Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

The spinach back then was quite unlike today's light green, tasty leaves: it was dark and leathery and so packed with oxalic acid that it set your teeth on edge, which was why Popeye was pressed into service to sell it to us.
It was quite customary then to eat more or less the same thing every day, just as we wore the same clothes every day. In fact, sameness was the outstanding feature of life in the forties. Every day was more or less the same, and Sunday was like the rest, but emptier. The interest and excitement in day-to-day life was what you conjured up for yourself, which I realise now was no bad thing. In my case it came from what I was learning in school, from books I was reading, from hobbies and, of course, the overarching excitement of a war in progress. What were Voroshilov's tanks doing today? How far had Monty got in North Africa? Food was only a minor source of pleasure. When I could get away with it I took the threepence I given to pay for the school lunch and used it instead to buy a much tastier fishcake from a lady with a little shop in Fulham Road.
Rolling Through The Isles  Ted Simon  p198-9

[Biggles]

In a way I see the fast-food trap as a metaphor for our life today. You can load the salt, sugar and fat on to everything. Films? Think special effects, mayhem and superstars. Politics? Think non-stop news cycles, Murdoch and fear-mongering. Sport? Think grossly overblown multi-billion-pound circuses like Formula One and the Olympics. Lifestyles? Think second mortgages, everything on tick, drugs and booze ad nauseam (literally, at two a.m. on weekends). The excess is both wretched and mediocre. We know none of it's very good but we're too lazy to work for anything better. For many who grow up without any particular aim in life (an all-too-common condition today), the only thing that seems worth doing is to make money. Those who can prey on those who can't, but none of it is very satisfying. I am fairly sure that what really lies behind the latest rash of riots, which are happening as I write these words in 2011, is not criminality, or resentment, or original sin: it's boredom and a dim sense of self-loathing.
Rolling Through The Isles  Ted Simon  p201

[Biggles]

Even on such a pleasant day there were winding sections and sharp bends among rocky outcrops, wreathed in patches of heavy fog, enough to give me an inkling of what a winter crossing would be like. And then on the uplands I just gave myself over to the joy of moving through beautiful country, immersed in the scents wafted on the wind, one of the special pleasures that come with riding a bike.
Rolling Through The Isles  Ted Simon  p202

[Biggles]

Plainly this whole area I'd been travelling through lately is no stranger to water and I'd been lucky to stay dry. There were clouds above and moisture in the air as I rode on some sort of a ring around Dumfries. Too lazy to dig out the map I told my TomTom to take me to Thornhill and pretty soon what started as a decent little road turned rough and rugged. Then it began to rain. Not much. Not enough to force a decision. Just enough to make life miserable. The hedges closed in on me, wet leaves tried to slap me in the face, the tarmac reared up, puddles formed, the little front wheels skittered about on the bumps and, although I knew they were stable, I never got over the feeling that they were about to slide into the ditch. The road made sharp, blind turns but luckily there was almost no traffic. I'd forgotten that my TomTom was set for tiny roads, and when I remembered I was too far along to go back. Funny how difficult it can be to rise above expectations. I'd programmed myself to travel in comfort. In my normal travelling mode these conditions wouldn't even have raised an eyebrow. But I must admit that rain has always dulled my appreciation so, as I came up to Thornhill, I didn't absorb the beauty of my surroundings as I should have.
Rolling Through The Isles  Ted Simon  p205

[Biggles]

Well, on our way back we came through Ballymoney because it was inconceivable to Drew that I would leave Northern Ireland without paying my respects to Joey Dunlop, and of course I deferred to his wishes and kept to myself the embarrassing truth that, although I dimly recognised the name. I was by no means sure what he was famous for. Even as I write these words I blush with shame, but nevertheless that's how it was. As we entered Joey's bar, almost the first thing I saw was that very fast Honda motorcycle hanging from the ceiling, with a number 3 on the tail, so I had a pretty good idea of what it was Joey Dunlop did for a living. I also grasped that he was no longer doing it, due to death.
Rolling Through The Isles  Ted Simon  p234-5

[Biggles]

My relationship with death-defying sports is complicated. I don't do them mainly because I'm scared. On the other hand, I do other things that scare me, so fear can't be the only reason. I understand the need to take risks, but not for their own sake. I have enormous respect for the determination the discipline and the focus that enable people like Joey to bring everything they have so close to the edge, again and again. I know a lot more about Joey than I did when I entered his bar. I know that he won the TT Formula One in five consecutive years, that he rode and won a phenomenal number of races, that he is considered one of a handful of the most admired racers of all time, and that he was a smashing bloke who cared for his family, who did a tremendous amount for children in Romanian orphanages, and was honoured for it. And this is what gets me. He must have loved life as much as I do. He avoided all the nihilistic sectarian strife, must Have seen it for the dreadful waste it is. With the mental and physical qualities he possessed, with his skill and dexterity, he would surely have succeeded at so many things. Why put your life on the line every time? Well, I've had this discussion with others, and there's a lot I obviously don't understand.
Rolling Through The Isles  Ted Simon  p235

[Biggles]

Jochen works for a company in Dublin that installs security alarms but he himself is big and strong enough to frighten off any intruder, and he rides an appropriately big motorcycle. He was kind enough to suggest that we go off together next day to inspect the Wicklow Mountains, even though riding beside my tiddly three-wheeler might expose him to scorn and derision.
We rode south and crossed the Liffey at Newbridge, where I forced him to take picturesque shots of me by the river, and then into the national park from the north, through Blessington.
Rolling Through The Isles  Ted Simon  p240

[Biggles]

On frosty winter mornings, I stuffed a few newspapers — hot off the press — down my shirt to ward off the cold. And, in what I thought was a stroke of genius, I filled the handlebars of my bicycle with boiling water and plugged each end with a cork. My hands stayed warm for at least 10 minutes, and two or three nine-penny meat pies staved off hunger until I made it home for breakfast. I worked at after-school jobs and on weekends I picked strawberries. During the holidays I apprenticed for an electrician. Despite my good work ethic, I was caned regularly at school and my most favourable school report read, "Ronald is a born leader. It's just a shame he leads others in the wrong direction." At the age of 12, I rode on the back of a family friend's motorcycle, an experience that left me with a burn on my leg from a hot exhaust pipe and a fire in my belly to ride a machine of my own.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p3

[Biggles]

The FN's handlebars, controls and pedal gear had been removed in Brisbane to keep the crate as small as possible. Reassembling it, with every man and his yak getting in the way, wasn't easy. Each took a turn at passing me tools I didn't need; and each just had to check that the horn worked. My patience was being sorely tested. No sooner had I unbolted the metal crate than it vanished. The Nepalese know a bargain when they see one.  No doubt the container would be sold for a tidy sum.
Caught up in the urgency of the moment and suffering the effects of high altitude, I was all fingers and thumbs. The gas tank had been emptied before the flight, so I needed fuel. All the fuel outlets in the city seemed to be waiting for a delivery. What now! One fellow finally relented and parted with two litres from his own bike — at an exorbitant price.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p19

[Biggles]

Dark clouds gathered overnight, and when I set out for Pokhara early next morning, the storm hit with a vengeance. The FN started well initially, but when the motor became saturated it died. I tried roiling it downhill, but it refused to start again until I took shelter and dried the spark plugs and distributor. I don't mind riding in rain, but this was over the top, especially with the electrics constantly dying on me. My Huskie gear stood up to the elements for nearly four hours, which was remarkable considering the deluge. Eventually though, moisture began to seep through the seams, and my fancy waterproof boots also gave up the ghost. I refused to give in. Hunched down low over the tank, I was barely able to see a thing through the pissing rain.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p23

[Biggles]

Once, when negotiating my way through a convoy of trucks, one driver decided to reverse, missing the bike by centimetres. My shouts fell on deaf ears. Only when his passenger jumped down from the cab to give directions was I noticed jammed between the truck and cliff face. His incredulous stare attested to my narrow escape. I leant against the bank and waited for my heart to stop pounding before I pushed off again.
At Palpa, Nepalese customs stamped my passport, then insisted I get a copy made for them. I followed their directions to a printer. An hour-and-a-half later, when the power came back on, I got the copy. I had chosen this route to avoid the endless paperwork and long delays usually encountered at busier border crossings. Something wasn't working.
On the Butwal side of the border, it was election time and the immigration office was closed until 1.00 pm. A strong military presence persuaded me that taking photographs wouldn't be welcome. While I and waited, the tea wallah was sent to get refreshments. When he returned, with hot tea and ginger-nut biscuits, I was contemplating a vast compound full of derelict trucks, motorcycles, and 4WDs.
"Why are all these vehicles here?" I asked. "Where did they come from?"
"Many travellers with no papers," he replied, his head wagging rhythmically side to side, "so police lock up their transport."
Each vehicle, tyres flat, bodywork weathered and dusty, stood testament to unfilled overland dreams.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p26

[Biggles]

Each morning, the same routine: stretch inlet-valve springs; check tyre inflation; remove grit and water from carburettor bowl and jet. It was puzzling me that the contact points in the magneto were widening quickly yet reducing engine performance. This is the opposite of what normally happens.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p29

[Biggles]

A little later, I stopped when I saw a sign, on the side of a building, for Airtel. It turned out not to be a shop selling phone cards, as I had hoped, the sign being simply Airtel advertising. But my stop was not entirely in vain. When it turned out that the owner's daughter lived in Brisbane, he dashed to the phone to tell her that a man from Queensland was in his store. Although it was the middle of the night in Australia, I was invited to exchange a few pleasantries with Rosa. She was extremely polite, insisted her family give me all the support I needed. Without hesitation, her father urged his son to take me on his motorcycle to a phone shop. Something must have been missing from our conversation because, once I had my phone card, the boy then took me to the bus station.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p56

[Biggles]

About 2 About 25 biker club members gathered in a park on the weekend to raise motorcycle-safety awareness. A large crowd attended, and many, young and old, paid a lot of attention to the FN. One lovely gesture, among many, came from a woman who apologised for not having a gift for me-  so she bought me an ice cream instead.
The FN and I appeared on television across the nation. It wasn't surprising therefore, that from then on I was often recognised. People everywhere wanted to shake my hand. I found it strange to be treated like a celebrity, but understood people's fascination with what I was doing.
At night Omar took me on a street crawl of some of his favourite eateries. Among regional delicacies we savoured bulls' balls. Omar used a novel way of paying the bill; he would buy a phone-card for a specific amount, tell the retailer the scratch number to install on his phone, and everything was square. I'd never seen anything like it before.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p64-5

[Biggles]

I needed to get a shim made to adjust the crown wheel. It had to be 0.7mm thick. Had I been able to make it understood that all I needed was a piece of tin and a pair of tin snips, I could have cut out one in 15 minutes. But no- the workshop men, after being gone for four hours, returned, proudly showing me a shim they had manufactured. It was 1.5mm thick!
Why did I keep doing this? I couldn't seem to help myself. People always did their best to be helpful, usually professing to know far more than they did. It was as if that, by saying they couldn't do something, they would lose face. Even if they had experience working on modern motorcycles, coping with a veteran machine needed all sorts of other knowledge and skills. By not wanting to be condescending or unappreciative, I kept allowing myself to be sucked in every time. I sighed, and set about doing what I should have done in the first place: rummage around for something that would fit the bill. Among the rubbish, I found a used oilcan — and, with scissors, I cut a correct-size shim in minutes.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p84

[Biggles]

More and more, I found myself talking to the motorcycle, so much so, that I felt she deserved a name. So it was Effie.
I'd been mostly happy with Effie's power since changing the rings. All still appeared to be going well apart from a repetitive 'clicky-clacking' noise, which now seemed more pronounced. Maybe I was imagining it,or simply the sun was frying my brain. Effie and I chattered away for miles, coaxing each other to go just a little further before the next rest stop. I sang to her, mainly songs from the 1960s. I didn't know any from 1910.
Because of the heat, I only managed 26 kilometres that morning before pulling into a cafe. The Coca-Cola was cold and quenching. I asked a policeman why all the trucks were overloaded. Knowingly, he replied: 'Because then they only have to do one journey. It would take two trucks to carry the legal load.'
Logical, my dear officer, logical!
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p88

[Biggles]

Jalil, a young custom officer, presented me with cold cans of peach nectar and insisted we give him a call when we reached Zahedan, capital of Sistan and Baluchestan Province, where he lived. Before we left, he said: 'Your escort is very worried because the police have explained to him, in English, that you are both tourists. But he has interpreted that as terrorists, and does not want to take you.' We all laughed.
Once Hayashi had sorted out his paperwork, we rode on, with police motorcycle escort in tow. We travelled about four kilometres and then waited 45 minutes for another escort. This time, none of the escorts had vehicles of their own, so police commandeered a pick-up from a reluctant passerby, relieved us of our passports and accompanied us halfway towards Zahedan.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p102

[Biggles]

Finally, tempers cooling, we were chaperoned out of Zahedan. One car sat immediately in front of our bikes, another close behind. For the first few hours, the escort changed every 30 kilometres or so, then we went much longer distances before there was a change of bodyguards. All the time, we were being urged to speed up. I understood the sense of urgency in getting us through the restricted zone as quickly as possible, but this just wouldn't work for Effie — it was ridiculous to expect her to maintain such an insane pace.
My preferred routine was to stop regularly, rest the motor and check the bike. Because of the forced high pace, I was pumping more oil into the engine than I knew was needed because there was no way of guessing when the level was correct. I knew that if I saw oil dripping onto my boot everything was well lubricated. And I was afraid to push Effie any harder.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p105

[Biggles]

During one of my nightly Skype sessions with Lynne, 1 had mentioned that I wondered why people kept refusing payment for the petrol they bought for my bike.
'What are you saying to them?' she asked. 'Nothing. I just show them the scrap of paper that Jalil translated for me into Persian. It says, 'Can you help me buy petrol?'
'Maybe it doesn't read exactly what you intended,' said Lynne.
'You could be right. I'm now wondering if they think I'm on a pilgrimage and that their donation will help me on my way.'
Only later, when someone who spoke English and read my note, did the light dawn. Basically, the message was asking everyone to buy petrol for me! I recalled one man, after he had filled my tank, said, 'We re all terrorists right?' It was embarrassing to realise that the note might have come across as if I was begging. My mistake.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p108

[Biggles]

Now something new was on my mind: a high-pitched noise from the rear. It happened as the day drew to a close, and I was coasting down a particularly long hill. The light was almost gone and it was too late to do anything until morning. As part of my regular maintenance, I religiously packed fresh grease into the crown wheel, so it had to be something else in the driveline that was causing the noise.
At first light I removed the back wheel, pulled the crown wheel and pinion apart, and repacked the pinion bearing with grease. It was several hours before I was able to drive away from the Hotel Bezginier, where I'd spent the night.
Cresting more hills than I cared to count, I only managed 120 kilometres before camping well after sundown. My oil-stained, grimy cargo pants and shirt clung to a bone-weary body. How much longer could I keep this up? Mile after mile, hour after hour, day after day, the hills were relentless. Just one moment of glee: Effie, on her second wind, actually passed a truck!
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p152-3

[Biggles]

Beyond Central Anatolia, I was riding on the gentle undulating 100 highway that meanders through a farming region. It was a comfortable, effortless ride. But conditions didn't stay that way for long, and, with strong headwinds, it was taking immense concentration to keep Effie on the right side of the road.
During this ordeal, I was stopped by two young men driving a van decorated with an image of one of their Repsol super bikes. These riders were trying to tell me something, so they phoned a friend to translate.
The man on the phone said: 'They want to eat you.'
I hoped he meant: 'They want to invite you to lunch.'
The guys threw my backpack in the back of their van, instructed to follow them, and took off. Doh! I'd just committed the cardinal sin of giving my gear to someone I didn't know. I might never see it again. Everything I had was in that backpack — including the carnet. If Lynne had been there, she would have had my guts for garters. Jeez, am I a slow learner!
But they were genuine, and directed me to their motorcycle shop, Inan Motors, where they put Effie into the showroom. There, a mechanic, who set about cleaning her, was in for a rude shock. As he turned the back wheel, the motor kicked into life. An incredulous look spread across the startled fellow's face. It was priceless, and everyone fell about laughing. We were still chuckling as we tucked into a tasty lunch of kebabs, rice, bread and the ubiquitous watermelon.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p161

[Biggles]

On my way to Sugag, after one long hard climb which got tougher as it went, I suddenly found myself over the top and hurtling down the steepest road I'd ever had the misfortune to encounter. Brakes full on, engine killed, yet Effie was still doing her minimum speed of 19 kph and I had no hope of stopping her.
I hung on, knuckles whitening as we slalomed. Thinking it couldn't get worse, I skidded around a sharp bend and was horrified to see excavator clearing a rockslide spread across the road. Escape? Over the edge of the cliff, infinity! On the road, a tiny gap, but only as long as the excavator didn't fill it! Could I squeeze through? For a second, I wanted to pray (but to which gods should I turn?). Was unseen traffic coming up the hill I was careering down? Would I slam into the loader? Whichever course I took, I felt I was a goner.
Effie, her little valves clattering, tore into the stretch of roadworks. No traffic controllers in sight, but suddenly workmen gesturing and shouting. No chance to wave back — and photo opportunities were definitely out!
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p178

[Biggles]

I made it to Szolnok, where I had booked my first nights paid accommodation in Hungary. The engine noise problem had been nagging me all day, so I checked Effie all over. I noticed, as I attempted to undo the spark plug terminal, that the porcelain on the steel body of the spark had come loose. This was allowing air to be sucked in and a small amount ot compression to be blown out. But none of this was happening until the plug had heated up. By replacing the Bosch plugs with NGKs the frightening noise went away. However, compared with the plugs I had started out with, no replacement was quite as efficient.
I tried to avoid freeways whenever possible, even though at times they were preferable because of the helpful signage. The downside of freeway travel was that I attracted the attention or the police. 'You're going too slow,' complained one officer.
'The minimum speed on the highway is 60 kph,' said his partner.
The FN's handbook emphasised that Effie was capable of 100 kph because of its high gearing. However, with beaded edge tyres it was more reassuring sitting at a much lower speed. Because I preferred to travel at less than 60 kph, I carried a bogus document saying my bike was only capable of only 40 kph. I'd met no minimum speed limits earlier in my travels, so it usually made sense to produce it when police insisted I travel faster. But now the tables were turned: no good me claiming the bike could only do 40 kph, so I agreed to turn off at the next exit.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p185-6

[Biggles]

During the planning stage I decided I wanted to ride the Bertha Benz Memorial Parkway. It was on this route through the Black Forest in 1888 that Karl Benz's wife, Bertha, drove her husband's hitherto untested car without his knowledge. The parkway runs between Mannheim and Pforzheim.
There was no petrol in those days — or, for that matter, cars — so Bertha fuelled her contraption with alcohol bought from pharmacies. It is also said she used a long hairpin to clean a fuel pipe, and one of her garters to insulate a wire. On her arrival in Pforzheim, she told her husband by telegram of her success. And then a few days later she drove the 100 kilometres back to Mannheim.
Bertha's adventures enabled Karl Benz to make important improvements to his vehicle, including lower gears to tackle hills, and better braking power. I felt it an honour to ride Effie on a route taken by such a forward-looking auto-pioneer. Markers now commemorate Bertha's feat.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p209

[Biggles]

"Congratulations, Ronnie, you got to live your dream," she cried, her eyes glistening, "I never doubted you would."
I should have been jumping for joy, but I doubt I had it in me. Instead, I had goosebumps, and felt giddy with relief. Congratulations showered on me from motorcycle friends and factory workers crowding around. I posed for cameras in front of the impressive FN logo and factory. Lynne captured Effie's bicycle speedometer — 14,606 kilometres. Some distance!
Robert Sauvage, CEO of the Ars Mechanica Foundation, joined us. A keen motorcyclist himself, he shook my hand warmly and invited us to return for a formal reception two days later. I hadn't expected any recognition, but it was gratifying to know that he and others in the field truly appreciated what an epic ride I had made; a journey that had taken stamina and endurance, both of which, at times, I hadn't always been sure I had in me.
No Room For Watermelons  Ron Fellowes  p219