Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Kev Murphy]

Forgiven, time out for holiday was expected

[Biggles]

"There is a Honda Pan European 1100 for sale," Ned told me with a pleading look in his eyes. You know that 'little boy lost' look. Need I say more, and all at once we were emptying the coffers and buying a proper touring bike with lots of luggage space. This was an absolute requirement! Sacrifices only go so far. One bright Sunday morning there we stood in our 'Sunday best' as we had been to church, in the clothing department of the bike shop. We bumped into a colleague of mine who was startled to say the least to see me standing in high heels, smart skirt etc with a crash helmet on my head! I stomped around with heavy jacket and trousers and wondered what I had got myself into. Ned was full of beaming smiles and satisfaction. Another biker was 'born again'.
Just Us Two  Rosalie Marsh  p2

[Kev Murphy]

 

[STeveo]

 

[Biggles]

Rosie stood transfixed. She had wandered into the showroom out of the way, while Ned looked at the display of kit car models. His invitation followed on from an earlier interest in them, and there it was- the most beautiful creation you could hope to see. It sat majestically in all its glory, all gleaming black and chrome. It was huge with deeply padded leather seats, controls and knobs worthy of an aeroplane cockpit. It waited patiently on its podium just waiting for them to fall in love with it. Ned came to see where she was.
"What is it?" Rosie asked in wonder.
"It is a Gold Wing," Ned replied and proceeded to point out all its features to this ignoramus. It was a gleaming brand new Honda Gold Wing 1500cc touring motorbike, complete with King and Queen seats and, more importantly, bags of space for luggage and tailored bags in the panniers and trunk. They had reduced the price for a cash sale and although a bargain, was still more than they had.
Just Us Two  Rosalie Marsh  p5

[Biggles]

Taking the motorways out of north Wales, we eventually reached the Dartford Crossing. Stopping at the Thurrock Services before the bridge, I was surprised when, on coming out to wash my hands, two 'well-heeled' ladies appeared startled at the sight of me, and, abandoning their quest to dry their hands, rushed out. I had a little rueful laugh to myself. It is easy to stereotype people, and there I was a respectable wife, mother and businesswoman, being shunned by strangers. We were riding a machine that cost thousands of pounds, wore gear which was not cheap, and I was being treated as if I was a potential threat. I told Ned when I met him in the carpark that I would love to go in dressed in biking gear and come out dressed in business suit and high heels, carrying my briefcase. That would have made them think!
Just Us Two  Rosalie Marsh  p30

[Biggles]

However, as a nice Frenchman had tried to lift our pannier off with his bumper bar when on a roundabout outside Biarritz, we ended up at the Police station in town the following morning to report the incident.
The local Gendarmerie next door to the hotel had closed the previous evening and in any case, when they opened the following morning they were not interested and didn't speak English. The hotel receptionist was excellent in using the telephone for us to sort out this problem as there was very little English spoken in this part of the country. This is one good reason for using a recognised chain of hotels- as well as learning French!
Thus, we saw Biarritz in the end, which had been the original reason for going that route to our destination. It did not live up to expectations, and was more like a very grand but faded English seaside town. The Frenchman had insisted that it was our fault and had become very voluble when we showed him the damage. As soon as he saw that I was filming, he hastily got back in his car and drove off. In the Police station in Biarritz, we played back the film I had taken on the camcorder for the Police Inspector who spoke a little but welcome English. In the event this proved useful for our insurance company when we got back home, as the man had put in a claim against us!
Just Us Two  Rosalie Marsh  p45

[Biggles]

On the downward ride, I noticed that the ski-chairlifts were parallel with the road! Fighting nausea and hanging on while offering up a prayer, (Ned was OK, he was concentrating and in control) down to Ordino in driving rain. Do not forget that at this point, we were still novices in this type of riding. The planned route back took us around the back of another mountain and northwards to Soldeau, thus avoiding Andorra la Vella. (Suffice to say that I could only pen this part of the story once I had had a brandy and stopped shaking). Onwards and upwards through a pine clad mountain; through thunder, lightning and hailstones, with flooding on the hairpin bends, we dodged the stones which were being washed down to the road. Ned wears spectacles and had to have his visor up as he was steaming up and he could not see in the rain.
Just Us Two  Rosalie Marsh  p50

[Biggles]

The headphones on the helmets are partly what makes touring enjoyable as you can chat about things. However, they are not always a blessing. Especially not when you hear a very, very, loud voice in your helmet, shaking you out of your reverie.
It was not far to Calais, but the signposting was a little hit and miss and caused a problem, in that we didn't agree what the signposts had said. This caused a little contempt between us; the sound of my sobbing down the intercom culminated in my pulling out my intercom plug!
"Speak to me Rosie," Ned shouted desperately.
(Ned could not speak any French and understood even less.) But of course, I could not hear. Eventually I relented and I restored normal communication channels by plugging the intercom back in.
"That will teach you to shout at me Ned!" I retorted.'
Just Us Two  Rosalie Marsh  p90

[Biggles]

We walked along the river and took a trip on the London Eye before walking up the Mall, onto Piccadilly and lunch again at Henry's Cafe Bar. The City&Guilds Dinner in the city was excellent. We were dressed up to the nines. We had arrived in biking gear and as we tripped out of the hotel- I in a new long cream dress with a slit up the side teamed with a Guipure lace jacket and gold zebra stripe shoes and Ned in dinner jacket and black tie- I could not help reflecting what a contrast we made to the 'biker image'! It just goes to show that you can't make assumptions or judge a book by its cover.
The following morning, we packed up our glad rags and, with a huge sigh of satisfaction at what we had achieved, kitted ourselves up in our riding gear ready for the last two hundred miles home. All in all, it was a stupendous trip of approximately three thousand seven hundred miles. This 'out of this world' adventure was at times scary, covered a wide spectrum of demanding dramatic Spanish terrain, embraced extremes of heat and cold, and demanded much of the Gold Wing- which did not let us down. It stretched us to the limit as we plunged into the deep well of our inner resources, relying only on each other in a strange country with limited Spanish as we travelled- just us two- and proved that dreams can come true.
You too can follow your dream but sometimes you have to give things a helping hand.
Just Us Two  Rosalie Marsh  pp91-2

[Biggles]

As Ned is forever nosey and can't resist getting his hands dirty, he had taken off the panniers to have a look at what work would have to be done if he went down the 'triking' route. It was not a pretty sight. Ned had found a trike firm in Devon who converted many different types of bikes but had never done a Gold Wing before. Other firms had cornered the market for this but Ned found them too expensive. After many telephone calls, the firm agreed to use our bike as a prototype and, subject to price and Ned being happy with workmanship, we decided to  go down this route.
Just Us Two  Rosalie Marsh  p123

[Biggles]

The sun rose now in the sky and the landscape changed to a more scenic and hilly variety. I was able to catch, on the camcorder, our shadows on the road from the rising sun which shows just us two battling it out together. We had lunch near Boulogne and a group of pensioners on a coach trip sent us on our way with a 'thumbs up' sign. We had their approval! Laughing, I returned with 'two thumbs up' as we headed off for the last few miles to Dunkirk and our ferry to Dover, family in the South West of England and then the wonderful hills of North Wales and home.
On the ferry, we settled ourselves just in time for Ned to watch the motor racing on the wide screen TV that was, for him, the perfect end to our trip. As we made our way back to the car deck, we paused outside to look at the looming land. Oh, look Ned, there is our trike! Ned was not a happy bunny as he realised that where we had been directed- behind bikes even though we had booked on as a car- was out in the open. He was fuming to think of all the salty sea spray, which must be giving his baby a shower. He calmed down a little when he reflected that it not much different from riding along the promenade at Blackpool where the sea spray crashes in over the railings.
Just Us Two  Rosalie Marsh  pp161-2

[Biggles]

From my living room window, I watched the snowline move down the mountains and retreat again in the spring. Ice climbs formed, ripened and vanished as I huddled before the cold, blue glow of my television.
By early summer, my "tripod of misery" - like the ice - began to crack and falter. My ankle would soon heal and I suppressed boredom by getting a job.
My loneliness, however, proved stubborn and adaptive. It evolved from a sharp pain to a dull ache that at once filled me and pressed against me, making every breath I drew an act of volition. Loneliness fed on my inertia and grew stronger as the summer dragged on. But if I had learned anything from watching ninja movies ail winter, I had learned this: a successful warrior uses his opponent's strength to defeat him.
With loneliness comes a certain freedom. Freedom enables mobility and independence. There. I had a new tripod. And what embodies these three elements better than a motorcycle? I formulated a simple, ambiguous plan - to ride south and live happily ever after.
Motorcycle Therapy  Jeremy Kroeker  p2

[Biggles]

"140 pesos," he replied, "for six hours."
I looked at Trevor. It sounded like he'd said 140 pesos for six hours. Now, why would we pay for six hours? That would only give us until midnight.
"How much for the entire night?" I persisted.
"That's not possible," the manager said. "Only six hours." Of course, to the streetwise traveller, it would have been apparent what sort of motel this was. Even the name suggested what we, two naive boys from the Canadian prairies, were slowly beginning to understand: the Mirage Motel, with its flashing pink and blue neon sign and private parking stalls, was a den of the sexually damned. That explained the salacious stare of the moderately attractive girl, who now stood uncomfortably close to me, and why she kept getting closer.
We felt our innocence ebbing away with every moment and opted for a hasty retreat, but my bike wouldn't start. Like zombies from a bad movie, the unholy trio crept closer and closer as I tried to engage the engine. Trevor had to give me a push to start the bike and we fatalistically sped into the black heart of the city to meet certain peril.
The streets became darker, busier, and our stress levels began to spike. Then Trevor spotted a low-budget hotel. He guarded the bikes while I inspected the room, but realistically, as long as I found no dead hookers on the floor, it would do just fine. The manager let us wheel our bikes inside the hotel for the night.
Motorcycle Therapy  Jeremy Kroeker  p12

[Biggles]

The sound of our engines rising and falling to negotiate sharp curves and steep hills added fuel to the flame of exhilaration within. Wind whistled off my helmet and snapped at my blue nylon jacket. Perhaps, more than anything, it's the sound of riding a motorbike that makes you feel alive and transforms every man into a boy.
As I approached a sharp hairpin turn, I could see Trevor below, riding in the opposite direction. It was a perfect moment. I became acutely aware that this snapshot in time would remain in my mind forever. At that moment, there was nothing else I would rather have been doing anywhere on earth. It took me 30 years to learn this, but perfect moments happen more than we realize. The trick is to recognize them when they appear and really live in them. You can ruin a perfect moment by worrying about the past or the future. Perfect moments fade - there will always be time to worry when they are gone.
Motorcycle Therapy  Jeremy Kroeker  p16

[Biggles]

Trevor and I fired up our bikes with the push of a button. Some of the soldiers looked confused and mimicked the motion of a kick-start engine with their legs. Obviously impressed with the machines, they suddenly wanted to see us do wheelies. They raised imaginary handlebars above their heads, and pointed at the highest number on our speedometers, then at us.
Now, the highest number on the speedometer of a KLR 650, measured in kilometres, is 180. The guy in charge of speedometer design for Kawasaki either had little communication with the engineers, or badly misinterpreted what they told him about the machine. Then again, numbers on motorcycle speedometers are notoriously arbitrary. Larger numbers indicate a higher rate of speed than smaller numbers, but accuracy never factors into the equation. They might as well make speedometers with the symbol of a rabbit and turtle to indicate fast and slow, like old John Deere lawn tractors.
I'm not sure what would happen if I ever tried to bury the needle on my speedometer, but I imagine I would be vibrated into unconsciousness long before I succeeded. I pointed to a more reasonable number - 80 - and nodded my head, hoping to convince the soldiers that we would never violate traffic laws in their fine country. They knew as well as I did that the only traffic law in Mexico was an abridged version of The Origin of Species.
Motorcycle Therapy  Jeremy Kroeker  p38

[Biggles]

Following a two-week break, Trevor and I felt refreshed and eager ride. We still irritated each other, but our partnership had grown stronger and we even had some goals: we would at least try to ride to Panama.
We finished packing and rode into the streets of Xela, streets we knew like the backs of our hands. Within five minutes we got lost. We circled by known landmarks along familiar streets and past many friends, Ohad, Jordan, Rudy and Otra. Their enthusiasm at seeing us waned with each lap of our misguided farewell tour until they eventually pretended not to see us graciously saving us further embarrassment. When we finally broke the code and escaped the city, Trevor executed a celebratory motorcycle crash by grabbing his front brake while cornering on gravel.
"Did you see that?" he asked in astonishment. How could I have missed it? He'd crashed about six feet in front of me.
Motorcycle Therapy  Jeremy Kroeker  p73

[Biggles]

A warm wind snapped at my nylon jacket as we rode along El Salvador's majestic coastal highway. It was another perfect moment. I could see Trevor riding in front of me, silhouetted against the glistening Pacific, when suddenly, something eclipsed the sun. Slowly, deliberately, I turned my gaze to check my rear-view mirror and gasped at what I saw.
The frame of my mirror contained nothing but one enormous headlight of a transport truck that was riding my tail and closing the distance. That guy is so close I can nearly touch his bumper, I thought and, for reasons I can't explain, my body considered that a command.
I twisted around to face the truck, keeping my right hand steady on the throttle to maintain our delicate equilibrium. Resting my torso on the backpack strapped to my rear seat and reaching as far back as I could with my left arm, I extended my index finger. I could not touch the bumper, so (and this I really can't explain), I gently rolled back the throttle. The look of bewilderment and horror on the driver's face as he slammed on his brakes was very entertaining and I instantly had plenty of room.
Motorcycle Therapy  Jeremy Kroeker  p80

[Biggles]

A wildly drunken young man in a dirty white dress shirt sat beside us on the concrete bench. He eagerly welcomed us to his country and extended a filthy hand in friendship. Rather than shaking his hand I signalled with an enthusiastic thumbs-up, implying that such a greeting was customary amongst Canadians. I offered him the stub of my burning cigar. He mimicked the greeting and reluctantly accepted the stogie.
The man examined the smouldering gift tentatively from every angle before putting it timidly to his lips. Why he suddenly abandoned caution and drew on the stogie like he was trying to suck the water from a swimming pool I'll never know, but it triggered an ejaculation of saliva and mucus from nearly every observable orifice. The man embarked on a journey of convulsive hacking so violent that it may have deposited him momentarily on the doorstep of the spirit world, for after regaining his composure and sitting down, he stared at me with hollow eyes as if he had seen the face of God. In the ensuing moments of quiet reflection, the man may have thought of a question for God, because he slowly raised the cigar to his mouth and took another outrageously large hit with similar results, once more dancing recklessly on the thin line separating life and death.
Again he recovered and took his seat beside me, this time smiling and shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what had just happened. He politely offered me the cigar. When I refused to accept it, he extinguished it with his fingers and tucked it neatly in his shirt pocket, presumably in the event he ever wished to rephrase his question. With a wave and a nod, he stumbled to the ornamental fountain in the middle of the park, plunged his head into the stagnant water and came up with a mouthful, gargling.
Motorcycle Therapy  Jeremy Kroeker  p100

[Biggles]

The carving Einer gave me sat on my desk glaring at me with angry wooden eyes. Its perfection reminded me of my flaws: flaws that I've always had, flaws that I may rage against but never change. Still, I reasoned, as any therapist will tell you, recognizing a problem is the first step towards correcting it. What had I accomplished? I could see a little better who I was, and who I wanted to be. A year went by before the lines of communication re-opened between Trevor and me with an e-mail that simply read, "Hey. Are you still alive?" The reply: "Yeah. Do you still have your bike?" Intermittent e-mails and phone calls ensued and, 18 months after I'd dropped him in Manitoba, Trevor rode his KLR, laden with gear, to Canmore on his way to the west coast.
Seeing him pull into my driveway almost made me cry. I felt ashamed of how we'd parted ways and eager to make amends. Could Trevor forgive me? He got off the bike and we exchanged one of those awkward handshakes that turn into a manly hug with lots of backslapping. The next day I loaded some basic gear onto my bike and we rode south into the mountains.
Motorcycle Therapy  Jeremy Kroeker  pp114-5

[Biggles]

Ted Bishop
I was working on a book called "The Social Life of Ink" and when I learned about a man in Utah who made Gutenberg-replica printing presses, I had to go see him. The printer, Steve Pratt, refused email and avoided the phone. This seemed like a good excuse to extend a ride: I was going to the Tynda motorcycle rally anyway and thought, Easy: I'll bop down to Eugene, Oregon, nip across to Utah, and swing home to Edmonton. A big triangle with a flat base. Somehow I had failed to notice the Pratt ranch was far south of Eugene, and that I would be crossing the great Nevada desert.
But, of course, the only way I get anywhere interesting is through willful self-delusion - an essential character trait for both motorcyclists and writers. If you allowed yourself to think realistically about either enterprise, you would never start.
Motorcycle Messengers  Jeremy Kroker (ed)  p22

[Biggles]

Mark Richardson
So I fixed up the Bajaj 100 as best I could and then proudly showed it to the couriers. They admired the tightness of the chain, and nodded enthusiastically when I showed them how easily the levers pulled the cables. They stood back when I sat astride the bike and kicked its engine to life and they watched politely as I roared up the road, the revs rising higher and higher. And higher. And higher.
I rode back more slowly. "It won't shift out of first," I said. "It must be a problem with the clutch." I parked the bike and squinted at everything that could be squinted at, but all seemed fine. I worked the cable and poked at things, then got back on the bike and rode it back up the road. Again, the couriers watched politely and listened to the little engine scream against its red line, and again, they watched me return, and they looked sad.
"I guess its the transmission," I shrugged. "I should choose another bike."
A courier stepped forward. "May I try?" he asked, and I waved him toward the bike. He sat on it, kicked the kickstarter, listened to the engine, then set off up the road. I heard the motor's pitch rise and fall with each confident gear change, all the way to fourth. Then he turned around at the end of the road, put the bike into second and cruised gently back.
"I think, perhaps, you were using the pedal the opposite way," he told me with absolute courtesy, and of course he was right. The Bajaj was made in India and so its left pedal worked the rear brake and its right worked the gears. I already knew this, but even then, it was opposite to anything I'd ridden before: the gears were one push up, three pushes down. The courier had seen me jabbing the wrong way at the pedal when I wanted to shift into second, but had been too polite to mention it.
Motorcycle Messengers  Jeremy Kroker (ed)  pp30-1

[Biggles]

Sam Manicom
A whiff of wood smoke was the first hint that we were approaching a small village, then we were greeted by the bizarre sight of a crowd of people- men, women and children lining the road. They were dressed from head to toe in pure white robes and white turbans; black Arabic lettering decorated the long white banners that they were waving on poles. When the people saw us, the women started to ululate. Their high-pitched wailing seemed to rise and fall in an odd sort of harmony, and was clearly audible even over the noise of the bike and through my helmet. The crowd parted as we rode closer, and then the people swarmed around us. With obvious pride, a tray of purple-coloured drinks was proffered. It was one of those situations where refusal might well have offended. The juice was diluted pomegranate, and delicious, but after seeing the last village's water supply I wondered how long it would be before I fell ill. We thanked them as best we could and rode on, leaving a strangely confused crowd behind us.
The road continued to get rockier and the hills higher. At the next village we were greeted in much the same fashion, but this time a bellowing cow was dragged out in front of us. To our horror, its throat was cut with a large curved sword. Blood spurted out across the road and we kept on going. It was a little bit too bizarre for us to linger.
Motorcycle Messengers  Jeremy Kroker (ed)  p52

[Biggles]

Sandy Borden
When you ride as a family, you add a new, very personal variable to the mix of things that may affect your trip: you are taking your child on the road via two wheels. While this may not be the first choice for many families who like to travel, its certainly not out of the question. Some people have told us our mode of transportation is "dangerous", but we find it much more dangerous to cram a family into a small car and ask them to be patient for the next six to eight hours.
Jack is our decision-maker when it comes to pressing on or staying put. He is our rational voice in questionable moments. Knowing that the heat of the summer was going to be upon us, we made the decision to bypass the New Mexico portion of the ride. Asking our little man to bear the Arizona heat on our journey east just to say "We did it!" was unfair. To be honest, this was a bit hard for me and Terry. We wanted to say we did the entire route "just like everybody else". But we needed to remember one thing- we are not like everybody else.
Motorcycle Messengers  Jeremy Kroker (ed)  p59

[Biggles]

Paddy Tyson
In a handful of kilometres I was at it again; this was an even smaller crossing and one I could ride. Ha ha! Still nearly two hours of daylight and, by my reckoning, hardly 60 kilometres to go. I upped the pace. The crocs were history, the track was manageable, the bike was running well, my abilities were clearly invincible, and my desire for another beer was palpable.
Down a tunnel of vegetation another pathetic stream appeared, maybe five metres wide, but engulfed in shadow. The water was pleasantly calm. The heat remained intense, so I slowed on approach and then went for the cooling spray option, gently opening the throttle in second gear. I was in control and it felt good. No croc would dare take me on now, nor could those pesky, scaly dinosaurs keep me from my dinner.
They didn't need to.
As the indicators, headlight, and then clocks disappeared into that calm, deep water hole, everything changed.
Motorcycle Messengers  Jeremy Kroker (ed)  p69