Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Couch]

They are Brock, we always dress up for the occasion, it was obviously a night crossing that's why he would have had his pyjama's on!

[Brock]

 

[Biggles]

George Town offered up a warm fire, awesome hospitality and contented stomachs. Fully fuelled we consulted our map and hit the bikes. We skimmed along empty roads in a state of bliss, stopping again at Bridport, hitting some unsealed road and getting it a bit sideways on the way round, then joining up to the main road, the A3, that plugged us into St Helens for lunch and a brief game of 'Spot the Local'. Then it was back up in another big dogleg after Fingal towards the silly but fun part of the day called 'Jacobs Ladder'. This involved a world-class blat through Ben Lomond National Park; some of it was blacktop and some of it was dirt, all of it was fun. The Ladder is a curious succession of six very steep switchback hairpin climbing turns that slither up the side of the formidably wet and Scottish-looking Ben Lomond. Going off the edge of the ladder was a frightening prospect; any mistake would result in a proper caber toss into a red stain at the bottom, so we took it nice and easy to the top. Sufficiently ready to call it a day, we headed to Launceston for the night having done just over 500 ks since we landed.
Diego had it all worked out. 'I've booked us a bakery," he said, beaming. I debated whether I should ask for an explanation then decided just to go with it.
Although I have not yet fallen at the altar of Apple and am able to say ‘There's an app for that' while someone is talking about hippo mud wrestling, I'm not too proud to admit I was glad Diego had an iPhone. When the sun is going down and you're getting cold and tired on a bike rolling down a random street in a strange town with no information and no plan, that phone is a crackerjack piece of kit.
We pulled up at the rear car park, checked into bakery (converted into a very nice hotel) and enjoyed another great meal. I fell asleep to the sound of rain on the tin roof and thoughts of home.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p134-5

[Biggles]

'Well, it would have been in the 60s. Dad was flying Javelins, I believe.'
He smiled. 'Wonderful aircraft. So is he a bike nut, too?'
I laughed. 'Mad for them, cost him dearly, though.' I went on, 'He got smashed in the officers' mess one day and on a dare tried to ride his bike right through the bar ...
Jethro sat forward, his face lit up and to my complete surprise finished the story off. 'He rode up the steps to the entrance, paused on the nice clean red carpet that ran the entire length of the hall, dropped the clutch and sat there pissed while the long red carpet was hurtled out the door under the spinning wheel. He runs out of carpet, the back wheel hits floorboards, flipping his Vincent up into a trophy cabinet, then bursts into flames and the whole bloody place nearly goes up- your dad's a legend.' I was speechless that Jethro knew the story which I had grown up with.
'You know, that bike is mounted on the wall behind now. I used to stand there with a pint looking at it.'
Now I was really stunned; my dad's bike decorating a bar, that I did not know.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p141-2

[Biggles]

The asphalt gods were good to us that morning, the beautiful green undulating hills revealing picture-postcard town after town with names like Snug, Flowerpot and Woodstock. The road, however, was the opposite of its laidback sleepy surrounds; it was draped like a discarded black necktie over the landscape, serious aggressive riding; as soon as you're out of a blind turn you're already setting up and looking for your exit from the next one. Concentration on the relentless corners should be forcing you to slow down and enjoy the surrounds a bit more. Instead we opted for the riding experience, though we did stop at every town to take a look and almost every town had something interesting to look at as well as the occasional tourist coach to avoid slamming into the back of. It was a weird time of year to tour Tasmania, in between the energetic grey nomad ramblers of summer and the winter walkers.
As we hit the bottom of this little cape, the road offered up wonderful sweeping seaside corners that gave a visual all-clear for any other traffic and an open invitation to lay the bike over, drop a gear and use the whole road to take it as fast as you can. And that's where the local police will nab your arse for speeding, lesson learnt. Speeding fine neatly folded in my wallet and a friendly wave from the cop who just blew my beer money, we mooched along well under the limit back up the other side of the cape till we hit the A6 at Huonville, turned left and tracked down to Southport. I started thinking about the endless choices for dinner; the food was good, really good here. Progress was stress-free, and we had plenty of time to admire the views.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p146-7

[Biggles]

Last night over a counter meal at the bar- after I'd explained to the locals that we're not a gay couple, but if we were I'd be the man gay because I don't eat quiche I eat egg-and-bacon pie, and I'm not wearing a cravat- Diego and I looked at the map and decided to ride directly across Tasmania from right to left, so that was the plan for the day: head out from St Helens straight across to Queenstown with a dip down to Melton Mowbray in the middle.
I had time for a quick shower and to get my gear and I was out the front in fifteen, then had a few more minutes to warm up my bike while Diego did his legover and mounted his. We fuelled up and blazed our way south, criss-crossing the landscape as the sun slowly warmed the earth. As usual there was no one else on and we took it in turns to lead through k after k of increasingly faster bends, cutting our way through the patchwork of lime green and banana yellow fields to hit our lefthander at the Midland Highway and start the dogleg down to Melton Mowbray.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p156

[Biggles]

Diego came out into the sun and fired me 'Come, Pol, let us ride into the mountains.' He grinned at a random passerby, swaggered over to his bike then stopped and pointed at the road in front of him where two thick black burnt-rubber tyre marks snaked up the road courtesy of some idiotic petrol head. 'Look, Pol, ees bogan tracks,' Diego said, proudly showing off his command of the vernacular. Then he pushed his bike forward onto the road looking like a midget walking a rhino, humped his leg over it and rode off down the street.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p157-8

[Biggles]

We slid and roared into an ancient forest, shattering the silence and tearing up the dust. My bike stayed as slick and slippery as Diego in a dinner jacket and I was having a ball. We were still climbing as the woods became thick with heatless layers of light, mist and cloud evolving above the treeline, then descending past us into the folds of the valleys, filling up like a Spielberg effect below me.
We rounded another climbing lefthander side by side, then on the apex of the bend we heard it first, a residual rumble over the top of our engines, bouncing and reverberating off the forest at us. Then two massive lumber trucks, also running side by side, rounded the corner straight at us. With only seconds to react we just fluked it and made the right choices. Diego and I came together in the middle and the two trucks separated and ran the outside. Everyone entered the massive dust cloud together. The trucks made a hole, Diego and I touched elbows, gritted teeth and disappeared into it. As soon as we passed the trucks and were out the other side, we both stopped and sat there for a few moments, completely blind in a red cloud until the dust started to settle and we could actually see one another. I was about to say something but Diego just gave a mumbled shout from inside his helmet and bolted off, leaving me in another cloud. I love that crazy bastard.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p158-9

[Biggles]

Diego had noticed a sign just up the road and wandered over to take a closer look. 'Pol, how big do the kangaroos get here?' he asked, pointing at the sign.
I looked at the sign and it, combined with Diego's quizzical face distended in real concern, made me laugh. The sign was definitely not to scale and I could see how it could be confusing for a foreigner. It appeared to be saying three things to the happy motorist: first, you should be doing 65 kph; secondly, under the heading 'Wildlife', there was a visual warning of giant albino kangaroos as big as your car; and lastly that they will from 'dusk to dawn' leap out of the bush and perform a snatch-lift your front bumper. All it needed was a Monty Python foot smashing down on you as you read the sign.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p162

[STroppy]

GETTING THERE IS ONLY HALF THE FUN, AS GETTING THERE AND BACK!

[Biggles]

I woke with a start, almost rolling off the bench. Diego was snoring, his empty mug still sitting on his chest slowly I going up and down. I checked my watch; two hours had gone by, we were losing daylight fast. I gave him a shake and we both lumbered round the corner towards the bikes, only to discover two large salty-looking possums trying to hotwire my Harley.
They had already dumped the contents of one of my saddlebags on the ground and had a good look through my shaving kit, managing to also cover each other in shaving cream.
Sprung, they ran off into the trees and sat there above us, chewing on my muesli bars and smelling of lemon.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p163-4

[STroppy]

NO, LIFE ISN'T WHAT I WANTED, HAVE YOU GOT ANYTHING ELSE?

[Biggles]

I heard the car before I saw it. Sally and Simon Dominguez's battleship-sized 1979 Special Edition 'Bill Blass' Lincoln Continental. Even though they weren't deliberately driving like maniacs, the massive 21-foot- long two-door coupe’s tyres squealed like dying rabbits as they hurtled rounded the corner and pulled up in the car park grinning like a couple of outpatients. The Lincoln was all blue leather, the hula-hoop-sized steering wheel sat in front of the hilarious instrument cluster; all chrome and long with a Cartier clock at the end, it looked like my grandmother's silver service. Simon sat in the back sprawled out like a pungent bum in a leather dumpster. The car was bigger than the flat I grew up in.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p180

[STroppy]

What good is it if I talk in flowers while you listen in pastry?


When I say nothing, I don't necessarily mean nothing.

[Biggles]

'Nice lid,' he said as I bounded up the steps to his porch. 'Pity.' He gulped his coffee.
'What is?' I asked, sitting down.
'The dog's pissing in it.'
'What?'
I spun around in time to see Boston shaking off the last few drops on the rim of my upturned no-Ionger-smells-like-brand-new carbon-fibre helmet. That dog lets go like a racehorse. I spent an hour washing it out while Erwin got his bike out of storage mode. He kept laughing whenever the image of Boston popped into head. 'Sorry, mate,' he said repeatedly. 'Hows your lid?' I had finished hand-washing the liner and scrubbing out the inside, but it didn't really matter what or how much I tried. I slipped my head inside its super-light carbon Darth Vader slick cottonwool internals, and for a second everything was fine, like shoving your head into an Aston Martin's glovebox, then finding a sodden nappy in the corner.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p205-6

[Shiney]

Hi,
I just wanted to say thank you for your continued efforts Biggles, I love reading the extracts from all the books you post up for us

[Biggles]

First it was a little grunt, followed by the smell; I knew before I turned around what I was going to see. Take one post-spaghetti-bolognaise-fed toddler, place padded comfy-looking receptacle within range, in this case my clean lid sitting hollow side up and supported on all sides, for protection in transit, on top of my leathers and boots, then simply turn your back and let it happen. Sid was not wearing a nappy and, unlike his sister who was very good at announcing her intentions, he simply gave you a three-second warning before he defecated on the spot. So we always had his potty within his window, but this time his potty was not in the garage, so he just improvised and went ahead and backed one out in my lid. 'Daddy, ka ka,' his little voice came seconds later. I turned around and, yes, there he was, bless him.
i didn't react, I just picked him up and carried him into the bathroom and cleaned him up. We walked back down to the garage together and he went quietly back to playing with my socket set while I dropped a thousand dollars of carbon-fibre helmet into a plastic bag and threw it in the bin.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p221-2

[Biggles]

Next was scrutineering or tech inspection, where the DLRA officials make sure that your vehicle is good to go. The rulebook is thick and very detailed so this isn't a hasty process. I jumped on the bike and rode it over to the three-lane queue forming for inspection. The vehicles that started lining up looked incredible and their noise alone vibrated right through my body: fully retro-styled hotrods, cigar-tube Lakesters with mirror-polished giant wheels jutting out that looked like full-size 1950s toy cars, the full spec Streamliners ready to push 300 mph, a Jaguar E type and an XJS, a 356 Porsche Speedster-  there was even an old split-windscreen Volkswagen Kombi in there, and a truck. The bikes were equally diverse and abundant, from a Honda CT 110 postie bike capable of more than 80 mph to vintage to ultra-modern, the lot.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p234

[Biggles]

As far as Speed Week goes, it's 90 per cent waiting and 10 per cent racing.
'How'd you go?' The starter at the GPS track yelled at me, smiling with his big hat on.
I smiled back in my helmet and gave him the thumbs-up. 'Can I go over to the right?'
He nodded. 'Crosswind?'
I shifted over slightly to the right, primed myself and the bike, gave the starter the nod.
'Stand by... Visor down... Go!
Exactly the same thing happened again, at the same point: the crosswind collected me, but this time I held power, leant into the wind way past my comfort zone and held my breath, letting go on the power as the bike wobbled through the loose salt in the middle and slid towards the left edge. I remembered not to sit up or touch the brakes and changed down very late to avoid compression lock on the back wheel. The result was 95.5 mph, 153 kph.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p243-4

[Biggles]

Lake Gairdner is widely recognised as being just as good as Bonneville, the slightly fat but funny little sister of the queen of speed in the USA. As I rolled towards my third run, she reminded me that although fun to be around, and good to look at, she's got gas, and can ruin your day if you don't give her the respect she deserves. It was at this moment she blew one of her 30 kph crosswinds at the queue and half a dozen riders stack it, including me.
Embarrassed by this, everyone sprang up and immediately heaved their bikes off the ground. It took four guys to get mine back on two wheels and, unbeknown to me at the time, I had just fractured my L5 vertebra; that is to say, a half-tonne bike falling on you is going to hurt and it did, but I did what men do and ate painkillers to shake it off.
Half a box of Tramadol later I was back at the start line; the starter, still grinning, jogged over. 'You again, we need to stop meeting like this.' He leant in to remind me of the gusting crosswind somewhere after the first mile and asked if I was sure I wanted to make a run.
I nodded and flicked my visor down.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p244-5

[Biggles]

We loaded the bike into the trailer and headed down to the main track where only a handful of cars and bikes had qualified to race the full 8 miles. We pulled out deck-chairs and sat on the roof of the trailer with umbrellas, watching the show. And what a show it was. One car flipped at over 150 mph; its nose lifting and swapping ends mid-air, it smashed its way down the track several times while we stood on the roof frozen. The driver was pulled out with only eight-ball haemorrhages in his eyes, other than that he was fine. The safety procedures at Speed Weed work. But I was amazed that his first bounce covered 130 metres in distance, and totally floored when the driver announced he was ready to get back and do it again.
I watched other bike riders get hit by that potentially lethal crosswind and get the wobbles on, sliding all over the track at more than 200 mph, then regain control and hammer on.
There were a few who came off, but they all walked away. Well, except for the two guys who came off their bikes on the way home; one broke his neck, the other his femur.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p249

[Biggles]

[In the UK] I don't know how much time passes while I talk and Dad's chest moves in a slow, uneven rhythm with his breathing. He leaves us very quietly, just a brief last look, then his eyes close for the final time, and all the while Elisabeth talks to him, her voice so soft and reassuring. After a life that had been at times fraught with danger and so much tension, of which I only know of fragments, he had a peaceful death at home surrounded by his children and his true love. It's only now that I can start to understand how close life and death are all the time, so much closer than my rational mind can process here in my safe, secure, free western democracy. It takes on a new parallel when it's your immediate family; he was gone, just when our relationship was getting interesting. I step outside into the street with a glass of Dad's Macallan; I found the bottle in his collection, one that I gave him thirteen years ago still wrapped up, a 1969 vintage, the year I was born.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p254

[Biggles]

Motorcyclists love to ride. They don't really have a choice when the gotta-have-a motorcycle virus strikes. Dante said when he first laid eyes on Beatrice, "Here is a deity, stronger than I, who in coming will rule over me." Many have experienced such a moment, when the heavens open and something breaks into the soul that is more powerful than anything that has come before. Musicians, artists, luminaries, and lovers of all kinds have felt touched by something far beyond what can only be described as sacred. I felt that way about motorcycles for as long as I can remember. I didn't choose to swoon over motorcycles; that love found me and pulled me as surely as the ocean draws all rivers to itself.
Riding Off The Edge Of The Map  David Bryen p5

[Biggles]

When I discovered counter steering I realized how the journey of life is more like riding a motorcycle than driving a car. Motorcycle riding represents the inner urge to become an individual, to ride in the raw open air without the metal cocoon of a car or the restrictions of culture. Every corner, every change in temperature, every smell becomes another opportunity to intimately touch our surroundings. The soul thrives when it steps away from the habitual because in the unknown it discovers itself. Life in its richest moments is lived counter steering.
Riding Off The Edge Of The Map  David Bryen p12-13

[Biggles]

While riding a motorcycle, one must discipline the mind to not look backward, but to stay attentive to the moment. It’s absolutely imperative to focus on the here and now. When we make a mistake, run wide in a corner, experience a near miss, or come across some hazard in the road, it must pass from thought immediately because the next instant requires all our concentration. A moment of inattention and boom, we’re in the ditch or some other catastrophe has struck. Memory has little value while riding. Forgetting what has passed and letting go of the fantasy of what lies ahead helps the rider alive in the creative potential of every single moment. The attention demanded of every moment while riding is one of the reasons that I love to ride; I can't be anywhere else.
Riding Off The Edge Of The Map  David Bryen p34