Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

In a picture of him [the author's father] sitting on the Harley, he's garbed in heavy boots, khakis, a tight fitting white t-shirt and leather gloves. His hair is slicked back and he's wearing cool aviator shades, and no helmet.
He's also wearing a grin from ear to ear.
Turned out flying the Harley was more dangerous than B-17's and one day he almost ended up dead. A truck ran a stop sign and he laid it down, sliding underneath the trailer the truck was towing and coming out the other side. He was lucky to be alive and pretty banged up and woke up in the hospital. That was the end of his riding career, and makings of his decision as long as his boy lived under his roof, the word on motorcycles would be "no". We all make our choices, but too bad in a way about the one he made. I never saw him grin in life like he did in that picture.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p2

[Biggles]

"Uncle Bernie, that is so neat-o!" It had a headlight and speedometer with little jewel like indicator lights, deeply ribbed black rubber hand grips and it was about the right size for me. If I was drooling, Bernie was kind enough not to point it out. "How fast does it go?" Then as now, speed was under my skin and still all these years later, this question is the first I think of when looking at a bike. "Aw, I dunno. Not very.” Bernie stood there, a big easy-going hulk of a man with his thumbs in his two front belt loops. He looked like he'd swallowed a whole watermelon, so distinct was his pot belly. It pushed his suspenders out to the sides. "Y’all want to ride it?"
Oh golly. That's all it took and Bernie leaped to hero status. A halo radiated around his old baseball capped head. A rush of excitement ran through me. All of a sudden I needed to pee.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p3

[Biggles]

Will and Janet were working construction. I'd known Will on the periphery for a couple of years. He was a big jolly Buddha of a guy, tattooed and pierced and a colossal character. He had a sense of humour that would go way out there and come circling back around with everyone laughing until their sides hurt. He and Janet had had his and hers Harleys for years and one day they decided they'd had enough of the studded leather scene and traded them in on his and hers Vespa scooters. One baby blue and one powder pink, It takes a big man to walk a small dog. It takes an even bigger man to ride a powder blue Vespa. I bet Will had no problem carrying Janet's purse when required. The two of them created quite a stir when they would tear off in duelling ding-ding-ding two stroke engine racket and clouds of blue smoke.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p16

[Biggles]

On the return leg of a trip to the east coast, one cold grey Sunday morning I was filling up the R12 at a station in farm country near Gilman, Illinois. Two guys riding tricked out Harley choppers had pulled off to the side. They came clinking and clanking over for a chat and to check out the bike. They were local to the area and their bikes were suited only for short rides. Even though they were only twenty five miles from home they had a third companion driving the pickup. BMWs by the way come with a three year road side assistance policy. Harley's come with a pickup truck. (Sorry, couldn't help it.) When they saw the New Mexico plate I had instant big cred.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p26

[Biggles]

The next morning riding the To The Sun Road across Glacier and then south though Kalispell was the turning point in the trip, I was now homeward bound. I spent the night in Missoula and had the R80's oil changed at the local BMW shop. Showrooms at BMW dealerships are the ultimate candy stores. There sat a new R1100RS, a radical design departure for BMW and a beautiful bike, this one was black. I could feel the Visa card in my pocket getting hot as the bike sang the siren's song. I didn't want the R80 to catch me lusting for it. You don't want your bike getting put off with you - ever.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p43

[Biggles]

"What will this cost?
“You will of course pay for the parts.'
I stammered out some objection. "No. You will work along side of me, but there will be no charge for labour."
"TJ. I need to pay you something for this." He thought about this for a moment., and said, "Some day you will know someone who will need help. Help them. That will be my only pay. This was the end of any negotiation. I stood there flabbergasted. And relieved. TJ went on. "Further, you will not ride this motorcycle back to Santa Fe. If that bearing seizes, the rear wheel will lock and you will go over the bars. You will ride my motorcycle home tonight and use it as if it was yours while we are working on
your bike." Another foregone conclusion.
I'd known TJ for about a half hour and he was handing me the keys to his bike. There are occurrences in life, you never know when or where they will come, that change the way you see, the way you are, forever. TJ opened a door. With no special effort on my part life has since included giving and receiving on a greater level than I could have imagined.
Only some of it's been around motorcycles.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p50-1

[Biggles]

One of the good days I was carving the High Road to Taos. Curves, hills, no cages, snow capped mountains off in the distance, on the gas and in the groove. Rpm's rising and falling with perfect shifts. The bellowing exhaust note. Who cares about chicken strips? This was heaven! In Taos I stopped for gas. The station was busy. The Ducati was beautiful, that luscious coat of red paint, the bronze painted frame and wheels, gold anodized brake and suspension components, black carbon fibre mud guards and clutch cover. And of course me, stud guy in all black leathers standing there filling the tank. And this beautiful young woman walks by and smiles that kind of smile where the whole world lights up and she says, "Nice bike.”
Looking back, if I were half as intelligent as I would like to think I am, I would have dropped down on one knee right then and there and proposed marriage. And not taken no for an answer. But instead the best I could manage was squeak, "thanks." And she and her bottle of Gatorade got in her Toyota 4 Runner and were history. Damn! OK, the next time that happens I'm proposing marriage.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p64-5

[Biggles]

The weather was mixed, and climbing into the Diamond Mountains I ran into a snow storm, it was coming down so hard and so fast, before I knew it the road was covered and there was no traffic to make tracks. I turned back. Now I was riding on snow. Like grease. I could make only the lightest inputs into the controls, picking my way down the mountain switchbacks I reached a relatively level spot and coasted to a stop. Crashing the bike was an issue but of greatest concern was faster traffic coming up behind and in the almost zero visibility not being able to slow quickly enough to avoid tail ending me.
Pulling off to the side and coming to a stop, shutting down the bike in a full on snowstorm fifty miles out in the middle of Nevada desert with visibility so low I had no idea what my surroundings were, I felt exceedingly small. It was huge out there. And save for the slight hiss of the snow hitting the ground, quiet. I considered pitching my tent and crawling into my sleeping bag and waiting it out, but the duration the severity of the storm were unknowns. Falling asleep and freezing to death was a real possibility.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p79-80

[Biggles]

It had to be either Ernest Shackleton or some motorcyclist  who said,  "Adventure is  duress  seen in retrospect." So, if our adventure experiences are so unpleasant, why do we seek them?
My friend Ben and I were having a beer at a local watering hole. Ben is a Master Technician for BMW, a quiet unassuming guy who is way beyond what any certification can attest to. Ben is a master craftsman and mechanic, one of the three. We got talking about why we do this thing called motorcycling.
We determined it all comes down to survival of the fittest, or more immediately, mating. Going back to when the guy who had the skills and accepted the greatest risk came home with the biggest one, more or less. The good provider naturally gets the girl. Of course he may die in the process, but all going to die in the process, which helps get the proper perspective on risk tolerance. So, in terms motorcycling if you make it through some nasty weather this is good. If you make it through a hurricane this must be better, right? Go out and ride, and bring it on Mother Nature. You basically go through hell, but come home with tales of adventure and get the girl (giving her a gift item helps). Either that or she looks at you like you're completely out of your tree and decides to have nothing to do with you. She goes for the guy who brings home thrilling tales of high adventure with his
actuarial tables.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p89

[Biggles]

Then, of course every once in a while the adventure is fun. Imagine! A few years ago, on the second day of a ride to Michigan's Upper Peninsula, I rode Route 191 from Vernal, Utah to Rock Springs, Wyoming. The section of the road east of Flaming Gorge in Wyoming just blew my socks off. It was getting on into early evening. The road climbs into high open range country, it is rolling hills with long views all around. It was late May and must have been a wet spring. It was lush, grasses were tall and thick and green and bursting with life. The sun was going down and I had the place to myself. Rolling along on the BMW, I carved into big sweeping curves one after another. Low golden sunlight streaked across the land, making the greens more intense. The temperature was dropping and the air was full of evening dampness and grass smells. Sublime. In Rock Springs I checked into a motel, and went out for some dinner feeling so alive I could barely contain it. It was a high that briefly put me in the middle of what it's all about.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p90-1

[Biggles]

I was dreading a little jog to the south in my route. It would be eleven miles of crosswind hell. And taking that turn, indeed hell came with thick black dust, once rich topsoil blowing off plowed fields reducing visibility to where I could only hope nothing would pop into my way too late. I put the headlight onto high beam and was glad to be running an illegal but effective 100 watt lamp. If anyone was coming the other way at least there was a chance they'd see me coming. I was one happy camper coming to the end of my southward run. I turned east and pressed on to Watertown, my destination for the night.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p93

[Biggles]

Eight or ten miles down the road Mo had pulled over and shut down the R6. He was off the bike and had his helmet off and was ogling over this hot rocket. It took me a while to catch up. Eventually I pulled over next to him. His eyeballs were like white china saucers with big lurid silver blue whirlpools in them. He had that silly grin and handed me the keys.
Waving his arms around, "I gotta stay away from that thing. Holy shit, it goes SO fast SO easily! I'm slicing along and look at the speedo and I'm doing a hundred!"
He collected himself as I was pulling off my helmet.  "What did you think of the Harley?" He was all proud and grins.
"Well Mo," I said, "if what you want is a cross between a motorcycle and a farm implement it's nice.” The poor guy's face dropped. After that whenever the opportunity presented itself he gave me generous rations of shit about my bikes. And I deserved every bit of it.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p106-7

[Biggles]

Cars just sit there when you stop. A bike at least has the inherent decency, the instability if you do nothing when you stop to fall over. So, in this most basic way a bike requires your participation to make it work, that is, stick your foot out. And from this point forward a bike demands a lot more from you than a car. Bikes will always be more challenging to operate than cars, especially to operate well.
Cars are containers. You get in a car, you get on a bike. The confines of a car isolate you from your surroundings, the windshield becomes a frame and thus the outside world becomes a movie-like abstraction. On a bike you are directly in the environment. Heat, cold, wet and dry are experienced and responded to directly. You respectively sweat, shiver, swear and smile. There is no frame to constrict the view. In a car your surroundings are designed to be functional and comfortable and impress your girlfriend. Or boyfriend. On a bike your surroundings are the whole wide outside world. Thank you Mother Nature, who was busy in the environmental design studio long before cars were even a glimmer in Adam's eye.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p134

[Biggles]

My mouth went dry as I threw my leg over her massive bulk and settled into the seat. Her frame had been built around mine- it was like putting on a tailored smoking jacket in a gentleman's club for sociopaths. But I had no fear of consequences, none at all. Steve strapped the red emergency stop cord to my wrist and flipped up the three bright red switch covers concealing the fuel pump start, fuel management module and the engine start button. He primed the throttle and flicked the first two switches and the bike whirred, the digital instrument cluster blinking to life, tiny bulbs glowing green and needles jumping to indicate fuel and oil pressure, battery levels, engine temp, oil temp, engine revs and speed. He looked directly at me, grabbing the sides of my helmet: 'Push it.'
I nodded, looked down over the metre-wide front end surrounded by a massive green fairing, inside a cockpit of lights, gauges and switches. Fear suddenly rose up into my throat.
Before it reached my head I pushed the engine start button and she barked, shuddering alive with that unmistakeable diesel rumble.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p48-9

[Biggles]

I tuned into the sound of her engine as my right hand rolled the throttle back and my left released the clutch. She pulled hard, rolling forward and gathering speed much faster than I'd expected. I slipped down and back into the seat base and let my feet find the pegs. Laying my chest down over the front end, I focused on the horizon and popped her into second. She was smooth and accelerating as fast as my regular bikes do.
Third gear at 2500 rpm and 100 kph dead straight no problems, I cruised to the end of the track and discovered she has the turning circle of a battleship. The wind gusts had been picking up and I was very conscious of them and the wet track, but the bike was just so big and heavy it reassured me, so by the time I'd gone down the track four times I was ready to see just how fast we could go.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p49-50

[Biggles]

The first orange traffic cone was coming up fast; I held the throttle open although everything told me not to, glanced down, passing 170 kph.
I don't know what the odds are, you tell me, on a windy, rainy day, but right at that moment, not one but two eagles decided to fly across the track at head height.
I pinged the movement in my line of sight, stopped my brain from making my reflexes roll off the throttle, and smashed on. At that speed hitting an eagle wasn't going to make any difference, it was all in the hands of the gods now.
Bird one didn't see me hammering at him but bird two did; he slammed on the brakes, looking for height, while I passed through the gap between them. The funny thing is, when I tell friends these sort of stories, as I've always done, they invariably say, 'Bullshit' then 'Did you get a photo?'
Well, this time I did; one of the guys was snapping away and the moment was caught on camera.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p50-1

[Biggles]

My ride back was interrupted by the metabolic chain reaction of riding a fast but homemade experimental motorcycle down a racetrack after consuming a dodgy curry the night before, followed by coffee. As I leant forward to lie over the fuel tank, my brain put a bit too much effort into getting the gear changes right and forgot to maintain the clench and I passed what felt like a gram of gas. No problem, I thought, I can make it to the pits, get my leathers off and find a toilet before I lose my arse. Then it hit me. The tiny fart had expanded into a cubic metre of horrendous air that rose sharply up through my leathers and filled my helmet. I gagged, my eyes stung, the bike was passing 160 kph, I sat up and flipped open my visor in a desperate effort to breathe fresh air, nearly crashing when the wind hit my open lid and tried to rip my head off my shoulders.
Pulling up fast I leapt off, handed the bike to the boys and ran off pointing at the toilet block. Our bike passed the shakedown with flying colours, so did my curry.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p71-2

[Biggles]

[Back in Perth] There was only one hitch: we had to put the bikes in crates. So I called the companies that make crates to order, but there was either no time, no response to messages or no actual sense of effort. That meant I was going to have to build the crates myself. Erwin called me from a rig somewhere in the South China Sea while I was on my way to the timber yard to ask how it was all panning out. I got as far as explaining the crates when he laughed. Shit, Pauli, you're a dumb arse,' said the man who was, to me, like a brother, mentor, friend and Yoda.
'Well, bugger you, too, champ!” I barked.
He chuckled, which annoyed me even more. 'What kind of bike is Diego riding?'
'A new BMW 650 Tourer,' I replied curtly.
'Mate, call up the Harley and BMW dealers in Perth and ask for a shipping crate. I guarantee they'll have crates out the back purpose-built for both your bikes.'
And this is why the man is a legend.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p88

[Biggles]

Showered up and happy, I was back out the front or the motel, just checking out the scene while I waited for Diego- it was party time now and the street was packed with punters.
Then I saw him running towards me like someone just stole the family empanada recipe. 'Pol, Pol .... I can't believe eet ... Eet cannot be possible .. he gasped. He was really agitated, and frantically going through his jacket pockets.
'What is it, mate?
His dark Argentinean eyes fixed on me, his expression bewildered and gutted. 'I have lost the keys to both our motorcycles.'
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p93

[Biggles]

Colin and I were no longer just two guys in a bar planning to go fast on a bike, we had morphed into a team- designers and builders of an outstanding motorcycle and everything that encompasses. But now we had to put it to the test, against the implacable speed-cubed law of drag. If you're male, you will understand the quest for more speed- as pointless an exercise as it may, perhaps, be perceived. All known barriers need to be pushed- whether it's a land-speed record at age 40 or peeing highest up the wall in the school urinal at age eight, its just the way it is.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p110-1

[Biggles]

I flipped down my visor and just hammered it as hard as I could. As she leapt through the gearbox red-lining the gear changes, I held the throttle fully open the whole time and all too soon I was reaching the point where brakes would have been applied back at Tailem Bend and it would have been over at 170 kph. But this time I had more blacktop in front of me. In fourth gear I glanced down, passing 190 kph and still pulling hard as the engine started to shriek under me, vibrations reaching a crescendo as the perimeter of the runway flickered past in a sickening blur. Her revs hit the redline again and another glance down: 200 kph. She was deafening me with noise from the darker reaches of Hades, her vibrations not letting me focus my eyes on the instruments. My peripheral vision liquefied, orange cone, orange cone ... I had two more seconds on full throttle before I had to brake.
The fear, the very real moment when I reached the braking point and passed it, tore through my mind like acid; my stomach, groin and brain had turned into stone and I could feel my heart pounding on my leathers. Then it went calm, built up to the point where speed, vibration and pressure reached a bizarre balance and for a second we were just flying on air. I was laying over the bike cocooned inside the massive front fairing, wide-eyed and high as a kite, as the end of the runway hurtled towards me at somewhere over 200 kilometres per hour.
Brake! said the voice in my helmet. She dipped down hard, the front forks bottoming out as I squeezed both front and back brakes harder and harder while the end of the runway's hold lines streaked past under my face, which was now doing Edward Munch's 'The Scream' as I desperately tried to stop the bike before we hit the end.
We stopped right on the edge.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p114-5

[Biggles]

We didn't get there in the end, though we got very close. It only we had the chance to see what this bike could do on 16 kilometres of dry salt lake, with the proper DLRA track, officials, Federation Internationale Motorcycle timing gear and everything that makes Speed Week a world-class event. For now, Corowa’s 2 kilometre main runway was ail we had, and it was over. Frustrating does not begin to describe it. I was accelerating at a rate of 2 kilometres per hour per second; all I needed was another three or four seconds.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p117

[Biggles]

The boom gate opened and we formed up in a queue waiting to enter the belly of the gargantuan ferry. While the massive line of vehicles waited to board, people got out of cars and stretched their legs, occasionally chatting with other passengers. Here we got our first look at a 'Taswegian', a species of bogan found on the Apple Isle. He emerged from a horrendously battered Kingswood that was parked next to us, wearing pyjama pants and a sauce-stained singlet, about 50, overweight; his nose alone suggested large amounts of beer were about to be consumed. He smiled and asked if we were 'goin' tourin'.
Diego froze in complete astonishment before glancing at me.
'Yup,' I replied and smiled.
'First time to Tasmania?' He was openly and unashamedly scratching his balls.
'Yes, we're really looking forward to it.'
He removed his hand from inside his pants and offered it up to shake, I stepped aside and deflected the shake to Diego. 'This is my friend Diego,' I said as the manky ball-sweat-stained-hand was redirected at Diego.
'George,' said the man.
Diego smiled serenely and put his gloves back on. Nice move, mate- and shook the offered hand then continued to smile and nod so much he started to look stroke victim. I pretended there was a problem with my bike and lay on the ground tinkering with it. Eventually the Taswegian went away and sat on the bonnet of his Kingswood, pulled out his false teeth and started polishing them with his singlet. Diego and I hid behind my bike, consumed with our all-important task of tinkering, while Diego whispered 'Unbelievable' and 'I have never seen anything like eet, Pol'.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p125-6

[Couch]

Soooooo...........what's all the fuss about, he was just trying to be sociable!! Like any good Taswegian would do!!

[Brock]

He had a singlet on???

Ferry crossings must be a formal occasion