlight glare, streams of water droplets form sparkling cobwebs on my face shield, making me drowsy. Mesmerized by blinding smoky white, the second I forget caution, the looming back end of a big rig instantly zooms into view.
Stomping the brake and squeezing the hand lever almost hard enough to snap, the abs kicks on with a klicketyy-klickety abrasive motion. Bright red lights approaching too fast is a familiar panic scenario for unfortunate motorcyclists in the sphincter-puckering moment before we know we're going down. Regrets flash as blazing neon- what was I doing out here at night? The rain-slicked road loses the battle of friction as the front wheel of the Blue Beast bites into the asphalt, barely tapping the steel fangs of the truck s under carriage bar.
Spared without reason, I release a breath, fighting the shakes as the sinister square ghost chugs eerily back into the With a shakey smile, I acknowledge the mercy of the Travel Gods once more and search for somewhere to sleep.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 99