Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

My Eicher road atlas is much admired by fellow travellers. Page 98 shows a small road south from Amboli to Ramghat, Bhedshi and Maneri where it joins the highway to Panjim, Goa's capital. The road starts well, single track but good tar, and runs across a rocky plateau through dense forest. The trees are small but the canopy is solid and a deep green. The air is fresh and scented. After the disappointment of Amboli, heaven. I check with a passing bicyclist: 'Ramghat?'
Negative. But what does he know?
Next, an elderly gentleman on a motorcycle: 'Ramghat? Panjim? Goa?'
Negative.
Perhaps he is stupid.
Two pedestrian countrymen wave me down. No need for words. Their gestures suffice. The road ends. Oh...
So ends prevarication. Backtrack down the escarpment to the NH17 and ride on across the state border into Goa.
An Indian Love Affair  Simon Gandolfi  p90

[Biggles]

Today I am riding to Chennai from Mamallapuram at the behest of Motorcycle News. The editor I deal with has suggested a piece on the Royal Enfield factory. Royal Enfield is the last relic of the British motorcycle industry. The first motorcycle was produced at a factory in Redditch, Worcestershire, in 1901. The Chennai factory opened in 1955 to fulfil an Indian government order for 800 350cc Bullets. The British factory closed in 1967. Chennai prospers under the financial umbrella of the Eicher truck company. Manufacturing process competes with the bikes for antiquity in an immense tin shed with open eaves. Bikes are assembled by hand, no robots here. Prior to mounting in the chassis, an aged elf equipped with headphones and stethoscope runs each motor in a tiny cubicle. The paint shop is a paint mist; two men in overalls and masks are visible through a window as they spray-paint the gas tanks. A true artist adds in free-hand the golden line on the tanks.
Each bike is test ridden round the cinder track that surrounds the factory. Priority for any long-distance traveller is comfort and I bounce- test each model: 350cc and 500, military, classic, the new low rider single seat and dual. My favourite? The big broad single saddle mounted on coil springs.
An Indian Love Affair  Simon Gandolfi  pp118-9

[Biggles]

I rode a BSA Bantam in the early fifties. Cops were called Bobbies and patrolled on silent water-cooled Velocettes. Vincents were power with speed. Sunbeams were deluxe touring. AJS, Norton, all deceased and gone to Heaven. Royal Enfield in Redditch was a casualty. What miracle saved Royal Enfield here in Chennai?
"Why buy an Enfield?" is a reasonable question to ask the marketing manager over lunch.
His reply is as offbeat as hand-spraying gas tanks: There's no logical reason. Enfields are heavy. They're slow. They're not fuel-efficient.
"India's Hog," I suggest.
The marketing manager disagrees: In whatever company, Harleys always dominate. The Bullet becomes part of wherever it is.
I argue that the originals were British as fish and chips, the Bullet is now quintessentially Indian. Bullet Super Strong is India's most lethal beer. A temple in Rajasthan is dedicated to a Bullet. Remove the bike from the temple and it will be back by sunrise - so they say.
"So it is romantic," I insist. "The Morgan of the bike world."
Again the marketing manager demurs: Morgans are high-price status symbols. Bullets are workhorses. A horse rider feels the muscles bunch and flow and listens to the rhythm of the horse's breathing. The rider of the Bullet feels the beat of the engine and the slow glorious thump of the exhaust. Such is the Bullet's magic.
An Indian Love Affair  Simon Gandolfi  p119

[Biggles]

I am a coward, particularly if threatened with an emotional confrontation.
Or when an unsilenced heavy machine gun fires a burst directly under my butt: tacka tacka tacka.
HELP!
I slow and the rate of fire slows.
I speed up, the rate of fire increases.
I pull in to the kerb and the firing stops. I am riding a Honda 125. Honda 125s never break down. This article of faith supported me on my exploration of the Americas - 66,000 kilometres. It has supported me on this journey through India - 11,000 kilometres. Now fear hits. Real fear. Or belly-emptying anxiety (which is fear, surely?).
Tacka tacka tacka fires the machine gun as I creep into a gas station. Hell and damnation.
An Indian Love Affair  Simon Gandolfi  p128

[Biggles]

I come to a halt and rev the engine. No machine gun, so the engine is OK. It must be the gearbox. I dismount and heave the bike on to its stand. I look at the gearbox. My knowledge of gearboxes could be written on the point of a very, very thin needle and looking doesn't help. I touch the gearbox tentatively with a fingertip. Touching tells me nothing. I look at the two gas pump attendants. Surely one of them can wave a wand?
The smaller of the two grins and points at my rear wheel. An eight-inch nail sticks out of the tread. I put the bike into gear. The rear wheel spins. The nail strikes the rear mudguard: tacka tacka tacka. I suffer from the sin of pride.
Not always, but on occasion. Hey, I'm nearly 80 and look at me, brrrm brrrm on a cafe racer round India. Kneeling in the gas station forecourt is an act of humility. The pump attendants and a few drivers and bike riders watch as I waggle the eight-inch nail out of the tyre. The tyre is not punctured. Not so my pride... Such is the punishment for my momentary lack of faith. Remember, Old Man, Honda 125s never ever break down.
An Indian Love Affair  Simon Gandolfi  p128

[Biggles]

The track to Help Tourism's camp is to the left on the final bend before the village. The manager assures me that the track is very bad, better take the bike in the pick-up. As if I can't cope... I'll show him.
The track runs along the side of the mountain through magnificent pine forest. The first few hundred metres are compressed dirt. Easy. Turn a bend and I face a climb over large smooth stones, first gear, bumpity bump bump bump. The stones kick the front wheel. Stay loose is the secret. Let the bike pick its own way as you would with a horse. A smooth stretch follows then more stones and a steep descent. Imagine a mountain stream without water. Downhill is always worse. Put both feet down, you lose the rear brake and begin to slide. Grab the front brake and you're on your butt. So, however scared, you have to keep going- which isn't easy when faced with a right-angle bend. The camp is 12 kilometres down the track. Twelve kilometres and 90 minutes- enough time get accustomed to the conditions and gain faith in your ability and the bike's ability. Fun?
An Indian Love Affair  Simon Gandolfi  pp141-2

[Biggles]

The valley narrows and the road zigzags steeply down to a bridge. Horror lies beyond the bridge. The road is being widened. Diggers and bulldozers have churned the surface into a mud and rock wallow. Kilometre follows kilometre of feet down and first gear. Simply keeping the bike upright is a struggle. The mountainside is almost sheer. One slip and down I go and heights scare me - or, rather, the fear of falling. Up ahead a worker waves a red flag.
My friends gather round while we wait, light cigarettes, ask if I am OK, suggest I ride in the Suzuki, one of them ride the bike. I long to agree. Pride stops me. Fear of being thought feeble, not a real man, a scaredy cat. The 'man thing' that women instantly recognise. Surely to God he cant be that stupid. Yes, he is...
An Indian Love Affair  Simon Gandolfi  p156

[Biggles]

The first few kilometres are bad as in a few potholes. No problem. This is an adventure. I feel good. Weep for the unwary...
The major is Special Forces. Special Forces jump off cliffs for fun. They wrestle tigers, skydive, speed-march deserts, ski black runs with full backpack and sub-machine gun. Special Forces bad is bad. I am in mud. Deep mud. Boulders camouflaged by mud. Two hours to cover the first 10 kilometres is good progress. My survival is luck and following locals on bikes - though two locals fall, mud head to foot.
This is not fun.
This is scary.
Riding from Gangtok to Lachen I had the excuse of not knowing what was ahead. Here I was warned. I know full well that I am an idiot in not turning back. I am aware that I am repeating the idiocy that earned me a smashed ankle in Tierra del Fuego. However I remain what I was then: a brain-dead septuagenarian teenager. And turning back makes for a pathetic last hurrah. Surely to God the road must improve. I am not too far from the first hills. Reach the hills and think again.
An Indian Love Affair  Simon Gandolfi  p177

[Biggles]

"What are you doing?" Manuel asked.
"I'm going to travel around the world on my motorcycle," I responded casually. On that particular trip to Brazil I had suffered from hunger. My adventurous spirit had then made me realize it could be hungry while still travelling to other exotic locations, seeing other cultures, and meeting other people. I never second-guessed my decisions back then, so once I had made up my mind, I put my decisions to work. That was my nature, and I couldn't change even if those decisions lead to trouble.
Manuel couldn't believe what he was hearing. He asked the same question again, and again received the same answer.
"I'm suffering on this trip. What's the difference if I suffer here, or somewhere else?"
Most would call me crazy, or thought it was stupid to try to make a trip like that without money. However, I had made my decision, and no one would change my mind.
"You either do things, or you don't!"  I said enthusiastically, successfully convincing myself. Apparently these words also convinced my Brazilian friend, for he immediately asked if he could join me.
As I finished painting the words "Around the World" in various languages on my bike's fender, I explained to Manual how hard this little adventure would be with practically no money.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani p33

[Biggles]

"Would you like to appear on television?" a well dressed man asked us on one of the city streets.
"In exchange for what?" I asked without hesitation.
"Well, you tell me," the man replied.
"How about three days in a hotel, food included."
"No problem," the man quickly agreed.
"It's a deal," I told him, hand outstretched, sealing the with a firm handshake.
Using the media was something we had hoped and planned for to help us along our trip... a way to eat and rest well before taking on a new day. We also planned to visit canned food companies and gas station central offices to ask for assistance, almost as if this was our daily job.
Everywhere we went that had a TV, we heard announcers promoting the upcoming appearance of the two motorcyclists that were travelling around the world. We felt  almost famous.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani p51

[Biggles]

September 28,1964
Villazon. We experienced our first mechanical failure with the rupture of the generator. We needed a repair shop, but the townspeople warned us that the owner of the only garage in town had died and it was now being run by his 10 year old daughter.
Being our only option, we had no choice. We took the Indian to the shop. To our surprise, the little girl was an expert and had us all fixed up in no time!
September 29,1964
We're still in Villazon. We met a friendly Lebanese boy whose family owns a small Lebanese restaurant I guess we came across likeable since he invited us to eat there for free.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani p53

[Biggles]

Luckily, another biker happened by and stopped to talk to us.
"Are you OK?" he asked.
"We're alive," I answered, "So yeah... we're OK."
What happened to your bike?" he asked as he eyed the gaping hole in the oil tank.
"A bullet. You know where we can get it fixed? We don't have any money," I stated.
"I have a friend who owns a garage. Follow me."
"How far is it? Can we push the bike there?"
"It's only three blocks away. I'm sure he can help you."
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani p59

[Biggles]

We arrived exhausted after pushing the heavy Indian more than the three blocks our new friend had told us.
"Herreria Chepe's Garage" was painted on an old piece of rusted tin, and the makeshift sign also listed the services offered. Among them we saw the one we needed... welding.
"Hey Jose," our new friend Pedro called out. "These two guys are going around the world on that motorcycle, but their oil tank got shot today. They need a favor... and free."
Jose, also a biker, looked at the huge hole in the tank and said, "We can patch that up. It won't be pretty, but I can weld a piece of metal over the hole so it doesn't leak."
"As long as it's free and doesn't leak, I could care less what it looks like," I said, accepting his generous offer.
After that Good Samaritan fixed us up and we refilled our oil, we lost interest in looking for the address of our two Argentine acquaintances. We thanked Pedro and Jose and decided to continue west.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani p59

[Biggles]

As soon as we had arrived in Quito, a man approached me and called me by name. I didn't recognize him, but he knew who I was.
"Hello, Carlos," the stranger called.
"Hello," I responded. "Do I know you?"
"No, you don't know me, but I know of your journey," he responded.
"How?"
"I'm a ham radio operator and I communicate with Uruguay regularly. Other hams have told me about you guys."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, then," I said as I shook his hand.
"Pleasure's all mine! My name's Raul. If you'd like, tonight we can go to my house and you can contact Uruguay."
"Sure!" I replied happily. "Just give us directions and we'll be there!"
Ham radio was the only direct form of communication we had to our families. Sure, we had letters we would send or receive at all the Uruguayan consulates in all the capital cities, but they took forever to go from one point to another.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani pp70-1

[Biggles]

Much later I found out that when the aftermarket front fork of the Indian snapped that fateful day, we were riding at about 60 miles per hour, taking advantage of the paved road. At that speed, any minor mechanical fault can turn into tragedy. The weight on the rear of the bike helped keep it from turning end over end. I instinctually applied what I had learned from my days racing... hold on tight to the handlebars and use the bike's mass as a shield against collisions with other racers. Even though I was unconscious, I never let go of the handlebars. The Indian had fallen on its right side and Manuel and I slid for 58 yards. When the fork had snapped, the bike lost its front wheel, and my body lurched forward. The camera that was hanging around my neck had smashed against the bullet box mounted between the handlebars, breaking three of my ribs and causing me to lose consciousness. We were alone with no way to call for help. My body was still, showing serious injuries in the face, right leg, and both arms. Manuel's right hand was rubbed raw where he tried to block his fall. Eduardo, who had witnessed the entire accident, cried and hugged me, fearing for my life. The Indian was on the ground, missing its front wheel and with its front forks totally destroyed.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani p85

[Biggles]

I was hospitalised for a total of 17 days so I was thrilled to finally get to see my old Indian at the garage. The police in Panama used Harley Davidsons and they informed that it was impossible to order Indian parts, but they would give me a Harley fork in hopes that I could adapt it to the Indian. I had to use my mechanical knowledge to bring her back to life.
The first step was to make two bushings with certain specifications. I made some sketches and went out looking for a machine shop with a lathe. I found one a few blocks away. The owner was napping on a comfy chair under the shade of a lush tree.
"How much would you charge me to make these two bushings?" I asked, handing him my drawings.
"10 balboas," he replied sleepily.
"10 balboas! This should only take 10 minutes," I said, trying to score a better deal.
"I can give you the material and you can do it yourself for 5..."
"Deal!"
His shop was old. All the machines were powered by a single electric motor and the pulleys moved with flat leather straps. The lathe was so old that the screws were threaded backwards from what was common in a modern machine shop. I was still able to fashion the bushings, but it certainly took longer than 10 minutes. The new Harley fork was ready and came out better than I had expected. We were ready to continue our journey.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani pp90-1

[Biggles]

As we entered the city that hot afternoon, a motorcycle cop, sporting a powerful and new Harley Davidson, pulled us over, lights flashing, sirens blaring.
"Is there a problem, officer?" I asked nervously.
"Not at all. I stopped you out of curiosity. Where are you coming from?" he asked.
"Well, we departed from Brazil, and as you can see, we've travelled through many other countries on the way."
"Where are you from?"
"Manuel is Brazilian, Eduardo is Peruvian, and I'm Uruguayan," I responded.
"Let's go get a drink," the policeman offered.
"Sure," I accepted, not even bothering to ask my riding companions. We parked all three bikes on the side of the road, and crossed the street to a nearby bar. After a few drinks, and a few more stories of our trip, the cop asked us to follow him to the Federal District Motorized Police Station. We were introduced to his commanding officer, who graciously offered us a room in their barracks.
This place was amazing. It contained four hundred motorcycles belonging to a number of different squads. Each squad was headed by a commander with twenty officers under him. We were surrounded by bikers who could identify with us, and felt a deep camaraderie with these fellow motorcycle enthusiasts. I was starting to believe that Mexican people are just naturally friendly.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani pp101-2

[Biggles]

We spent our first night in our quarters, and early in the morning we were awakened by one of the commanders inviting us to breakfast with his squadron. The Indian soon found herself rolling alongside twenty new Harleys on our way to a mouth-watering breakfast at a nearby restaurant.
Once there, I began telling my repertoire of jokes, much to the delight of the friendly cops. This occurred every day with a different squad, becoming a daily laugh-filled ritual. The Federal District Motorized Police were a close-knit family, infinitely friendly and hospitable, and with a great sense of humor.
There we met an older man who used a cane for feeling his way around as he walked. He was the head mechanic and he was completely blind. I can't remember his name, but I remember his face, and certainly his amazing skill. He was able to completely disassemble, assemble, and repair any Harley by touch alone. His ability solidified a lesson for us... any obstacles we may face in life can be overcome by hard work and courage. This man was an inspiration.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani pp102-3

[Biggles]

We looked stunned when they began taking apart my Indian, taking brand new parts from their original boxes and building a new motor and gearbox. I looked on curiously as they put a white creamy substance on all the parts before assembling them. They later put the bottom part of the engine into a machine that would spin the engine at a predetermined speed for a predetermined amount of time. Then they removed the parts from the machine, disassembled everything, washed all the components and put it all back together again.
I asked what that was about, and they told me it was how they "softened" the engine. I realized then that the United States had more advanced technology, and an incredible order and cleanliness.
In three days, the Indian had been completely transformed. It had a new motor and transmission, a tank without a bullet hole, new sprockets and tires, a re-upholstered seat, and it had even been repainted in its original color. The Indian was never in better shape, and this incredible gift seemed like a dream come true.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani p124

[Biggles]

After two nights of rest, I went to the port of Saint John's for the final leg of my North American travels, and where I would embark to Ireland. I had my ticket paid for, but I had to negotiate the Indian's passage.
"For the motorcycle, do you charge by weight or by size?" I asked the man on duty.
"By size," he responded.
I immediately grabbed some tools and started to take apart my bike. I removed the large box that held all my belongings and took that with me as my luggage. I removed the windshield and tied it to the Indian's side. I loosened the handlebars and tilted them down. I even removed air from the tires. With all these modifications, I was able to save $70, which represented many meals or gallons of gasoline in Europe.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani pp176-7

[Biggles]

March 22,1966
This is a paradise surrounded by snow. I arrived at a campground in Berne last night and found my host to be a very friendly old woman who let me stay in a cabin for a ridiculously low price. I'm now sitting at the foot of the wood stove, a couple of dry logs burning within, and I feel like a king.
Last night, after settling in, my host brought piece of cake and a cup of hot chocolate, which restored the life in me that had been slowly draining by the four days of torrential downpours and accumulated snow on the roads.
There are good people in the world, and I feel compelled to write this down so I won't forget it tomorrow, or ever.
I'll stay another day here, enjoying the hospitality and recharging for the rest of my trip. Tomorrow I plan to head to Italy since it's snowing hard and I'm afraid they'll close the borders.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani p194

[Biggles]

The watch that Helena had given me in Mexico showed that I was running late for my meeting with Albert at 3pm at the Piazza del Popolo. I asked for directions, and my Indian began to cruise in and out of the Roman traffic, surprising people due to its sheer size and capacity. Large motorcycles were not common in Europe yet from what I had noticed, so my Indian always called attention to itself.
I reached the Piazza del Popolo, making good time, and while sitting on my bike a man came up to me and asked how many cubic centimeters my engine was. I told him and he turned and enthusiastically yelled, "Nino! Nino! Twelve-hundred! It's twelve-hundred!" He couldn't believe that in the land of the Fiat 500 there could possibly be a motorcycle with more than double the engine size as the automobile.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani pp202-3

[Biggles]

One morning, as had become my routine, I stepped out onto the balcony and stared down to the street to check on the Indian. To my utter shock and horror, she was gone. Stolen. My heart was pounding from panic, anger, and sadness. I couldn't help but think that it had to be a group of thieves that had stolen it because it would take many men to be able to lift a bike of that size onto a truck. It would have been nearly impossible for them to start the bike since I had rigged it with three hidden electrical bridges that needed to be switched on before the starter would even work. It was my own anti-theft system, made specifically to prevent things like this from happening.
Confident in my modifications, I immediately went out looking for the bike in the nearby Roman neighborhoods. Sure enough, I found her not far from the apartment, abandoned on a side street. Needless to say, I was ecstatic that my little electrical tricks had done their job. It was obvious they had dragged the motorcycle a few blocks with the intention of starting it and riding away. Since they could not figure out how to get it running, they gave up.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani p204

[Biggles]

June 14,1966
Today we crossed the equator. To celebrate, crew members sorted through passengers looking for anyone who wanted to sing or could play an instrument.
When they came to our cabin asking if we wanted to participate in the celebration, both me and my cabin mate Jerome declined. After they left, I commented to Jerome that I used to play the "bandoneon", an accordion-like instrument, as a child, but that I highly doubted there was one on board, or that I would even remember how to play anything after 13 years of not picking one up.
Jerome looked at me incredulously, and said, "My name is Jerome Baires, the first bandoneon player to Francisco Canaro, and I'm returning from concerts in Asia and Europe. There... below bunk..." he pointed.  "There are two instruments."
I picked one up and laid it on my lap and began playing "La Cumparsita" as if it was 13 years ago. Jerome picked up the other bandoneon and joined me.
The series of coincidences for this to occur are mesmerizing... sharing a room with a famous musician who happened to have two bandoneons with him, picking one up like time had never passed, playing together on an Argentine ship where musicians were being sought to join in the celebration of crossing the equator.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani pp220-1

[Biggles]

On Thursday, I took Rolf to the border of Montevideo as he planned to continue north. We said our goodbyes with heartfelt hug and I wished him well on his own adventure. I then turned around and rode back home as it was starting to get dark.
The weekend arrived and I planned to take a short trip to Punta del Este. I was starting to feel the hunger for the road again, and these quick jaunts afforded me the time to reminisce about my adventurous journey.
I reached Solymar when a policeman, also on motorcycle, pulled me over for riding with a large box attached to the rear fender. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I felt like telling him to piss off, but instead I proceeded to tell him that my Indian, that box, and I had travelled 26 countries over two continents, and during the entire two years of that trip, not a single person had told us that we weren't allowed to ride with a box attached to the rear fender. I showed him my stamp-filled passport, along with my journal filled with foreign newspaper clippings about my voyage. The cop, red with embarrassment, let me go.
Tracks And Horizons  Carlos Caggiani p225