Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

I am also watching for highway signs as I navigate down a crisscrossing grid of city streets. Counting off intersections, I indicate early for turns hoping that Jim and Peter see my signals. When we do become separated, I have to search for a safe spot to pull over and wait until we can regroup. Progress is slow in a sluggish, stop-start fashion, but with determination and patience, we doggedly make our way down to the bay.
Eventually, I merge onto a waterfront road that skirts around the city to ride up a ramp to the Oakland Bridge. Channeled onto the lower deck of the bridge, riding in a steel cage of columns and beams suspended under railway tracks, I am carried out of the city, over the water, and across the bay.
Three Harleys, Three Aussies, One American Dream  Stephen Starling  pp94-5

[Biggles]

I am running wild across Wyoming. The wind whistles, the wheels hum, the engine roars, and the exhausts boom as my Road King's big V-Twin munches up mile after mile. I become absorbed in picking the best line, using the full width of the deserted road to avoid scrubbing speed off the tires.  Gently I push on the handlebars, slightly shifting weight in the saddle; the bike leans to carve an arc around the curve. A shift to the other side and it tilts to track flawlessly, following my chosen line into the next turn.
Blending power and precision I get into the groove, a state of mind where man and machine are one. Even at high speed time seems to slow, control is exercised through subtle shifts, and senses are attuned to variations in the texture of the tarmac and to changes in the camber of a curve. My race across the range becomes a mesmerizing mind game. I revel in the thrill of speed, rushing on with reckless abandon, enthralled by the freedom of the open road.
Three Harleys, Three Aussies, One American Dream  Stephen Starling  pp144-5

[Biggles]

The tarmac twists and turns down the narrowing gorge, searching for a way through this seemingly impenetrable mountain range. The cliff walls close in and the river encroaches, threatening to wash over the road. To forge a way through the narrow canyon, huge concrete columns support the road high above the river. Further on the cliffs have been blasted and tons of rubble carted away to carve out a pass. Eventually, having exhausted these options, and confronted by a solid wall of rock, the road builders have attacked the mountain head-on to tunnel a way through.
The Eisenhower Tunnel burrows 1.7 miles through the Rocky Mountains under the Continental Divide- beyond the portal it is dark and damp. The road surface is greasy from a mixture of seeping water and the rubber deposited by a constant stream of vehicles. I am wedged in a narrow lane between two monster trucks whose menacing wheels throw up plumes of spray. I ease off the throttle, thinking this is no time to take a spill.
Three Harleys, Three Aussies, One American Dream  Stephen Starling  pp204-5

[Biggles]

Sure, the route I had chosen was reckless and risky, but luckily we got away with it. Resolute determination kept us going, pushing through the snow, the cold, and the fear. We three old fools, who should know better, have survived a winter's nightmare on the Million Dollar Highway. Quickly registered, we pile into a large motel room with three beds. Wet kit is peeled off and hung to dry; pairs of boots stand before radiators, gloves gesture a salute on windowsills, and the shower runs hot to warm chilled bones and ease aching muscles.
I collapse onto my bed, tensions draining away and my core body temperature returning to normal. I feel safe and yet, when I close my eyes, those ominous mountains, slippery roads, driving snow, and visions of scary thousand-foot drops come back to haunt me.
Three Harleys, Three Aussies, One American Dream  Stephen Starling  pp221-2

[Biggles]

The Devil's Backbone is a risky ride that will demand a steady hand on the throttle and a foot hovering over the brake. This is no time to allow my Road King to career out control. Survival will depend on slowing the speed down the steep grade, cautiously steering around corners, and using the engine to arrest the descent and to prevent the brakes from fading. Although the twists and turns of the dramatic descent are daunting, the three of us are prepared, enjoying the challenge as a contest of skill.
Rolling forward at forty miles an hour, I lean into the first bend, then the next, and the next. The idling engine slows speed and the exhaust burbles as my bike tracks around the turns, staying well away from the deadly drop. The Devil's Backbone would be hell in poor visibility or when the road surface is slippery; it would certainly be a deadly devil of a ride. Yet on this bright, dry morning without any traffic, it is actually an enjoyable contest between road builder and bike rider. For once we ride responsibly, like learners taking a test, and arrive safely at the base of Devil's Backbone.
Three Harleys, Three Aussies, One American Dream  Stephen Starling  p253

[Biggles]

The Gun Store experience has given me an insight into the gun ownership debate and an appreciation of why it is so emotive. Many have argued that motivations for gun ownership run deep into a sense of masculinity, even a subliminal sexuality. Caress the trigger, feel the adrenaline rush, and eject a potent discharge in a stream of smoke and flame. Yes, you could easily become smitten by that, seduced by the sensational symbolism and the dominant male posturing. Surely, the right to bear arms is enshrined in the American Constitution. There is the defense argument too. However, these important points may mask a more personal concern — a fear that an unarmed man becomes a lesser man; an anxiety that a virile gun-toting male who gives up his weapon is perceived as an impotent, girly kind of guy.
I suspect for some gun owners, losing the right to bear arms is an awful prospect. To them the consequences of taking away their weapons would be unimaginable; in their minds being disarmed is the equivalent of being neutered, condemned to be innocuous and inconsequential, relegated to the ranks of the servile and subservient.
Three Harleys, Three Aussies, One American Dream  Stephen Starling  pp305-6

[Biggles]

These Harley-Davidsons have served us well, covering 5,000 miles comfortably, speedily, and never letting us down, even in extreme conditions. Easy to ride, with good acceleration and predictable handling, every hour astride them has been a joy. Well, almost — if you leave out the freezing mountain blizzards and sweltering desert sandstorms. Glendale Harley prepared the bikes well and it was reassuring to know they were ready to help, especially when Peter needed a new tyre.
I pull my Australian flag off the screen and untie my silver biker's bell from the handlebars. This bell that Sally bought me is reputed to ward off evil spirits and bring good luck. It certainly worked. I will be sorry to part company with my trusty traveling companion; I am going to miss this Road King's thumpy, lumpy exhaust note.
Three Harleys, Three Aussies, One American Dream  Stephen Starling  p362

[Biggles]

It is, in many ways, a demanding way to travel. On a bike, you are exposed to the elements, the vagaries of the roads and the folly of fellow road users. On a bike, there is nowhere to hide. If it is hot, you swelter; if it rains, you get wet; and the biting cold of winter can leave your fingers aching in minutes. On the worst days, rain, cold, cross winds, ice, hail and fog take their turns to make each hour in the saddle a trial of perseverance.
It also has its own delights and joys. On a motorcycle, our lives are disentangled from our usual world, to the extent that everything that matters to us can be packed into a couple of small bags. Everything we need to survive is within arm's reach. The average backpacker carries twice as much, but on a bike there is nowhere to pack anything more and, since we have no space, no need to purchase anything new. Our motto— if you buy a tissue, throw out a tissue— is more than a cute adage. On the road, it is the simple rule we live by, and gives the journey an elegant, joyful logic. You don't need stuff to be happy.
High Road Rider  Mike Hannan  p10

[Biggles]

Then there is the motorcycle itself. Each bike we have owned has had a personality as distinctive as any living creature, and our relationship with each one has been a familiar mix of pleasure and forbearance. We remember a Ducati that just stopped (possibly for a cappuccino), an AJS that thumped its way to and from work with grim determination, an Indian Chief as tough and reliable as when it was built in 1944, and our BMW R1150GS Adventure, known as Elephant. Even the bike we used on this journey, a Suzuki DL 1000, purchased second-hand in London, had a special character all its own: she is plain, reliable and sure-footed. For us, every motorcycle journey involves three parties, all of whom need to work together. Each has distinct but overlapping responsibilities, vital to the survival of the whole, and in the end our rolling mass is almost a single entity: 450kg of aluminium, flesh, steel and Cordura. It is an ungainly mix of human and machine. In part, it is this synergy that structures our lives and makes our journey special.
High Road Rider  Mike Hannan  pp10-11

[Biggles]

We knew it would take some time for us to fully appreciate the experience we'd had. My simple recounting of our time there does not begin to touch on what it was really all about, what we took away from it and how we felt about returning one day. At first, no matter how we looked at it, the TT was an anachronism, an event left over from another time that had somehow survived, like a hidden valley of dinosaurs. Certainly, it could not be run in the US, Australia, England or almost anywhere else in the developed world. Health and safety concerns aside, so many people having so much fun with so little supervision simply isn't allowed anymore!
Initially, I took the cynical view that the self-governing Isle of Man allowed the event to continue purely for the income it generated each year. But if that had been the extent of our thoughts it would have sold the TT, and all of those who love it, short. The longer we stayed on the island, the more we became aware of and involved with the history of the race.
High Road Rider  Mike Hannan  pp26-7

[STeveo]

So true.

[Biggles]

We had ridden over the Grossglockner Hochalpenstrasse a few years before during an earlier trip to Austria. That had been a dark, brooding day, and the pass had been closed by snow the previous evening. There were few other vehicles at the toll gates paying the 18 euros to use the road, and it was so wide and empty that we'd blasted our bike away from the gates at full throttle, enjoying the chance to use all of its substantial acceleration. It was an amazing ride to the top over an excellent surface, with a mix of tight hairpin bends and open sweepers climbing relentlessly to the pass. I remember gathering up a few slower riders easily between the corners and arriving at the mist-shrouded top, the Edelweissspitze, grinning like a loon. Jo took a photo of me standing beneath the Edelweissspitze sign, rugged up against the cold with my beanie pulled down over my ears and the clouds hanging heavy behind.
High Road Rider  Mike Hannan  p63

[Biggles]

The Oberalp had been much lauded on the bikers' forums and it was certainly not to be missed. We rode it several more times before the summer was through. But in our view not the 'best sweeper road in the world' it was claimed to be. For us, that award had been won years before by an unnamed road in the Anti-Atlas Mountains of Morocco, which managed to combine wonderful engineering, a good surface, almost no traffic, fantastic scenery, good food along the way, no constabulary and clear winter weather perfect for a motorcycle. Such is the pathetic lot of the adventure rider that we eulogise a long-lost mountain road!
High Road Rider  Mike Hannan  p110

[Biggles]

The road up to the pass was rough, pot-holed and narrow. So narrow that passing a car was impossible, or at least dangerous, unless the car cooperated by moving over in the occasional wider section of road. Unfortunately, my journey coincided with that of a classic sports car club. There were about a dozen cars all built in the 1950s or 1960s, most of them wandering along in a daze at such a low speed I needed to slip Just Sue's clutch on some switchbacks. It wasn't that they were travelling so slowly that caused my aggravation. Rather, it was that they seemed completely oblivious to the drivers behind who weren't quite so relaxed. For my part, I gently nudged Just Sue past one car after another generally slipping around the outside in a tight corner where there was plenty of visibility. Most drivers in the Alps are very considerate and make room as soon as it is safe to do so. These cars, however, were on a touring holiday and clearly didn't know, or didn't care about, the usual rules. They were too busy talking and pointing out the scenery to notice what was behind.
High Road Rider  Mike Hannan  p144

[Biggles]

Maria gave me a detailed brief on the apartment and the area's attractions in Italian. I understood nothing but nodded and said "si" at the appropriate junctures. Then, while she was busy explaining something of vital importance about the refrigerator, I noticed a framed photo on the wall. When I looked closely it was of Maria, with a man I took to be her husband, both in riding leathers, posed around a shiny Moto Guzzi by the Arctic Circle marker in Norway.
I let out an exclamation and we both stood there grinning and smiling at the recognition that we were not strangers after all but lost members of a common tribe and that we did, indeed, have a common language. I explained that Jo was travelling with me but had to return home for her mother's funeral and that she would rejoin me soon and gave Maria the link to our website.
High Road Rider  Mike Hannan  p149-50

[Biggles]

We often come home from an adventure to have our friends ask how the holiday was, as though living on the back of a bike for a few months or a year is like a Mediterranean cruise or a week at the beach. Our response is usually to say that if what we do is a holiday, then we need to get back to work for a rest! Maybe it is a conceit on our part but we have come to think of a journey as a special activity not related to a holiday; something that has its own rewards that need to be earned through application. The stories we hear along the way have as much value for the way they have been discovered as for their content. For us, even the simple things we discover through our own efforts are of worth while the profound loses its impact when it is handed out with a cut lunch. Shielded by hubris like this, our journeys are guided mainly by our curiosity and willingness to investigate and made worthwhile by what we discover, often about ourselves, along the way.
High Road Rider  Mike Hannan  p195

[Biggles]

I changed over the brake pads in a few moments in the driveway of the villa but there was nowhere to park Just Sue sufficiently level to allow me to change the oil. My solution was to pack the equipment for the job into the back-box and ride a few hundred metres to a section of road with a wide flat parking area, littered with rubbish. I got organised quickly and had already dropped the oil into a plastic basin purchased cheaply for the purpose when the Municipal Police arrived in their little blue car demanding to know why I was dumping my waste in their pristine waterway. I resisted the temptation to point out that the stream was so polluted that a little of Just Sue's precious bodily fluid wouldn't make any difference, explained why I was there and then went about decanting the oil into several empty
containers I had with me and stowing them in the back box. While this was going on, two more police cars arrived bringing the total number of officers supervising me to five. Two of them, for some reason I didn't understand, started to lend a hand while the others stood by talking on their mobile phones. By the time I was cleaned up and ready to go the discussions with head office were in animated overdrive so I started the bike, thanked the two officers who had assisted and caught the attention of the guy who seemed to be the most senior. I smiled and indicated that I was done and leaving and that the area was the same rubbish tip it had been when I arrived. He stopped talking and stared at me for a moment, then waved me away with a shrug. As I dawdled up the road I slapped Just Sue on the tank.
"That was a mistake, old girl," I said out loud. Just Sue just purred on as a bike should with a belly full of new oil and some nice new brakes. "We better not do that again."
High Road Rider  Mike Hannan  pp202-3

[Biggles]

The mountains had, however, affected us deeply. It was not just the terrifying beauty of the place, mountains (and great deserts) elsewhere share something of that aura. What sets the Alps apart is the stories they contain. I have often said that the most beautiful place I have been was the Tanami Desert in north-western Australia. It is stunningly beautiful and frighteningly flat and empty. There is a place near the centre of that desert where you can stand on a slight hill and turn through 360 degrees to observe a flat horizon with no other rise in the ground and not even a substantial tree to break the line of ice blue sky. It is a place where you can feel your own isolation and frailty in your bones. But the stories of the desert are hardly accessible. They are ancient stories blown on the red sands and buried in the very earth itself. In the Alps, the stories are everywhere, often competing for your attention and always sparking curiosity.
High Road Rider  Mike Hannan  p210

[Biggles]

Dave
I can also remember him wrapping himself in cabbage leaves to stay warm in the winter when he rode his BSA Bantam motorcycle to work. He'd come home stinking, but at the time it didn't seem particularly out the ordinary; it was just something my dad did, and he didn't give a monkey's what other people might think. It certainly never bothered me either, because I was always much more interested in the bike itself than what my dad wore when he rode it.
He got a Norton Dominator after that, which was his dream bike, but unfortunately he only lived the dream for a few weeks. Dad was starting it up one day when it kicked back, catapulting him over the backyard wall. He ruptured his Achilles tendon in the process and so he was forced to downgrade to a Puch electric scooter - he could no longer kick up a motorcycle to start it - and this was the only bike he could operate with his damaged tendon. Not having a bike at all was unthinkable; nothing would keep Dad off two wheels.
The Hairy Bikers  Blood, Sweat and Tyres  Si King and Dave Myers  p8

[Biggles]

Simon
My uncle George, who was a close family friend, was the one who was really bike-mad when I was a bairn, and I aspired to have motorbikes like him one day. He and my auntie Hilda lived in Lamesley, near a big crossroads that was notorious for crashes, often involving lads on scooters and motorbikes riding up from the Team Valley estate. Auntie Hilda always had old bedsheets ripped up ready to use as bandages, and Uncle George would pick up pieces of broken bikes off the road and put them in his back garden, which I loved to investigate.
Hearing about all the accidents didn't put me off at all; quite the contrary. I simply could not wait to ride a motorbike. It wasn't just the thought of hearing the roar of the engine and zooming down the street ten times faster than I did on my push-bike. I loved everything about motorbikes and scooters, even when they were standing still. It was a thrill for me just to smell the oil and petrol or touch the shiny spokes on the wheels of Uncle George's bikes.
The Hairy Bikers  Blood, Sweat and Tyres  Si King and Dave Myers  p44

[Biggles]

Simon
A lad called Alan Smith who lived a couple of doors and had a bright yellow Suzuki TS250, and I'd watch him tear off down the road on it. "How jammy is he?" I'd think, longing to have a go.
"Can you ride?" Alan asked me out of the blue one day, when he saw me admiring his bike.
"Yeh," I lied, caught up in the thrill of the moment.
"Want a go?"
"Wey aye, man!"
Alan was a neighbour and, with me being a big lad, he clearly had no idea I was only fourteen years old. I wasn't going to enlighten him, and I got myself on the bike and rode it up the street and back again before he could change his mind. It was bloody terrifying and electrifying all at once. God knows how I managed to stay upright because I didn't have any clue what I was doing and the bike weighed a ton, but somehow I survived with my with pride, and Alan's bike, intact.
"Thanks!" I beamed, giving Alan a grin as wide as the Tyne bridge. "That was mint!"
I was totally bitten. Feeling the power of the engine and breathing in the smell of oil and fuel just blew my head off. Skint or not, I was going to get a motorbike of my own one day, but for the time being I had to make do with buses.
The Hairy Bikers  Blood, Sweat and Tyres  Si King and Dave Myers  p71

[Biggles]

Dave
Not long after Mam died I split up with the girlfriend I had at the time. She asked me to pick her up after work and take her to a party one night and I was absolutely knackered but foolishly agreed. Unfortunately, I was riding my Benly along Queen's Gate when I lost concentration and had my first motorbike accident, T-boning a Jaguar XJ6. A cloud of goose-down from the big padded coat I was wearing floated down the Cromwell Road and my girlfriend ran out of where she worked to see the feathers flying and me lying in the road beside my smashed bike. My glasses had disintegrated and I was in a hell of a state, but as soon as she saw I was alive and could just about hobble to my feet, my girlfriend declared: "Oh! I thought you were dead but you're not! That's good. I'll go to the party on my own then."
Needless to say, that was the end of that relationship. It was the end of my bike, which was written off. All I was left with was cracked ribs and lots of bruising, and I had to take three weeks off work to recover.
The Hairy Bikers  Blood, Sweat and Tyres  Si King and Dave Myers  p126

[Biggles]

Dave
As soon as I was well enough Si phoned me up to organise a get-together, as he thought it would do me good. I ended up going down to Newcastle, and one day we passed the local Harley Davidson dealer, Just Harleys, on our travels. Si and I both looked at each other.
"Shall we?" we giggled mischievously. We asked if we could go for a test drive, and to our surprise we were immediately given two gleaming Harleys.
We were both smitten by the bikes, and even though we really couldn't afford them, we ended up buying one each on hire purchase. I got a Heritage Springer Softail and Si had a Springer Softail that had a bit of a chopper vibe.
"Janes gonna kill me!" Si said, but actually she was brilliant about it. She'd just lined herself up a new job as a carer after years of staying home with the kids, and she felt pleased that she was bringing in some money, and that Si had got a treat like this after all the hard work he'd put in over the years.
The Hairy Bikers  Blood, Sweat and Tyres  Si King and Dave Myers  pp174-5

[Biggles]

Dave
Soon after that me and Si went off on a fishing trip on the new bikes, heading north to Inverness then via Ullapool to Loch Assynt, and on to Cape Wrath - the north-western-most tip of Britain - and up towards Loch Drumbeg. It was an epic trip. Si had no windscreen on his bike and so I deliberately rode through cowpats when I was in front, hoping he'd catch one in the kisser. On the open road his Harley vibrated so much the lenses were shaken out of his glasses. He only had his sunglasses as back-up, and so we couldn't ride anywhere in the dark.
One day we caught so much trout we ended up swapping some for shepherd's pie in a local hostelry, which was lush. The next morning I woke up to a snorting sound and looked out of the window of our B&B to see a right kerfuffle going on.
"Kingie! A Highland cow's trying to mount me Harley!" I cried.
"Eee you're right, man! I think it's the fringed leather saddle-bags that have confused it!"
We ran outside in our underpants and had quite a task un-coupling the randy beast from the £13K bulk of chrome, steel and new leather. All three of us must have been a sight for sore eyes.
The Hairy Bikers  Blood, Sweat and Tyres  Si King and Dave Myers  pp175-6

[Biggles]

Dave
We picked up our motorbikes in Windhoek, at a BMW garage, and were offered 650s but we asked for 1200s so we could look good as we rode across the Namibian desert. This was a massive mistake, as neither of us had ridden off-road or on sand before, and we soon found out you had to go at 80 kph or you just fell off. This required enormous concentration and energy on such big bikes, and we fell off regularly anyhow, which was physically and psychologically crippling. At one point Si just shot off his bike, did a cartwheel and blotted out the sun, leaving a mushroom cloud of sand in his wake. Every time he came off I did too, and vice versa.
"Bloody hell, Si, we re like lemmings jumping off a cliff," I said.
"You're not wrong. What were we thinking of, Dave? This is madness!"
The river beds were our nemesis. The only way to get through was to ride faster than your right mind told you to and get the bike on a plane, just like a speedboat on water. In theory this keeps the front wheel up and the rear wheel tractoring through the soft ground, but it was incredibly difficult to do, and when you fell off it was like being hit in the chest with a three-ton bag of flour.
We were black, blue and sweating like pigs in leather blankets by the end of it. We did more than a thousand kilometres across the desert by the time we finished, travelling to the very north of Namibia.
The Hairy Bikers  Blood, Sweat and Tyres  Si King and Dave Myers  pp214-5