Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

The part of me that isn't enraged by a senseless death is trying to rationalise the process. It isn't easy, but I bring the theory of probability into the process. I conclude that my odds of living just one more day, even if I'm 140 years old, are close 100 percent. If I ride a bike tomorrow, as Dave did the other day, I might reduce my odds of living until sundown by one-thousandth of one percent. Do I proceed upon my journey and perhaps join him at trip's end, or should I forswear motorcycles altogether and slog down the highway only in an armoured vehicle?
In the end, what matters is how much you want to hang onto life while actually living it. How much will you pay to avoid a bad roll of the dice? The insurance isn't much- just drive a car. The true cost is more subtle and ironic, for by caving in to fear you ensure that you will die by inches instead of yards. You avoid what you desire, and the avoidance kills you just as surely as the risk, albeit more slowly.
The Higdon Chronicles Vol 2  Robert Higdon  pp180-1

[Biggles]

In the last week of the ride there was rarely a morning when I wouldn't troop out of the motel, load the CB750 up like a beast of burden, stick the key in the ignition, and ask, "Will this finally be the day I've waited for these 11 years, the day you finally do me in?" No, not that day. I felt ashamed of myself for my craven doubts. I thought of writing a poem about it or maybe giving it a name.
Arriving in Annapolis the Honda had racked- "wracked" may be a more appropriate verb- up almost 80,000 miles. I parked it behind my car. Every day I'd look at it. That machine, without doubt, was as faithful as any dog or cat I have ever known. Never once had it broken down anywhere. It deserved a better owner than I, not one who in a just and perfect world should have been reported to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Motorcycles.
The Higdon Chronicles Vol 2  Robert Higdon  p213

[Biggles]

Me, I'll take Dobbin. I can relate to horses biologically. They walk at a few miles an hour, as do I. For brief periods, it is true, they can run fairly briskly- as I recall, Secretariat, the fastest of them all, was once clocked at close to 50 mph- but for long-distance travel in the 19th century the ironbutt saddle would have gone to a cavalry commander like George Custer or Jeb Stuart. In a single day they could make nearly 100 miles.
It doesn't sound like much to us, but once it was the gold standard. For all but the tiniest blink of human history a horse's top speed was the fastest velocity any human could attain without being dropped off a cliff. Daimler and Benz changed all that. They gave us new and faster and incredibly more dramatic ways in which we could measure the pace and length of our lives. And as if the automobile were not excitement enough, next to appear was the motorcycle, a vehicle that by operation of pure physics remains upright largely by a matter of luck.
The Higdon Chronicles Vol 2  Robert Higdon  p230

[Biggles]

She liked motorcycles, had been the girlfriend of a motorcyclist at one time, and asked me when I was going to get one so she and I could go riding. I knew nothing about motorcycles other than what I had seen in movies. What I did know was I was going to have to acquire a motorcycle if Sam was to become my girlfriend.
Mike, a boy in one of my classes, owned a moped. It was a 50cc Allstate sold by Sears, Roebuck and Company. Mike and I became friends and he sometimes let me ride on the back of the bike. After several months I managed to talk him into letting me drive the moped, alone. It was a wobbly start, but my bicycling skills managed to keep the moped upright long enough to fee] more than a pedalling breeze in the wind. That first solo ride hooked me on motorised two-wheel movement. I also felt I qualified as a motorcycle rider, the kind that my cigarette-smoking and leather-jacket-wearing girlfriend wanted.
Down and out in Patagonia, Kamchatka, and Timbuktu  Gregory Frazier  p9

[Biggles]

Looking at the loaded motorcycle from the side, everything looked like it had a home, except for one important aspect: there was no room on the back of the seat for Brian.
We repacked, this time strapping the blankets and tent to the back of the sissy bar and on top of the two suitcases, which left room for a rear passenger. We made several attempts to get Brian on the back of the Honda while I was holding it upright, but he could not wedge himself in between the sissy bar and my back. We finally solved this problem by having him sit on the motorcycle first, and while he held it upright, I climbed on the front. It was a tight fit, and I was hunched over the gas tank, but I managed to start the motorcycle and we left town, only three hours behind schedule. We were on the road. The trip lasted about 5 miles until a passing driver waved at us, gesturing frantically at our makeshift saddle packs- the backpacks we had bought were being ripped, and our clothes were leaking out of the pack behind us. The bags had been flopping near the rear wheel and the friction ripped open the canvas.
While Brian walked back toward town collecting our shoes, books, and clothes, I tried to use more rope to repair the torn bags and make a barrier that would keep the bags from hitting the rear wheel. The field repair was workable, but the pile attached to the sissy bar became higher and wider.
Down and out in Patagonia, Kamchatka, and Timbuktu  Gregory Frazier  p23

[Biggles]

One sunny afternoon, as I was looking through a microscope during a biology class, trying to draw a copy of the amoeba I was seeing, I heard the start of a friend's Norton Atlas engine. We had spent the evening before unsuccessfully trying to get it working. The sound of the Norton became quieter as he rode away, but it was the last straw that killed the dreams of my parents. I quit college the next day, dropped out, and tuned into my own world.
Over the next months, I managed to live by begging odd jobs, sleeping in the back of my car, and sponging showers and beds from my friends who lived on campus or in apartments near the campus. At one point all I had left was a nickel. I gave it to my girlfriend, saying, "Well, if I have to start dead broke, I might as well really start at zero."
Down and out in Patagonia, Kamchatka, and Timbuktu  Gregory Frazier  pp36-7

[Biggles]

I had been studying business and finance, and while looking at my own financial management, I came to the awakening that racing was far more expensive than I had realised. Reality set in when I realised I could ride motorcycles for weeks on the same budget I could spend preparing for a race, and even if I won I might only come home with a trophy worth $5 to $10. I had to laugh at myself, knowing that my ego was telling me to keep throwing money into the deep, dark racing pit. Once I switched off the ego, I saw that racing was going to have to be moved down my list of priorities. It was simply not a rational return on investment.
Instead of merely spending money to ride roads, I listened to one of my university professors when he suggested we use our vacations to make money by recording them for sale in the form of travel or informational videos. An investment in recording equipment, some books, and classes on film making, and I thought I had found a way to pay for my off-road adventures.
Down and out in Patagonia, Kamchatka, and Timbuktu  Gregory Frazier  p51

[Biggles]

Theft plagued me. Anything that was removable from the motorcycle disappeared. Pens stuck in the sides of my tank bag would go missing after a gas stop. Bungee cords would spring off seemingly on their own when I stopped and shopped at a market. Anytime I would park, I put the bike cover over the motorcycle to keep prying eyes and hands off, at least until Ali Baba or one of his workers stole the cover.
When I asked a local Moroccan why pilfering things off my motorcycle was so popular, he answered, "It's like the national sport here. The boys like to show off to their friends what they were able to steal from the Western traveller. Consider it their merit badges if they were a Boy Scout."
Down and out in Patagonia, Kamchatka, and Timbuktu  Gregory Frazier  p83

[Biggles]

The road into Moscow was well paved and made for an easy one-day ride. Gas stations were modern and plentiful. It was on this section that I met a Belgian motorcyclist and his sister who claimed to have ridden in Russia eight times. When he learned of the proposed route from Moscow across Siberia, he said I was taking the "Road to Hell" and implied I would likely die. While I knew there were no Kawasaki dealers along that section- and in some places no bridges- the thought of death from crashing on a bad road had not been part of my plan. The fact that there was only one road across Russia did not leave me much choice or time to worry about other options. I discounted the Belgian's trepidation, knowing that he had probably never seen a gravel road in Belgium and noting his dirt-free motorcycle and riding gear.
Down and out in Patagonia, Kamchatka, and Timbuktu  Gregory Frazier  p89

[STeveo]

Well I like your posts Biggles, and I appreciate the effort you go to to post them. You have even encouraged me to go and buy some of these books to read the full chapters. Thank you. 

[ruSTynutz]

[Biggles]

The risk of losing or having stolen valuables such as cash, credit cards, a driver's license, and a passport is as high while touring the United States as it is in Morocco or Serbia. I learned to carry my VIP documents, papers, and cash well away from those needed for daily use. I carry two wallets and a third waterproof document holder for the extremely valuable papers. In my "decoy" wallet the thief or finder will discover only enough folding money to get me through the day and one credit or ATM card. They will also find a plastic-coated colour copy of my driver's license, some business cards, and a couple important-looking documents such as an expired international driving permit, dead telephone card, and a non-activated frequent flyer card. Each day I use this replenished wallet to pay for my expected expenses. If it is stolen or lost, I need only be frantic about the loss of the one credit card, which means one telephone call, and I have some solace in knowing my others are safely stashed within my regular wallet. I keep the decoy wallet somewhere on my body where it is easy for me to get to, such as an outside jacket pocket. The wallet with the good stuff I keep hidden well away from my decoy.
Down and out in Patagonia, Kamchatka, and Timbuktu  Gregory Frazier  p133

[Biggles]

This Navajo cow fit with my earlier experiences. As I started to speed up in first gear, the cow came off the mound and started to run alongside me like a dog. I accelerated, thinking I could outrun it, but then saw broken road ahead of me and slowed down. As I rolled off the throttle, the cow made a hard right turn across the road in front of me. As it ran off into the bush, I thought, "Next time I see you I hope you are on a menu."
The next miles were uneventful. I had seen no cars, trucks, buses or motorcycles since leaving Greasewood Springs, and other than the cow the environment was mine alone to enjoy.
Two miles from Highway 191, the paved road on my map, I went down. What ate me was deep sugar sand hiding a rock the size of baseball. I had been slowly paddling through a section of the deep white soft stuff when my front wheel hit the hidden rock, forcing the handle bars into a far right locked position. At 10 miles per hour one second I was upright, two or three seconds later I was down on my right side, face buried in the sand, right foot twisted painfully under the rear of the motorcycle, and the throttle was pegged with the engine screaming at top rpm.
Down and out in Patagonia, Kamchatka, and Timbuktu  Gregory Frazier  pp156-7

[ruSTynutz]

[Biggles]

Over my 40 years of roaming the globe, I had seen fellow motorcycle travellers spend huge sums of money to retrieve, or attempt to retrieve, broken or crashed motorcycles, often spending amounts that far exceeded the value of the motorcycle. One example was a fellow traveller who needed a new engine for his broken motorcycle while in Argentina, where none of the models were ever imported or sold. Importing a replacement engine cost two to three times the purchase price of a used one in good condition from the United States due to shipping costs and extremely high Argentine import taxes. Thinking he could circumvent the air-freight costs and customs taxes, he purchased a used engine off the Internet, then a round-trip airline ticket to fly to the United States and return carrying the disassembled engine parts he needed as personal luggage. After adding up the costs of the engine, airline ticket, taxis, hotels, and shop time in Argentina for damaged engine removal, disassembly, reassembly and re-installation, he spent twice the worth of the dead motorcycle.
Down and out in Patagonia, Kamchatka, and Timbuktu  Gregory Frazier  p177

[ruSTynutz]

[ruSTynutz]

[Biggles]

Donna-Rae and I had some close calls that could have had us returning home in a box as well (let's hope not with printing on the side saying how we were "loving it"). Numerous times we were forced off the road by oncoming vehicles. Bad road conditions or road litter and oil nearly caused us to crash in some ugly countries where medical facilities were at the lowest levels on the earth. Donna-Rae said she was (our) lucky penny. I countered with that we were lucky because the heavy medication she was taking [for Parkinsons disease] chilled her out, keeping her from jerking when road conditions made the motorcycle want to do things I had to fight to keep us upright. She never so much as twitched in these situations, when the slightest twitch might have caused us to crash.
Riding around the world with a female passenger who liked to stop to photograph castles, souvenir shops, and stone ruins, things I usually rode past, was new for me. While I was trying to adapt to two-up global touring from my lone-wolf style, the death of friends haunted me. Compounding the stress from those factors was a tight timeline and light wallet.
Down and out in Patagonia, Kamchatka, and Timbuktu  Gregory Frazier  p202

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[Biggles]

Back on the mainland of Italy, the next stop was Pompeii. To get there, we rode some of the famed Autostrade of Italy, where we were passed at 100 miles per hour by cars clocking near 150 miles per hour. The high-speed roads were a fast way to move around Italy, but came at a price, as most were toll roads. An additional cost was the lower miles per gallon needed to maintain the 90 to 100 miles per hour while riding in the middle lane of the three lanes moving in their direction. The far right lane was for the much slower vehicles, such as trucks and cars. The left lane was for the big dogs, BMWs and Mercedes that flew at speeds close to airplane lift-off levels. One crash resulted in a 15-mile traffic stall while police and maintenance people cleaned up the scene. Fortunately for us, as well as other motorcyclists, we were allowed to ride between the stopped cars, "splitting lanes". What could have been a several-hour delay turned out to be little more than a slowdown. Motorcycles were often seen riding between cars, even when the cars and trucks were moving, sometimes at speeds near 60 miles per hour. I opted to go with the flow at speeds above 40 miles per hour, but when things slowed down I joined the locals and took advantage of the opportunity offered to motorcycles.
Down and out in Patagonia, Kamchatka, and Timbuktu  Gregory Frazier  p213

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