Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Biggles]

I was heading for Erfoud and the ironically named Hotel Majestic, a grubby little gaff notable only for the nosiness of its patron. He started slowly, leafing through my passport, graduated to watching me unpack and for the finale picked up a postcard I was in the middle of writing, examined the front and then started reading on the back in a Stavros accent, 'Hello Mum and Dad, how are you ?'
But people don't come to Erfoud for the hospitality, they come for the Erg Chebbi, Morocco's only section of rolling dunes. So the next morning I dumped the luggage, kinda guessing that within ten minutes of my departure the patron would be running round the lobby with my pants on his head, shouting, 'Look! Now I am the Eengleesh man!', and took the surprisingly perky XT on the 36 km trek to the sand, dreaming crusty-demons-of-dirt fantasies in my motocross helmet.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p15

[toddie2]

The best time of your life is the 3 seconds between you and the vehicle in front.

[Biggles]

Once officially official, the next thing to do was to change the tyres, or more accurately, find someone else to change them for me. The XTs OE Dunlop Trailmaxes had squared off, and I was desperate to change into the Pirelli MT21s, mainly so I wouldn't have to carry the bloody things any further. Fortunately, I bumped into a Moroccan kid on a battered Cagiva motocrosser. Yes, he knew a local shop, yes, he'd take me there, but he's just on his way home for dinner, and would I like to join him?
So we had a pleasant hour in his apartment with his wife and extended family, and filled up with food and hospitality. We found the mechanic, who fitted and balanced the tyres, hosed clean the air filter and adjusted the chain (yes, all right, I know), all for a fiver. And when we were finished, the three of us went off together for coffee. Motorcycle City? Bite me.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p18

[Biggles]

Once again it was me, the XT and Africa. On my right, the sparkling Atlantic, roaring to and fro; to the left, the desert, textbook Technicolor cathedral dunes crashing down into the water. And beneath me, the engine thumping and the knobblies strumming over fresh, wet, hard-packed beach. Forget everything else I've ever done, from riding a Harley through Vegas to blasting a Busa down the autobahns, this was the reason I learned to ride a bike. A real right-here-right-now moment.
And this shit goes on for 100 miles, which at 45 mph is more than two hours of slithering over slippery rocks, inadvertently jumping dunes, scattering angry gangs of seagulls, alternately axle-deep in sand or knee-high in the surf, past more shipwrecks and ramshackle fishing villages, until finally arriving at Nouakchott and tarmac and a hotel. And over a table of cold Chinese beers and fresh African fish we toasted the desert for letting us pass and tried to work out exactly how we'd just crossed the Sahara.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p25-6

[Biggles]

Desperate, starving, and still broke, I explain to the manager that I need a room, a meal and a beer, but I'm carrying sterling. The hotel's full, but he'll find a staff room. The restaurant's shut, but he'll cook me a chop. The bar's dry, but he'll send boy and a bike. The bank's gone, but his brother has a bureau change. All he needs now is my passport as a deposit. I know what's coming, but I need to eat, drink, sleep. And when he announces next morning with a crocodile smile that the room rate's doubled and the exchange rates halved, I surprise him with a grin.
Four days late, I hit capital Conakry and an ATM. Funny how a little money makes everything alright. A bike cop stops and I'm ready for his “donnez moi un cadeau” tale of woe. Then thrown when he leads me to a hotel, negotiates a better room rate, lets me park up in the police compound. and in the morning, we will meet and I will buy you breakfast'.
Yeah, we'll see.
Next morning he buys me breakfast, leads me to my cleaned bike, and palms me a handwritten letter of safe passage. When he asks me why look like I'm gonna cry, I tell him I've been having a few problems with corruption. He looks genuinely sad. Apologises. And reminds me that people are especially tense because the country is at war.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p34-5

[Biggles]

Out of the blue, Mike announces he's actually a motorcycle mechanic, and after ten minutes of grunting, knuckle skinning and double-Dutch cursing, he emerges from under the tank.
'I think maybe the problem is here.'
Damn, an octopus - how the hell did that get in there?
'No, Dan, it's not an octopus, it's a carburettor. This is where the petrol goes.' Stupid Dutchman. Petrol goes in the tank - everyone knows that. But just to humour him, I stripped the so-called 'carburettor, cleaned out the sand that was snagging the vacuum and, guess what?, good as new.
And what do you think caused the problem, Mike?
'Because your air filter is so dirty you could clean it with dog shit, maybe?
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p44

[Biggles]

Couple of hours earlier I'd goophered my left leg footing down at fifty when the front blew out. Miles away on a Burkinan highway, thinking about nothing but TL1000 flat-trackers, Scott Walker and am I in top?' when, whoopapa!, the front sinks, folding like dough and I'm slaloming left to right, riding the rim into a busy, jumbled too-long half-minute.  'Please bike, don't fall over.' 'Damn that tarmac looks sore.' 'Why am I wearing slacks rather than armour?' 'Has the bus behind me realised what's going on?'
 By the time I'd patched the hole, my foot had swelled too big for my boot. Which is why I ended up hitting the border wearing one Tech 6 and one flip-flop, squealing like a pig with Tourette's at each and every jarring movement. No wonder the Burkinan officials shooed me through so quickly. I made it as far as the barrier, lost my balance, the leg buckled and I entered Ghana horizontal and dusted.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p50

[Biggles]

The Grand Opening - me, the Swiss kids, Steve and a customs officer with a set of bolt cutters. It's a tense moment. Steve's been regaling us with horror stories - skippers jettisoning containers in high seas, containers arriving upside down, empty or full of illegals. The fear is that the Land Cruiser will have slipped the leash and slid about. We're expecting to see the XT embossed in a crushed Nissan beer can.
Lucky again. The bike's exactly as I left it, nailed down and strapped It starts first time. Damn, I've missed this. It's only been two weeks, but that's long enough to start jonesing for two wheels, filled with that pre-test longing when any bike, every bike, even shit bikes are desirable. I took to hanging round bike parks, cooing at commuters. 'A GT550, you say? Boy, that baby must really fly,’
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p75

[Biggles]

I ask if I can take some pictures. 'Does your magazine come out in South Africa?' asks a feral-looking kid with funky dreads and a kung fu tattoo on his neck. Yeah, I think so. 'Then don't take any pictures of the bikes. We don't want the owners coming looking for them.
The Desperado interrupts: 'You can take a picture of me with my bike, but make sure you can see my cannon, huh?’ He opens his jacket and spins round with his gun. All across the bar, people duck, a reverse-rippled Mexican Wave. He laughs. ‘Er, are all the bikes stolen?' The Desperado calls up the table, the gist of which is 'Whose bike is legit?'
No one answers.
The bikes are stolen from white South Africans, the old enemy. There's no guilt. The Apartheid regime funded, trained and armed the bad guys in Mozambique's thirty-year un-civil war. Bad guys who killed at least 100,000 people, mainly civilians, destroyed the railways, burned down hospitals, ran the country into the ground. As in Ghana, grand theft auto is small potatoes.
Last year the Johannesburg cops launched a cross-border operation, snatching and returning snide vehicles. The Mozambican government complained to Mandela and got it stopped - officially 'cause they considered it an illegal intrusion'. 'The real reason,' explains Bruno, was that if the South Africans reclaimed all the stolen cars, buses and scooters, the country would stop. No one would be able to get to work in the morning.'
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p87-8

[Biggles]

Two klicks down the road there's a level-crossing sign. I dunno whether it's live or dead. I slow, the van behind impatiently overtakes, hurries onto the level crossing and gets hit by a very dark, very solid train.
The next bit doesn't make any sense. My eyes aren't expecting to see what they see, my brain doesn't know how to process it. I get off the bike and walk to the ticking, twitching van. The bike light shadows as much as it shows. 'You'll be all right, amigo, I'll get help.' The driver's side has been ripped off. 'Can you move, amigo?5 The driver's right arm's missing. 'Can you hear me, amigo?' The driver's right leg's missing. 'Wait here, I'll get an ambulance.' The right side of his head is missing. 'Are you all right, amigo?' He's very dead.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p92

[Biggles]

Try to conjure up an appropriate deity. Papa Legba, Lord Shiva or St Jude. I settle for the Ghost of Future Dan - picture myself up the road with a belly full of food, mouth full of beer, ears full of soap. It works. An old man wobbles past on a bicycle burdened with palm oil. If he can make it, I can. An hour later I shuffle into Inhaminga's oil lamp-lit sandy streets. I find a pensao. The cook's just about to go home. She says she's not killing a chicken at this time of night. The chicken looks relieved and clucks off. Two hours later she returns with a plate of undercooked chips and a bottle of beer that stinks of mutton. I eat and collapse. Kid next door's playing with his radio. Just as I'm about to bang on the wall, he finds 'King of the Road'. I drift off. Ain't got no cigarettes.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p95

[Biggles]

Where to park? Bike bay on the left but it's full of scooters and commuters. And a Renault Sprinter. White-van man pulls up, sticks it in reverse and dominoes a Superdream into a CBR into a couple of Piaggios. Third time I've seen that in a week and every time it makes me more uncomfortable about the responsibility of an eight-grand bike.
The XT has brush guards and folding levers - the Fazer's got brittle plastic and vulnerable plumbing. Gives me the willies. Anyway, that bay was too scratty. Parking a flash bike in London means playing the 'Which one would I steal?' game. The idea is never to have the most desirable bike in the bay. Avoid CX500s. Sniff down unlocked RSVs.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p117-8

[Biggles]

First exit, down the ramp, take care on the roundabout 'cause it leads to a builder's yard and is always awash with diesel, under the flyover, filter between the lanes and gas it just as a car noses across from the right. Nowhere to go. Lock front and back. And stall it. Clutch is so light I keep thinking the cable's snapped. Hit the starter, nothing. Tap the gear change to check it's in neutral, pull in the clutch, swing in the side stand, nothing but a quiet relay click. Bugger. On with the hazards, reach for the kick-start. Er, what kick-start? Guess I'm still too used to the XT.
A cop pulls up. 'Problem, mate?' Nah, just a dicky switch. 'That any good? I'm thinking of trading up from the 600.' Er, yeah. But it wheelies everywhere and makes me ride like a twat. 'I've noticed.' He grins and drives away. Inexplicably, the bike fires up. Home in time for tea.  Bounce up the kerb to the pub, lock it to the railings.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p121-2

[Biggles]

Came back, sold the knackered Tenere and bought a CR500 - the nastiest, hardest motocrosser available.
'First time out, I vanned it to a track in Wiltshire. An old boy watched me unload and started laughing - "Evil bastards, those. This will be fun." It took me half an hour to start the sod. First lap, first time I put it in second gear, it spat me off and broke my foot. The old boy couldn't contain himself - "That's the funniest thing I've seen in years." I was like, "Right, good, anyway I'm just off to the hospital." The bike was left in a mate's garage. I never rode it again. I was so scared and ashamed of it that I used to take the long way round to avoid walking past his house.'
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p131

[Biggles]

Harley's are officially old. One hundred years old. Happy Birthday, Harley. Or Happy birthday, Davidson. The present president Willie G Davidson is son of co-founder William Davidson, father of Vice President Bill Davidson. Someone should get those Davidson women a book of names for Christmas. 
It's a family affair. Willie and Bill smile for the cameras and unveil the 100th Anniversary, extra-special, all-new, revolutionary, explosive, never before see on a motorcycle, laydees and gennulmen we give you, ta-daaaa - er, a new paint job. And redesigned badges. Sorry, cloisonnes. Only Harley would fly the world's press all the way to Milwaukee admire a new spray job. And only the Harley press would respond excitedly with low-whistles and flash-gun pops. Can't imagine Ducati doing that. But then again, can't imagine Ducati selling sixty percent of the big bike market in the US.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p145

[Biggles]

A trucker sits down, arms sleeved in faded road tattoos, sunglasses perched Rommel-style on his mesh cap peak. 'Brother-in-law had one of those Kawa-sarkis.' Don't tell me - broke every bone in his body, wife carries him around in a Thermos, talks through a straw, eats through his bum.  “I guess.”
Peckerwood follows me out. His perfect Peterbilt fills my mirror. There's a poster of a missing child on the side. That's common enough, but it seems like this fella is showing off, not helping out. I decide he's a jinx and give him the slip in a town called Enigma, home to the Mona Lisa, Gregorian trance chants and smiling cats. God throws his 'Rays of Sun through the Clouds' trick. I run over a snake. A butterfly lands in my mouth.
The next town's called Climax. I stop to take a picture of the sign. 'What's so funny about that?' straight-faces the Sheriff. A nine-hour, five hundred-mile day and I'm still in the same state. Georgia on my mind? Georgia tattooed onto my rosy-cheeked arse. I collapse in Donalsonville. When I close my eyes, all I see are black-on-white road signs.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p176-7

[Biggles]

There's even a UFO museum. It's free, but after five minutes I still want my money back. Until a nipper runs past and right into the perfect gag. 'Did those aliens come from Mars?' All together now - No kid, they came from Uranus. I've never been thrown out of a museum before.
Britain has climate, America has weather. I leave Roswell with a greasy sweat on. An hour later, the dazzling desert sunshine turns purple then turns horizontal white. Snow? Snow, and wind, wind so fierce it has the bike slapping like a sail as we dodge car-chasing tumbleweeds the size of scribbled thorny dogs.
I stop for a smoke and a snivel. A cop pulls over. To check I'm OK? Er, no. To throw a cheap gag. 'Know why it's so windy in New Mexico?' Go on. "Cause Texas sucks and Arizona blows.' Right. Thanks.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p184

[Biggles]

Stroll back to the bikes, stretch out, one foot on my front tyre to gently rock the hammock, watch the yellow moon sparkle on the waves and drift into dreamy sleep.
Yeah, right. After an eighteen-hour watch in a wind-lashed, salt-stung crow's nest, fending off the amorous advances of a lonely bear from Portsmouth, I'm sure a hammock is heavenly. Otherwise, it's just sleeping in a rope bag. I feel like an old lady's shopping. I try to enjoy it, I try to concentrate on the lullaby wash of the waves, but you can't fake sleep. When dawn hits my cross-hatched, cross-patch face I give up, rub seawater in my eyes, pour coffee up my nose and get back on the off-road.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p194

[Biggles]

Until I hit Mexico City. Just as I'm congratulating myself for toasting the crush hour with 'old couriers etc' nonsense, I get pulled. Two smiley cops point to my number plate and say something like 'No circulo' and 'Jueves’ No traffic on Thursday? Bugger. A speed-read, quick-forgotten by-law  to reduce congestion, they've set up a scheme limit traffic based on number plates. No ones or twos on Thursday, no threes or tours on Friday and so on. And it's Thursday. And my number plate ends in a two. And bugger. Sometimes a little local corruption is a good thing. Truth is, I have broken the law. I am riding illegally. In England, corruption involves figure donations to the inappropriate election fund. Here, it's more democratic - it's chump-change figures, so everyone can join in. The cop gives me a lollipop and we haggle. 'One hundred dollars.’  Five. 'Ten.’ Done. Best of all, he gives me a receipt. Next set of lights, another cop points at the plate and blows his whistle - I flash my chits and, bingo, he apologises, smiles and waves me on. I think I'm gonna like this city.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p199

[Biggles]

In between, a summer's worth of spicy jungle mountain roads compressed into one green, dizzy day, buzzing on nothing but the bends' motorcycle emptiness and high on histamine after a giant wasp flew into my shirt and stung me like a taxman. Like a small boy on a swing, like a little girl dancing on her dad's feet, that relaxed, that happy, lolloping side to side, side to side, side to side for mile after mile after mile, and if this isn't nice, what is?
And the second truth. For many British riders, the US coast-to-coast is the biking dream. Which is good, but this is better. Beautiful beaches, belting roads, tasty trails, bouncing bars, punny people. Really. These are the days that must happen to you. Viva Mexico.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p204-5

[Biggles]

I don't like to generalise, but for these bastards, I'll make an exception. Hondurans are the worst drivers in the world. Shit and slow is one thing, but these maniacs are shit and fast. Their preferred road position is wheels on either side of the centre line. Which I suppose gives them fighting chance of avoiding the children and dogs, cows and taxis dashing out from the verges with the fatalism of suicide bombers.
The road whistles through palm forests, industrial sprawls and dramatic mountains. I only know because I keep stopping to smoke and calm down. When I'm riding, I don't see a thing - too busy looking round oncoming buses for the inevitable head-on double overtake. By the time I reach the US garrison town of Comayagua, I'm a nervous wreck and decide to call it a night. Though it's only afternoon. 
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p226

[Biggles]

Pull over, though I don't know what I'll check. Oh, right. Even I understand that the rear brake disc shouldn't be, er, on fire. For some reason, the smoke and red glow don't completely convince me and I still feel the need to touch it, just to make sure. My fingers sizzle and stick to the calliper. Bugger.
Seems I've been watching too many History Channel stories about heating machine guns. Why else would I decide to pee on the brake? I've got no water and I can't just sit here, nowhere. I start the splash, then panic that the heat will travel back up the stream and scald my willy, so pinch the end and this running interference turns the stream into a spray. Just as I spot the farmer. At a very basic level, there's something deeply wrong about saying ‘Good afternoon' to a man with a machete in his hand when I've got the lad in mine. A lad that's pissing all over my boots, bags and bike. I guess from the look on his face that he agrees.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p228

[Biggles]

Next morning I email the boys at Bike, magazine for advice. 'Yep, it sounds like the bearings; yep, it's dangerous; nope, you shouldn't ride : says Stevie Westlake. I try to find a mechanic, but no one's innarested in helping this barely comprehensible anglo with a weird bike. Their advice- 'Managua’.
 I have me a big decision. Should I stay or should I go? Managua's over a hundred miles away - not country-backwater miles, but Pan-American Highway miles down the main truck route from LA to Panama City. If it goes shit-shaped, if the buggered bearings crunch too hard against spindle, if the disc gets jammed in the calliper, it could be sorta fatal.
What's the alternative? Live in Esteli for the rest of my life?
Managua or bust. As stupid calls go, this is right up there with riding across a Saharan minefield and cuckolding a stone-cold killer. At least it'll give me something to write about. First, I'll change my pants – my gran impressed upon me the vital importance of always wearing clean pants in case of an accident. I guess it stops any confusion about which set of skid marks the investigating cops should measure.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p230-1

[Biggles]

On my own again, On The Road again. Everything's going well, and I should be in Cali by early afternoon. 'To make God laugh, tell Him your plans,’ say the Mexicans. Heading into another armed village, the bike cuts dead. Nothing. Coast downhill to an army post, smile 'Buenos dias' so they won't shoot me, try to think of something useful to check. Two boy soldiers wander over, chatting happy shit ('You know Meek Jagger?'), gurning for photos, while I unpack the tool kit and scratch my arse. 'Good bike,' nods one and slaps the tank. The lights come back on, it fires up again. We look at each other and laugh.
What to do but keep going? Maybe I can find a mechanic in Cali. Please, bike, don't break down' prayers whinge pathetically round my lid. Heading out of another armed village, the bike cuts dead again. Coast uphill to a muddy verge and try to think of something useful to check.
This has happened once before, all the way back in New York State; trying to leave a snowy Albany gas station, turned the key and nada. What did I do then? Had a smoke, kicked it, tried it again? What's the connection?
Slow as Homer, tumblers fall in my daft head. Albany. Bogota. Albany. Bogota. Planes? Planes. Damn. I bet I haven't properly reconnected the battery. I haven't. That's all it is. Maybe I really will make Cali.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p268-9

[Biggles]

An hour out of town I guess I catch a branch in my chain, 'cause I hear it snapping. Two hours out of town, and the rain just won't stop, so we do. We wring out and I glance at the sprocket. It's got fewer teeth than MacGowan's grin. Guess that wasn’t a twig. Bugger.
Next day I stick Brian on the bus and the bags on Trys and limp back to Quito, hoping the slipping chain doesn't jump off the sprocket and through my leg. By the time we get back to the Turtle's Head, I've two clutches. 'That'll be you stuck here then,' says Albert.
He's right. There's a BMW dealer in Quito, but despite the liveried logos and shiny new 1200GSs in the showroom, the spares department is empty as a Soviet shop. I play my cheat trump card and call BMW GB's David Taylor for help. He just happens to be visiting Panama City. And they just happen to have a chain and sprocket set in stock. 'I'll Fed-Ex it tomorrow.'
That was two months ago. The parts were sent, snared by Ecuadorean customs and swallowed whole. Two months of emails, phone calls, websites. Two months of 'no se puede'. Two months without the bike, watching the rain fall hard. This town can drag you down.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p277-8