Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

It s been tricky coordinating the shock absorber rebuilding process. A repair kit had to be mailed from Sweden to the local Ohlins distributor, now a bike shop with tools was needed to remove the shock. After that it had to go out to another shop for rebuilding and yet another for spring compression. But because of days off for Ramadan, a half-day job stretched into two days. Strangers wrenching on my bike to access the shock was nerve-racking to watch, especially when the mechanic who reassembled it was different from the one who initially disassembled it. Finally, after bolting the Beast back together with pliers and vice-grips, the wires were reconnected and sealed with masking tape. Life is laid-back here, and nothing stops Turks from chain-smoking, not even gasoline pouring out onto the floor from severed fuel lines.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 104

[Biggles]

Oh dear- went away for a day and didn't take my book with me, so I'll have to put up two quotes tomorrow.  Sorry   

[Diesel]

Still cleverly scored the post count though, I see!                                 

[gaz]

and i look forward to it too  :( >:(

[Biggles]

Three flights down from my tiny hotel room, the Blue Beast waits patiently for the order to ride. The destination is not important. Today, settle for anywhere, as long as I am travelling on two wheels. At last, a warm autumn wind and rushing asphalt transmit the soothing relief of the open road as I roll beyond the Istanbul city limits, heading south. After crossing the channel to Bandirma, reaching the ancient Roman city of Ephesus is a four-hour sprint over the opposite mainland and into a thousand years of history. It's hot enough to ride without a jacket, but I recall my pledge, enjoying the sweltering heat. I imagine I'm absorbing the sun’s energy like a recharging battery, storing it for the upcoming mountains. After a short search, I find a cozy hostel in Selcuk, a tree-shaded village nearly two miles beyond the best-preserved classical Roman city on the eastern Mediterranean. It's here where the apostle Paul is said to have written his profound epistle to the Ephesians.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 106

[Biggles]

Odd noises can be deceiving when travelling through metal. Even when you use a stethoscope to pinpoint them, diagnosis is difficult.  We couldn't hear the lower-end-whine at the repair center, but the BMW service manager in Istanbul decided it could be the water pump and installed a new one to be safe. Then, when the sound persisted, a new generator, hydraulic cam chain tensioner and starter were replaced. More shots in the dark. Because the grating was inconsistent and barely audible, mechanics had to regularly test ride the bike, attempting to identify the noise. After a final checkup at the shop, we determined the problem to be the small bearing in the transmission that wears prematurely when the chain is too tight. Only the bearing needed replacing, but the entire engine had to be disassembled- a three-day process. The good news was that since the bike had a record of maintenance by authorized dealers across Europe, BMW assumed responsibility and covered the cost under warranty.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 107

[Biggles]

Three weeks trapped in any capital city will drive a traveller mad. It's worse for motorcyclists, as we constantly crave the soothing winds of the open road, with an alternating landscape to ignite our passions. Waiting with nothing to do only strangles our spirits. My motorcycle parts, ordered through Turkish distributors, are somewhere between the BMW warehouse in Munich and a complicated local customs procedure that is rife with delays. Even if they arrive next week, it will take three days to rebuild the machine, which means I'll be lucky to escape Istanbul by December.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 109

[Biggles]

An empty, jagged mountainside of the rising Anatolian plateau turns into an eerie moonscape of frozen forests and white, powdery plains. As the altimeter climbs, temperatures plummet until chilling pain turns to numbness from my fingertips to my shoulders. An electric vest maintains my core heat but has no effect on a runny nose freezing to the inside of my helmet liner. Its going to be a long two days through a high-altitude glacial odyssey. Savage headwinds bite through thick nylon and five layer thermals, gnawing their way from my legs to my lower torso. The Pillsbury Doughboy under siege. Icy elements relentlessly hammer and tear, chipping away barriers to hypothermia. If I can keep organs warm, another hundred miles is possible, but with the sun behind the clouds, odds shift. At 45-minute intervals I must stop to stomp my feet and let the heated vest chase away shivers. Uncertainty re-emerges like a long-lost nemesis. The volatility of nature reinforces the idea of fate, I think to myself, as the ferocity of adventure returns, like plunging into a raging sea. With a wry smile, once again I hum Willie's tune "On the Road Again.'
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 112

[Biggles]

The crossing from Turkey to Syria today only takes two hours. The cost is 40 dollars for insurance and road tax and 10 more to bribe fake immigration inspectors before being released into a flowing demolition derby.  Turks are timid drivers compared to Syrians.  The 30 mile terror ride in the dark to Aleppo is only a peek at what else is in store.  There are too many near-death experiences to consider recounting.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p  p 114

[Biggles]

At a downtown restaurant, locals crowding around my table exchanging small talk was normal. And who would have suspected a diversion to block a line of sight to my bike, which was quietly being stripped of its vital driving lights? Because the danger factor increases tenfold after dark, I try not to ride at night. When poor timing dictates the need, auxiliary lights brighten inky nights, making a significant safety difference. But as I said yesterday when someone stole my water bottles and this morning when the chain lube disappeared- what the heck, turn the page. Let's only count the good times.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 115

[Biggles]

When it come to adventure travel, you can't take a wrong turn- a thought shared simultaneously by both parties when I meet a young backpacking British woman touring the ruins of Petra. She, weary of advances from optimistic teenage Arab boys, and I, lonesome for a woman's touch, seem a good match. Neither of us requires convincing. Doubling-up on a motorcycle can be crowded, but Barbara's warm, little body fits perfectly between the small of my back and her rucksack strapped to the motorcycle tail rack. Because the load is awkward, it is understood that when we encounter pockets of deep sand she will climb off and walk while I spin through, wrestling to the other side.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 121-2

[Biggles]

Each of the first ten checkpoints are five miles apart and require delays while soldiers radio behind and ahead, confirming I am continuing north.  But the further from Luxor I get, the less authorities understand the situation.  Finally, one soldier flatly insists I accept a military escort.  It's useless to argue as armed men clamber aboard sputtering old pickup trucks, eager to protect me from whatever happened a few years ago.
A long-dreamed-about sunset on the Nile is reduced to a muddy glow through a translucent glaze of bug guts on my visor while I'm in a 30 mile-per-hour procession of wailing sirens and flashing blue lights.  An hour later, I am delivered to a local hotel sealed off by soldiers and ordered not to leave. This time they are serious.
"Can I at least go out for Internet?"
An overcautious captain worries for my safety. "No, the manager has agreed to let you use his."
At sunrise, a new game ensues.  At their pace, it will take days to reach Cairo, so when they assign new escorts at checkpoints, I quickly ditch them at traffic snarls.  Freedom is brief but delicious. Annoyed by my antics but friendly to a fault, soldiers at the following road-blocks patiently plead that I wait for new escorts.
Recognizing the overkill, still, no one wants to accept responsibility for mishaps, so they all do as they are told.  But even when they sometimes catch up with me, the sternest commanders break into toothy smiles when I pull off my helmet, laughing.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 130

[Biggles]

The quickest way to meet fellow motorcyclists when you're travelling to experience a problem.  It seldom takes more than minutes for local riders on bikes or in cars to spot a brother down and stop to offer assistance.  Flat tires and empty fuel tanks can occur anywhere, but bikers in distress don't wait long.
Drive chains and rear-wheel sprockets are high-wear items that eventually need replacement.  If we pay attention, half-worn sprockets can be unbolted and reversed to extend their life.  For unknown reasons, the teeth on mine went from starting-to-wear to full-blown fishhook-shapes in 100 miles.
Complications never occur when convenient- only in the rain or on a desert road after dark. In this case, it was both. Motorcyclists learn to constantly listen for unusual clinks, sputters or metallic grating noises that alert us to impending mechanical failure. There is usually a warning just prior to a final snap. So when my engine RPMs abruptly increased and the bike immediately slowed, it was obvious the rear chain had jumped off the worn-out sprocket teeth.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 152

[Biggles]

Even with a discount on the brake pads and rear sprocket, the prices are outrageous.  But Nadav says, "Don't worry, we'll handle maintenance on the house." With that, two technicians spend the next hour inspecting my bike for other potential problems.  There are another 6,000 miles ahead through Pakistan, India and Nepal, where there are no parts or mechanics familiar with BMW.  Nadav, concerned about this, gives me personal contact information in case I need help. Although long-riders don't take this kind of hospitality for granted, we're accustomed to the brotherhood of motorcycle riders.  We may be from different countries and cultures, but when it comes to our passion, we all speak the same language.  As others in the world bicker among themselves, those in the biking community are anxious to meet and lend a hand.  One more reason to believe there is no better way to experience the world than on two wheels.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 153

[Biggles]

Although India is supposed to be worse, there's no way to describe how bad driving is in southern Pakistan.  At dusk, the road transforms from semi-organized double-lane pavement to a death- wish bumper-car ride to hell on a single strip of dirt and mud travelled in both directions simultaneously- with no one using their brakes.  It's hard to believe what's happening.  Riding on the out-skirts of Karachi had put me on edge, but now I can only gasp in apprehension.  The last four hours have turned into a suicide ride by collision-seeking demons determined to meet Allah.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 169-170

[Biggles]

Ignoring shouts from soldiers waving their arms, I rocket past flashing blue lights, looking straight ahead.  Aware that capture is inevitable, nothing matters except this joyous dash from the chaos. I unleash the ponies anyway and soar onto the seamless tarmac of heaven, followed by crying  sirens and highway police in hot pursuit.  Troopers approach.
"From which country do you travel?"
"Hello my name is Glen, how are you? I come from California."
After accepting stupid-foreigner excuses for not seeing them, we engage in amiable debate why it's unsafe for motorcycles on a super-highway.
"We are responsible for your safety Mr. Glen and you must return to the small road." Realizing the flaws in their argument, we reach a compromise.
"We will please to honour you for tonight at our camp.  You can sleep there.  And as you wish, you may demand our service to you.  We will prepare meals according to your satisfaction." Thirty minutes later, chicken and rice is served in a chilly but empty 20-bed dormitory, followed by photos and tea with the commander.  In the morning, there is a timid knock at sunrise.  The soft-eyed police sergeant from last night is holding a tray.
"We have prepared for you these boiled eggs and hope they are to your acceptance." The recital continues. "It gives us pleasure that you restored your sleep and we have prepared to escort you to the small road."
As for me, I am almost to the place to which I am going.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 172

[Biggles]

The roads are as terrifying as promised but not as death-defying as the ride from Karachi.  Warned of the touts and thieves in Delhi's motorcycle district, I've prepared for the worst. 
Bargaining down prices for new driving lights from ten dollars to nine was easy, witnessing the installation was priceless.  Preferring my own hands, one other than Jimmy or white-smocked BMW techs should touch the Beast.  But how bad could someone err bolting on lights and attaching two wires?  Determined to impress the foreigner, ten pairs of oily hands compete to tape connections and reroute electronics until neither the horn nor ignition function.  Finally, one light shines up and the other straight down- "That's okay Mr. Glen, better to see the trees and watch the front tire."
It was useless trying to explain why wiring should be tucked away neatly; they were far too proud to be corrected.  Everything could be reassembled later when no one was looking. 
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 178

[Biggles]

Indians are the most curious people yet.  Within moments of stopping, mobs of inquisitive black-haired natives gather for a lengthy interrogation. "From which country are you?" "What is your good name sir?"  Scooter riders flatter,  "Your motorbike is looking very graceful today."  While testing the throttle and brakes, all the switches must be flipped by the crowd as they take turns trying on my helmet.  The rest is standard talk about cost, speed, mileage, the number of gears and how long I've been on the road.  None understand ABS brakes or a bike with electronic fuel injection.  Strict protectionist Indian legislation prohibits imported cars.  Foreign brands must be manufactured in India, so they are unaware of the latest technology.  Few have even heard of BMW automobiles, let alone seen intergalactic-looking motorcycles with big aluminium boxes packed with unimagined items.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 179-180

[Biggles]

It's usually best to wade in first with a long probing stick, but sunset was fast approaching.  Tired of waiting for someone to appear who might know exactly where to cross, I rolled the dice. 
Halfway across, the bottom was still visible until I abruptly hit a pothole, sinking the Blue Beast instantly to mid-tank level and over the top of the seat.  A wet body is manageable; a wet intake manifold is not.  Engine air snorkels on BMW Dakars are purposely set high for this reason, to facilitate river crossings in up to three feet of slow-moving water.  Turning around midstream was not an option, and with fifty feet left there is no way for me to tell if the bottom dropped further or sloped up to a welcome climb out.
As chilly water gushed into my boots, I nudged the bike fast enough to stay upright yet slow enough to keep fluid from flowing into the snorkel.  The strategy was complicated by the need to stay prepared to squeeze the clutch if the motor coughed. Sucking water into a running engine is a bad idea under any circumstances, but out here in the boondocks at sunset- it could be a big issue.  To my relief, a gradual incline led to higher ground.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 189

[Biggles]

I awakened to the tantalizing call of the mighty Himalayas.  Formed by colliding tectonic plates 60 million years ago, the windswept, icy peaks are still on the rise, six inches a year.
That notion alone has me giddy with anticipation of soaring through mountain curves until sundown.  The asphalt is wavy but smooth, and at long last empty straightaways provide welcome room for the Blue Beast to stretch its legs.  Once I've overtaken convoys of tanker trucks, a steady spiral upwards from the Indian plains leads into forested foothills of Everest.
Boasting some of the best scenery in Asia, Nepal is home to 10 of the 14 highest mountains on earth.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 205

[Biggles]

Covering a 30-mile shortcut to the main highway consumes four hours, but, from that junction, riding becomes an eardrum-popping soar into the mountainous mist of the towering Himalayas.  Commercial traffic is confined to tightly packed, chugging convoys of diesel trucks, while speeding local motorcyclists haul colourfully dressed Nepali women sitting sidesaddle.  Corroded electrical connections have rendered my GPS useless, and there is no English on the road signs.  But after concerns that I'll be travelling past dark, the rust-tiled rooftops of Kathmandu soon poke upwards into the radiant skyline.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 208

[Biggles]

And there is no forgetting the 20-year-old Dutch girl who had been backpacking solo across southern India when it struck her that two-wheels was more challenging.  Nine riding lessons later, she was en route to Kathmandu on her first motorcycle- alone.  The last I saw of her, in a Thamel District backstreet hostel, she was double-checking her saddlebags, heading for Tibet.
World motorcycle travel is nothing new.  Swilling down Indian beers in a Chitwan Park cafe, an 82-year-old Scotsman recounted his adventure of 1956, riding from Sri Lanka to London on a German- built 49CC one-half horsepower scooter- cruising at a thumping 22 miles per hour.  His mesmerizing tale prompted obvious questions: "Tell me sir, do you ever miss the two-wheeled thrill?"
"Aye, that I do, I do. That's why I've rode 'ere now on me bicycle!"
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 216

[Biggles]

At that time, big-bore bikes were illegal in Thailand, so I shipped a 1985 Yamaha V-Max from California to Penang, Malaysia, to sneak across the border along a notorious smuggling route. Off I rode, using gas station maps written in unfamiliar languages while gawking at road signs trying to memorize their mystifying symbols.  A purple metal-flake helmet kept most of the wicked monsoon rains at bay, and a small set of throw-over nylon saddlebags held an extra set of dry clothes and canned food.  Spare parts were unavailable.
Fast forward into the cyber-age, where long-riders can remain in constant contact with each other - ahead or behind, with hardly a week passing without an exchange of message of some kind.  Using Internet connections in major cities, we can update each other on border problems, road conditions and civil disturbances.  Yet even with the high-tech advantages, there're still enough unknowns to keep the journey challenging.  Almost every developing nation is in turmoil and subject to sudden violence from rebels or governments.  Bridges and roads still wash out, while earthquakes, typhoons or equipment failures always arrive when least expected.  Still, alien cultures and fascinating traditions continue to dazzle even the most experienced wanderer.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 225-6

[Biggles]

Several days past our last communication, while cutting through an arcade parking lot, a long-haired man with a Canadian accent steps in front of my bike. "Glen Heggstad! Striking Viking! It's me - Art Kernaghan!"  We spent the next few hours like old friends, ranting about recent routes and adventures.
I tried hard not laugh when I saw the $150 clanker he'd been riding from Saigon.  Guided by the sympathetic hands of fate, this young man from Toronto had somehow passed through the twisting mountains of Laos into the Land of Smiles.  Grinning with pride, he stood chest-out, displaying his smoking two-stroke 12 horsepower 125CC sputtering weed-whacker on two wheels.  Motorcyclists call these wheezing rattletraps Rat Bikes.
On one side of the bike, village-made steel racks supported a plastic beer crate packed with tools and spare parts, while on the other, a backpack was held firm with overstretched bungee cords.  Oil seeped from gaskets, a red taillight lens was taped on and a dimly lit headlight only functioned some of the time.  He explained that most of the flickering electronics on the bike had been "sorted out" and that the dubiously thin cables should hold.  In a grimy Vietnamese bike shop, one American dollar bought a new clutch, a few more to straighten bent forks and purchase two locally manufactured tires that might last if he kept the speed down.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 226-7

[Biggles]

Depressed and alone, he'd throw up his arms in defeat.  And until stopping to speak with other Western travellers, he'd been headed back to Vietnam to fly home.  But roving Australian strangers had provided much-needed inspiration. "Never give up mate - keep riding.  You don't need anyone but yourself."
Art's destination is south and mine north, but we're having so much fun exploring the spices of Thai nightlife, we opt to zigzag together for a while. Side by side, we growl and sputter amid blue plumes of wing-ding-ding-ding through bustling city streets at a rampaging 20 miles per hour...
The fact that he made it this far is astounding; that he’s continuing, oblivious to the potential mishaps is admirable. To Art Kernaghan, the glass is always half full.  Defying the laws of physics, he bobs and weaves across Thailand with inspired determination and blind faith. He can make it because he believes he can.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 227-8