Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

I found it difficult to move out of the only home I had ever known. Packing up my belongings I found my aluminium panniers and top box in the attic. Ten years had passed since I'd left on my journey, which now seemed like a distant memory. I'd hung on to the boxes for purely sentimental reasons, but now, thinking I'd never use them again and that no one gave a damn about my journey anyway, I found a skip outside the garage and sat them on top of a pile of builder's rubble. I stood there looking at the stickers of all the countries I'd ridden through. There were signatures, little notes and drawings that friends I had met along the way had scribbled onto them, cherished mementos of our time together. I took one last look, turned around and walked away.
Lone Rider  Elspeth Beard  p298

[Biggles]

I had become one with the bike and was now thinking the bike around the curves, instead of riding it. I felt like a dancer, dancing with a beautiful woman on stage, while the whole world watched in awe of our talent. When suddenly, there it was again, that gut wrenching sound of grinding metal.
"Oops!" I said more nervously. There was a long drag on the left foot peg and it was followed by a deep grinding sound that I could feel in the handlebars and seat. I knew even before the bike began to react that it was a hard-hit. I had gone past the upward, folding ability of the foot peg and had hit the frame! The bike now began a dance of its own.
Though unintentionally, I had hit the frame several times as a test rider and I was now glad for those experiences. I knew what was coming and how best to counteract it.
The bike suddenly felt like I was riding a dolphin. It was in a leaned over, high speed wobble with a hopping motion. Though there is no silver bullet solution to a problem like this, I knew if I handled this incorrectly, the outcome could be fatal.
From Faith To Trust On A Motorcycle  Samuel Jeppsen  p14

[Biggles]

There were three riders in my life that lit matches that ignited my fire for motorcycle adventures. The first match was lit by a a guy we called Mr. Beezer. We called him Mr. Beezer because he rode a 1965, 650 BSA twin. He lived on the street just north of me.  His BSA was one of the most beautiful bikes, I had ever seen.
It was candy apple red with a chrome gas tank and fenders. It had twin trumpet pipes that made an incredibly beautiful sound. I remember stopping and listening, every time he fired it up. You could almost say I had a love affair with Mr. Beezer's Beezer.
From Faith To Trust On A Motorcycle  Samuel Jeppsen  p67

[Biggles]

The second match on the smouldering embers was the 1969 television series, Then Came Bronson, with Michael Parks. Jim Bronson rode a red 1968, 900 Harley Sportster— a bike I dreamed of owning. The show was little more than a half hour Harley commercial, but I loved it. The beginning of the show always began with Bronson pulling up to a red light. He had one duffel bag tied to the handlebars and another to the rear seat. As Bronson waited for the light to change, in the lane next to him was a guy in his mid to late forties with a suit, tie and hat. He was seated in a station wagon. The look on his face told a thousand words. I can still recite their conversation.
Various shots of Bronson riding the open road are shown as the credits are mentioned at both the beginning and end of each program. Though I never saw the credits and remember very little about the stories themselves, I very distinctly remember the strong feelings I felt at both ends of each show, as I watched him ride. As I watched him, I was seeing me. My love affair with bikes and for adventure was now deeply embedded.
From Faith To Trust On A Motorcycle  Samuel Jeppsen  pp67-8

[Biggles]

The third match that made my passion for motorcycles completely unquenchable was lit by a lone rider I found alongside the road south of Anchorage, Alaska, in 1971.
I was standing next to a small river along the old, narrow, two lane, winding Seward highway, near Portage Glacier. My wife and I, along with some friends, were watching the salmon run. The salmon would come upstream in large schools. As we were watching the two to three foot long, orange and red coloured salmon swimming past, I heard the sound of a small motorcycle engine. I looked up and saw an older man wearing a white helmet and green insulated overalls. His little bike was heavily bagged up and he looked like he had been on the road quite a while. The bike with its huge bag tied on behind, looking more like a camel than a motorcycle, was a small green Cushman Eagle.
The Cushman Eagle was a 318cc, 8 horsepower, two speed scooter. It would do about forty mph- I had seen only about a half dozen of them. The US Military used them during WWII.
Like me, this traveller had stopped to watch the salmon run. Thinking that he was a local from the Kenai Peninsula and heading for Anchorage, I smiled and said, "Where are you from?"
He smiled back and said, "I'm on my way back to the Lower Forty-eight." He told me he had ridden all the way up here to Alaska. His Cushman had seventy-eight thousand miles on it. I asked him how old he was and if I remember correctly, he was fifty-nine. I was so impressed! His great love for adventure showed all over his face as he told me of his travels and of his journey to Alaska on his Cushman.
As I listened to him talk, I felt a burning inside me. I promised myself that one day, I too, was going to go on a great adventure such as his.
From Faith To Trust On A Motorcycle  Samuel Jeppsen  pp68-9

[Kev Murphy]

If you google Samuel Jeppsen, he has some great m/c road vids on YouTube. 

[Bodø]

Who are you quoting Kev?   

[Kev Murphy]

replying to Biggles post

[Biggles]

Harley-Davidson has long been known for its potato-potato sound. The sound was unique to Harley for a long time. So unique to the motorcycle industry and so sought after by V-twin riders, other manufacturers have gone to great lengths to copy the Harley sound. It stems from using a single pin crankshaft instead of what most manufacturers did, creating a crankshaft similar to bicycle peddles. Harley basically connected both pistons the same peddle, making it where both go up and down at the same time. It created a very odd sounding motor at an idle.
It was an idea Harley came up with while looking for the most economical way to produce a V-twin engine. The fluke decision created an arrhythmic sounding and shaking motorcycle. However, it also gave it a heartbeat and it was an instant hit.    
From Faith To Trust On A Motorcycle  Samuel Jeppsen  p79

[Biggles]

I bought a new 1976 Suzuki GT750, two-stroke, triple. It was faster than anything I had ever ridden. It was nicknamed the Water-Buffalo. It was the first successful water cooled, big-bore, production bike. My Zook was screamer! Also, it was Julie's favourite bike. I loved it too, but I was just not a lover of the "Multi's". To me, the bikes were too smooth and the engines didn't make the right sound. Especially mine! Being a big-bore, two-stroke, triple, though it was fast, the engine sounded like a can full of angry bees.
Almost every year, the Japanese turned out bigger and better bikes. The British bikes, BSA, Triumph and Norton, got to point they could no longer compete. One by one, Japanese quality and dependability drove them all out of business. Even Harley-Davidson was feeling the impact of the Japanese. The Japanese had something Harley didn't have- low cost, high dependability and trouble free motorcycles that didn't leak oil!
From Faith To Trust On A Motorcycle  Samuel Jeppsen  p107

[Biggles]

In early December of 2009, I heard about a ride- more of a race- where one thousand Harley-Davidson riders would take off from Key West, Florida. They would be winding through America, into Canada, up the ALCAN (Alaska-Canada) Highway, into Alaska and down the Kenai Peninsula to Homer. After the one hundred and ten mile ride from Key West to the mainland, it would be every man for himself, to Alaska. The riders would receive a new map about every fifteen hundred miles and the route would be wandering. There would be no freeways and the ride would be on secondary roads and rural routes.
It was called the Hoka Hey. The words are Sioux. They are the words Chief Crazy Horse used for his war cry that he yelled at the beginning of battle. There is no direct translation and many of the Sioux will tell you it means, "It's a good day to die". Other meanings could be, Let's do it, Let's go, Let's fight, On to victory or CHARGE! To the organisers of this motorcycle challenge, it meant, "It's a good day to ride".
From Faith To Trust On A Motorcycle  Samuel Jeppsen  p141

[Biggles]

We were to take off at 6:45 a.m. This had something to do with an Indian tradition about leaving at sunrise. At 5 a.m. most all were in position, lined up four abreast all throughout the Marriott parking lots. I was fifty yards from the start banner.
As I looked ahead of me and behind me, there were bikes as far as I could see. They went from the starting line, to me, to round the corner and out of sight as the parking lot continued around the building. All of us wanted to take off. Finally James Red Cloud decided to give the okay to start. The Key West PD began blocking off the intersections and let us leave as a group.
The dream had begun for all of us. The sound of hundreds of Harleys starting up and rumbling, as they were trying to warm up, broke the peace and quiet of the morning. I am sure that sound was annoying to some and I am sure that there were many patrons in the Marriott that were glad to see us go. But to me, it was music to my ears and it came as a shot of adrenaline to my heart.
From Faith To Trust On A Motorcycle  Samuel Jeppsen  p159

[Biggles]

I mounted up and headed toward the west Texas border. At about 1am I pulled over again for some much needed sleep. As I left the south behind and hit the Midwest, the humidity was now gone, but my rash was still there. It was now in full bloom. In fact it was so painful, I had to get a room and take a shower. I had been on the road for four days, without a shower or change of underwear and I could hardly walk or sit.
When I took my shower, I noticed that I had a huge bruise on my derriere about twelve inches around. It was the exact size of my Sportster seat. Along with the big bruise was a huge and painful rash. A shower, a lot of talcum powder and some clean underwear, made it where I could ride by morning. The pain was still there, but it was manageable and I was smiling again.
From Faith To Trust On A Motorcycle  Samuel Jeppsen  pp168-9

[Biggles]

As I rode the Alaskan Range, I saw only one other rider. He was a Hoka Hey rider by the name of Greg. I had noticed his unusual bike in Key West. It was a homemade looking Hardtail.
A Hardtail is a bike that has no rear suspension. I had seen Greg in Rock Springs, Wyoming. Being an interesting looking fellow, I went over to meet him. When I asked him what year his bike was, he said, "Take your pick! I made it from parts from almost every year." When I said, "It's a Hardtail! It doesn't have any suspension!" He smiled and pushed on his seat with his hand and showed me that his seat gave a little. He then said, "See... it has suspension!" I smiled back. His gas tank had been a 6.5 gallon tank. Because we were not allowed tanks larger than 6.25 gallons, Greg knocked two dents in his, to make it a 6.25. Hmmm! Very creative!
From Faith To Trust On A Motorcycle  Samuel Jeppsen  p196

[Biggles]

As my thoughts began to turn back to my own entrance into my own Promised Land, I realized I was smiling and inside I was jumping with sheer excitement. I began laughing out loud rode and raised my visor to feel the cool breeze in my face. As I was laughing, I thought, it's true- only a motorcycle rider can understand why a dog sticks his head out the car window! That thought made me laugh even more. As I continued riding, as the dream continued to unfold in front of me, it was all I could do to not begin yelling, "YAAA-HOOOU... YAAA-HOOOH!" I had been victorious and the moment was mine! In my mind, there were crowds and they were waving and cheering me on!! I was beaming from ear to ear as I rode along and looked into their faces.
I then began looking for Spit Road. Then finally I saw it.
First Spit Road, and then almost 8,500 miles after leaving Key West, there it was. The banner that read,
'Finish'
From Faith To Trust On A Motorcycle  Samuel Jeppsen  p202

[Biggles]

Nightly I'd run up from the hangar, upon the last stroke of work spurring my tired feet to be nimble. The very movement refreshed them, after the day-long restraint of service. In five minutes my bed would be down, ready for the night: in four more I was in breeches and puttees, pulling on my gauntlets as I walked over to my bike, which lived in a garage-hut, opposite. Its tyres never wanted air, its engine had a habit of starting at second kick: a good habit, for only by frantic plunges upon the starting pedal could my puny weight force the engine over the seven atmospheres of its compression.
Boanerges' first glad roar at being alive again nightly jarred the huts of Cadet College into life. "There he goes, the noisy so-and-so," someone would say enviously in every hut. It is part of an airman's profession to be knowing with engines: and a thoroughbred engine is our undying satisfaction. The camp wore the virtue of my Brough like a flower in its cap. Tonight Tug and Dusty came to the step of our hut to see me off. "Running down to Smoke, perhaps?" jeered Dusty; hitting at my regular game of London and back for tea on fine Wednesday afternoons.
The Mint  T. E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia)  p184

[Biggles]

Now for it. The engine's final development is fifty-two horse-power. A miracle that all this docile strength waits behind one tiny lever for the pleasure of my hand.
Another bend: and I have the honour of one of England's straightest and fastest roads. The burble of my exhaust unwound like a long cord behind me. Soon my speed snapped it, heard only the cry of the wind which my battering head split and fended aside. The cry rose with my speed to a shriek: while the air's coldness streamed like two jets of iced water into my dissolving eyes. I screwed them to slits, and focused my sight two hundred yards ahead of me on the empty mosaic of the tar's gravelled undulations.
Like arrows the tiny flies pricked my cheeks: and sometimes a heavier body, some house-fly or beetle, would crash into face or lips like a spent bullet. A glance at the speedometer seventy-eight*. Boanerges is warming up. I pull the throttle right open, on the top of the slope, and we swoop flying across the dip, and up-down up-down the switchback beyond: the weighty machine launching itself like a projectile with a whirr of wheels into the air at the take-off of each rise, to land lurchingly with such a snatch of the driving chain as jerks my spine like a rictus.
The Mint  T. E. Lawrence  pp184-5
*mph

[Biggles]

Once we so fled across the evening light, with the yellow sun on my left, when a huge shadow roared just overhead. A Bristol Fighter from Whitewash Villas, our neighbour aerodrome, was banking sharply round. I checked speed an instant to wave: and the slip-stream of my impetus snapped my arm and elbow astern, like a raised flail. The pilot pointed down the road towards Lincoln. I sat hard in the saddle, folded back my ears and went away after him, like a dog after a hare. Quickly we drew abreast, as the impulse of his dive to my level exhausted itself.
The Mint  T. E. Lawrence  p185

[Biggles]

They were hoping I was a flash in the pan, giving them best. Open went my throttle again. Boa crept level, fifty feet below: held them: sailed ahead into the clean and lonely country. An approaching car pulled nearly into its ditch at the sight of our race. The Bif was zooming among the trees and telegraph poles with my scurrying spot only eighty yards ahead. I gained though, gained steadily: was perhaps five miles an hour the faster. Down went my left hand to give the engine two extra dollops of oil, for fear that something was running hot: but an overhead JAP twin, super-tuned like this one, would carry on to the moon and back, unfaltering.
We drew near the settlement. A long mile before the first houses I closed down and coasted to the cross-roads by the hospital. Bif caught up, banked, climbed and turned for home, waving to me as long as he was in sight. Fourteen miles from camp, we are, here: and fifteen minutes since I left Tug and Dusty at the hut door.
The Mint  T. E. Lawrence  p186

[Biggles]

By then my belly had forgotten its lunch, my eyes smarted and streamed! Out again, to sluice my head under the White Hart's yard-pump. A cup of real chocolate and a muffin at the teashop: and Boa and I took the Newark road for the last hour of daylight. He ambles at forty-five and when roaring his utmost, surpasses the hundred. A skittish motor-bike with touch of blood in it is better than all the riding animals on earth, because of its logical extension of our faculties, and the hint, the provocation, to excess conferred by its honeyed untiring smoothness. Because Boa loves me, he gives me five more miles of speed than a stranger would get from him.
The Mint  T. E. Lawrence  p186

[Biggles]

Hell in this case is the Suzuka racetrack, designed back in 1962 by some fiendish Japanese, obviously intent on giving racers sleepless nights well into the next millennium.
The circuit is tough enough in itself but it's the viscous Japanese summer which makes the Suzuka Eight Hours bike racing's Dante's Inferno. As you get deeper, the ogres of physical and mental exhaustion grow like monsters before you and devils dance around, laughing hideously at the sight of a mere mortal venturing so far into their terrible territory.
The exhaustion may not be tangible but the devils certainly are - they are dressed in colourful suits, mounted on evil 145 horsepower motorcycles and their names are Rainey, Schwantz, Gardner, Doohan, Sarron, Magee and Kocinski. They fly past, taunting you with daredevil deeds that would mean inevitable disaster if you were foolish enough to attempt to emulate them. 
The Fast Stuff  Mat Oxley  pp10-11

[Bodø]

Riding in a Japanese summer would be pretty intense, unless you went to Hokkaidō.

[Biggles]

"Look guys," I say, "The bike is stuffed." They suggest I try adjusting the suspension. Great idea. Gilbert does another couple of laps and isn't impressed. They adjust the suspension again. "Look, the frame's bent, the bike's unrideable," I repeat.
"Ah, but Mr Kawai, your sponsor, is very important man," the team boss replies. The inference is that Mr Kawai (who, and I jest not, builds motorway bridges for a living) has ploughed a lot of money into this venture and while the bike might be bent, I am expected to go out and ride it until I, too, crash. Then if the bike is really broken, or if I have a broken leg, we can retire from the race with honour.
I may be a wretched coward, but today I prefer dishonour to pain. I insist we retire. Chief mechanic Chichan-San bursts into floods of tears. As is the Japanese custom he is taking all the blame on his shoulders. Gilbert and I offer Chichan our ripped-up leathers to placate him - as a rider's second skin, a
racing suit holds mythical value in Japan.
I metamorphose from racer to race watcher and swell spectator attendance from 159,999 to 160,000 (310,000 over three days). It's around 40 degrees and 80 per cent humidity and reclining by an air-con unit in the pits I consider the insanity of sitting on top of a red-hot motorcycle in such conditions. No doubt about it, they're all mad.
The Fast Stuff  Mat Oxley  p29

[Biggles]

The roadracer's version of tennis elbow and other physical peculiarities are the downside of this progress. Tendonitis (constriction of the nerve tissues caused by over-development of the arm muscles, leading to loss of feeling in the hands) is a common paddock malady. Check out the stars' wrist scars for evidence of corrective surgery.
And the sport's latest demands are creating a new breed of racing mutant. When Doohan clenches his right hand, as if to grip his NSR's handlebar, a gruesome lump of muscle protrudes from the underside of his forearm. The over-developed tissue is nicknamed a 'throttle bump' and is the result of resisting 1.5g while simultaneously juggling brake lever, throttle and handlebar pressure.
The throttle bump won't be the end of GP rider evolution. And while the arm and thigh muscles do the greatest share of the work, the rider's whole body is at fever pitch during a race, fighting the negative forces and working to take advantage of the positive forces. GP racing produces the kind of heart bpms and breath rates experienced by Olympic athletes. Which is why today's GP stars are a (relatively) clean-living bunch whose daily routine is built around their physical training programmes.
The Fast Stuff  Mat Oxley  pp34-5

[Biggles]

Racers are barely aware of the sensation of speed. Ask a racer how it feels to do 190mph and he'll just shrug his shoulders: the straights are the easy part, they're not thinking about riding in a straight line, they're thinking about the next few corners, that's the fun part. Michael Schumacher reckons that 'straights are boring' in an Fl car, but of course it's slightly different on a GP bike, you're nudging the double ton, head and shoulders stuffed under the screen, fingers delicately gripping the handlebars, hoping the bike doesn't break into a terminal speed wobble. I've done it on Doohan's Honda NSR500 and it is kinda scary, but you're so focused on the next corner that you don't have time to savour the sensation. The scenery doesn't even dissolve into a blur, because you're looking dead ahead, not to the side. It's just hellishly noisy, and pretty uncomfortable.
The Fast Stuff  Mat Oxley  p64