Motorcycle Quote of the Day

[Sicman]

 

[Biggles]

Of all my bad riding habits, turning in early is one I constantly battle.  You'll never find a pro racer or a riding instructor who extols the virtues of an early apex, but anxiety gnaws at my patience and whispers in my ear, "turn now, turn now."  But with McWilliams' advice stuck in my mind like the word God (only with an Irish accent), I check my worst impulses and force myself to wait until my front wheel comes even with that orange cone before banking left.  Then, I plunge over the edge, like riding off the side of a building.  It was with this very moment in mind that I showed restraint at the morning breakfast buffet.  My guts rise to press against my lungs, the bike feels light, and any feelings of two-dimensional illusions are vaporized.  As I fall over the edge and finally get to see the track ahead of me, the importance of following McWilliams' advice is instantly obvious in a way that sears the information into my mind for all future laps.  If I had aimed the bike in the direction I would expect the track to go, if I had started my turn early and lined up for a sweeping curve like I'd expect to find on any other track, I'd be six feet into the gravel and dirt.  Instead, thanks to my strict adherence to McWilliams' recommended line, I'm still on the black as gravity sucks me downward a few stories while I shift from left lean to right lean.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 77-8

[Biggles]

Strempfer launches into a story about the Benelli brothers having a spat back in the 1950s, with one of the brothers stomping off in a huff to build motorcycles called Motobis.  It all sounds very Italian.  As for mechanical particulars, he explains that a Motobi 125 is a four-stroke with a single, air- cooled, horizontal cylinder.  The five-speed gearbox is operated by a heel-toe shifter on the right side.  In reverse pattern.  The rear brake pedal is on the left side.  So I'm trying to get my mind around the concept of downshifting by pushing down with the heel of what I've always considered my braking foot when I realize, I really ought to test ride this thing before I'm expected to perform anything called an "ability test," or even mingle with unsuspecting Vermont traffic.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 97-8

[Biggles]

In a lucky lifetime, I've been visit some spectacular capital-D Destinations, the manmade Schonbrunn Palace in Vienna, Glacier National Park in Montana, the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., and many other "sights."  And yes, I've also spent many an enjoyable afternoon in Manhattan, seen the Grand Canyon, and even survived a couple of visits to Vegas.  But just as vivid are memories of places that never make anyone's list of Destinations, anonymous little places such as San Vito, Costa Rica, or Nipigon, Ontario, Canada.  Usually, those memories stick with me because I not only visited a place, but through chance or planning, got a look into the lives of people who live there- people unlike myself- and learned something in the process.
Such was the case with my sojourn in Tuxpan. I can't describe for you, in any detail, the rooms of the Schonbrunn Palace, though I can assure you that all the ones I saw were opulently spectacular.  What I do remember, much better, is the look on the face of the woman rushing to find the T-shirt I wanted before I changed my mind, and how glad I was that I waited.  I remember a teenager washing laundry in Tuxpan while dreaming of making a living as a musician in the United States, and hundreds of children pulling homemade carritos (toy cars) through candlelit streets in memory of children who did not survive.  And most of all I remember the surprising magic of finding myself in the best place I could possibly be on that one night of the year, even though I didn't know enough to choose it on purpose.  Sometimes, it works out that way, and a simple motorcycle journey leaves lasting memories of a very human, if not historic, scale, from a place where nobody goes.  Something to consider the next time you're choosing a destination.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 110

[Biggles]

Around one of those sweeping turns I find a faded 1976 Honda CB550 Four parked in a wide spot by the road, its owner crouched at its side.  I stop to see if I can provide assistance or, more likely, given my mechanical skills and the near absence of tools on the V-Strom, provide company and commiseration.  The rider tells me that he only recently pulled the old Honda out of storage and is still tracking down electrical problems, one of which has just left him at roadside.  While we examine fuses and poke at the thirty-year-old patina of corrosion on the ground wire, he asks me about my ride and I explain my northward course on Route 100 and my general lack of plans more detailed than that.  "You should ride Lincoln Gap," he advises.  "You won't believe it.  You just go up and up the mountain.  About that time, the Honda’s lights come back on, though its hard to say what we did to achieve that success.  I suspect it wont be his last search for wayward electrons in the old bike.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 121

[Biggles]

I don t remember another specific detail about the ride my wife and I took that Sunday afternoon, but I still remember the old man telling his story.  It’s one of those quirks of humanity that define us.  We may love motorcycles with an enthusiasm severe enough to qualify us for a clinical study.  We may suffer an addict’s craving for the physical sensations of riding.  We see some of the earth's greatest sights on two wheels, and experience them more intensely because we ride to them.  Yet because we are human, the most memorable part of many a ride is neither the destination nor the journey, but some unexpected character met along the way.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 127

[Biggles]

If you happen to own a motorcycle bearing the logo of one of the resurrected marques, such as the Triumph I often ride, you're guaranteed to have extra conversations on the road.  It happens to me time and again.  An older man approaches me at a gas station to exclaim, "I didn't know they were still in business!"  Then he tells me about the old Bonneville he had back in the day, and at some point his gaze drifts off to some unfocused place, and I can just hear him thinking, wondering, trying to remember why he ever sold that old motorcycle.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 128

[Biggles]

Once I stopped for gas in upstate New York on a Suzuki V-Strom and the out-of-state license plate was enough to trigger the forty-something guy coming out of the convenience store to run over to me, ask cursorily where I was from, and then launch into an excited monologue about a cross-country motorcycle trip he took in his twenties, one of those life-altering experiences that's never forgotten, even though he'd hardly ridden since.  His tale didn't slow down long enough for me to get a word out, which was good, because the obvious question was one I didn't have the heart to ask: "Why did you stop?”  Why did that experience have to be just once-in-a-lifetime?  Maybe I was imagining it, but there seemed to be some sadness punctuating the end of his story of excitement, youth, and adventure.  He never really asked a word about where I was going, or why.  He was still running on the fumes of a ride that was twenty years in the rearview mirror and I had places to go that very same evening.  I rode away feeling a little sorry for him, I do occasionally for the men who tell me about long-lost Triumphs and Harleys and Indians, and I promised myself yet again not to travel down the road to regrets, if I can help it.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 128

(oops- thanks Neale.  Rectified now.  Both quotes from p128, which is what tripped me up.
Glad you like the excerpts.)

[Neale]

Are you just checking if anyone reads these or don't you realise that you have duplicated? Enjoying the read immensely though. 

[Biggles]

I stop for stranded riders because I've been the beneficiary of kindness many times myself, and from all kinds of people, not just fellow riders.  There was the guy with the shop making customized campers who interrupted his work and drove several miles to fill his gas can for me when I foolishly ran out on the highway, or, when I was a college student travelling on a shoe-string budget, the family at the campground that set up their extra tent for me after someone stole some of my camping gear leaving me without shelter as a night-long rain moved in.  It sometimes seems to me that the farther from home, the better people treat me as a traveller and the more they go out of their way to help me out of a jam.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 130

[Biggles]

I could be lots of places.  I could be riding in the Rockies or the Alps, and those places make great fodder for bragging about memorable motorcycle rides.  Or I could be riding some not-quite-two-lane past the silence of little country church graveyards where my ancestors lie, past the smell of hay drying in the sun, through the coolness that drifts from a deep fold of a shady country hollow, back through time, back through remembrance, pulled along by the motorcycle’s torque, which is another remembrance in itself.  And I could say, this feels right.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 146

[Biggles]

But at eighteen, even the most precocious of us are slates still mostly blank.  And that was the age at which I stumbled into being a motorcyclist, without much planning, by buying a very used, non-descript, massively mass-produced bike with a questionable history (and probably paying too much for it), falling in love not so much with the machine, but with the world of sensations and experiences it opened to me.  In other words, pretty much the same old story. Millions of us did it.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 149

[Biggles]

In 1973 the big lump of the Baby Boomer bulge was in young adulthood, prime motorcycling time.  At same time, the Japanese manufacturers were importing relatively inexpensive, easy-to-ride, far-more-reliable motorcycles by the thousands to meet the demand, while Harley-Davidson limped toward its darkest years and the once-mighty British motorcycle industry continued resolutely firing repeated rounds into its foot by building the same old thing, with engines guaranteed to leak oil and headlights likely to fail at the first sign of impending nightfall.  Millions of people in the United States at least gave motorcycles a try during that time and while many drifted off, some caught the addiction and never shook it.  And the one thing that absolutely all riders share is a memory, whether dim or vivid, clear-eyed or nostalgic, humorous or heart-warming or traumatic, of a first bike.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 150

[Biggles]

And yet, as much as the world changes, some human sentiments come close to universal.  Home from college for the summer, I would park that utterly unremarkable CB360T in the garage of my parents’ house after coming in from a night-time ride and listen to the tick ticking of the old air-cooled engine as it dissipated its heat, the metals contracting into their resting places. I could detect the distinct burning smell of oil pooling on the hottest engine parts and the few last wisps of exhaust drifting from the twin exhaust pipes. I lingered in the garage, not wanting to go inside the house.  Sitting there, beside that cheap and practical machine few could covet, I savoured the ride, even if it was just an ordinary trip across town to a friend’s house, and I was, without knowing it, burning deep and lasting memories into a primal part of my brain.  The right combination of hot oil on hot metal can yank me back to those moments utterly unexpectedly, decades later.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 153-4

[Biggles]

Now, I could be wrong, but I imagine little happened in Okeechobee, and I'm sure the bored pump jockey hadn't seen many motorcyclists ride up to the full-service pump.  His lack of experience nearly led to my demise.
Having filled the tank, he decided to run up the sale amount to the nearest half dollar, just as he always did, no doubt, with cars.  My little tank couldn't take it.  By the time he gave up, the tank was filled to the cap, and I set off down the loneliest stretch of Florida 710 in the hot sun.  Of course as that hot sun hit my stylish charcoal-coloured gas tank, the cool gasoline inside began to expand.  By the time I was out of town and rolling down the bowling alley- straight two-lane, gasoline was flowing freely out of the gas cap and streaming down the tank toward my crotch, where it threatened to drip onto the rear cylinder of the air-cooled V-twin engine.
Let me tell you, my mind was quite focused as I considered my equally unappealing options.  The thought of stopping by that desolate roadside led to visions of even more expanding gasoline flowing out and dripping all over the hot, air-cooled engine, threatening all-out conflagration.  The thought of continuing down the road led to images of becoming a rolling fire-ball with a freshly filled tank of fuel.  If external combustion did break out, which would be worse?  Abandoning the motorcycle at the first hint of ignition and tumbling down the pavement at speed, or having a fine imitation of a flame-thrower aimed at my most sensitive parts for the time it would take me to slow down and dismount?
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 161-2

[Biggles]

In 1963, the huge U.S. firm Grey Advertising came up with what is now the most famous slogan in the history of the U.S. motorcycle industry: "You meet the nicest people on a Honda".  Not Hells Angels.  Not someone wearing grease-soaked jeans and poking at his motorcycle's points along the side of the road, hoping to get it running again.  Instead, magazine ads depicted housewives and families and a young couple dressed as if they were on their way to the country club on their fun little Honda 50.  Although most people in the United States were probably as far from the country club lifestyle as they were from the outlaw biker stereotype, it was easier to buy into the Honda image than the Hells Angels image. For one thing, it required less money and fewer tools. 
Along with thousands of inexpensive and reliable Japanese motorcycles that followed in the 1960s and 1970s, the Honda 50, with its quiet four-stroke engine, step-through scooter-like styling, centrifugal clutch (you could ride it even if you didn’t know how to operate a clutch) and unimposing presence offered an entirely new way to get into motorcycling.  The biggest generation of U.S. motorcyclists was born.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 165

[Biggles]

Lots of women might have argued that my money would have been better spent on a first car than a second motorcycle, something a bit more appropriate for classier dates.  Or maybe better spent on those classier dates at better restaurants than the ones we frequented.  Or maybe better spent upgrading my minimalist wardrobe.  I'm sure, in fact, that those thoughts crossed her mind, but when I surprised her by picking her up on the Sportster for a short ride to a favoured but definitely un-fancy neighbourhood pizzeria, she shared my excitement about the new bike rather than questioning my good sense.  That's when my motorcycle helped me learn another lesson about her: that she accepted me for who I was and shared my joy, rather than trying to change me and my joys to match hers.
Now anyone who has spent any time on a Sportster knows that it's not the ideal two-up motorcycle.  So I repaid her trust and acceptance by fitting the Sportster with a more comfortable seat and a low backrest to make her feel more secure.  Later, she would admit that she knew I was serious about the relationship when I modified my motorcycle to make her happier.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 173-4

[Biggles]

Of course, lust and style are no deeper than a shiny paint job.  To get beyond that initial attraction, you have to get to know someone.  Or something.  In this case, a two-wheeled something.  You learn to appreciate its positive attributes and live with its drawbacks.  Over the years, after you've come to know the motorcycle thoroughly and have relied on it thousands of times, it may come to feel like an old friend, one you're willing to forgive when it does let you down because so many times before it didn't.
The ideal lifelong relationship, with a human partner or a motorcycle, involves a little of all of that.  It starts with a spark of lust that soon deepens into love and then ages finely over the years into the best and most lasting friendship you’ve ever had.  At which point there's no longer any question of calling it off.  You're in it for the long haul, for better or worse.  Congratulations, you've bonded.  You may now kiss your ride.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 200

[Biggles]

To someone reading this book ten years from now, this chapter may be the only part that isn't viewed as a quaint relic of a simpler past, a time when we rode motorcycles for fun with a naive confidence in an unending supply of cheap fuel to drive us.  Whether they're powered by gasoline, electricity, or something else, I'm optimistic enough to believe we can continue to have fun on motorcycles that are faster and more exhilarating than cars and still contribute to the solution, not the problem.  We can help influence public perceptions, so that motorcycles are seen as a sensible way to stretch out what oil is left, rather than noisy relics of a more primitive era that should be killed off as quickly as possible.
The future ride wont resemble the ride so far, but that doesn't mean it cant be a good one.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 218-9

[Streak]

"Sometimes it takes a whole tankful of fuel before you can think straight"

[Biggles]

When the rhythm sets in, I don't feel like I'm sitting on top of a motorcycle. Instead, I feel that the machine is an extension of my body, endowing me with superhuman powers. The machine is an extension of my limbs, vesting my feet and hands with unimagined abilities.  Yehudi Menuhin once said that play ing the violin is like singing through your limbs.  I often think about that as I'm riding, and feel that I'm playing Beethoven's Fifth Symphony through the motorcycle.
With the help of earplugs and a good helmet, I fly quietly along just a few feet above the solid surface of the highway.  With a flick of my wrist I accelerate quickly around other vehicles.  I shift my weight imperceptibly and glide gracefully from one lane to another.  I negotiate curves nimbly and confidently, as if the motorcycle were attached to a rail.  I'm as agile as ahummingbird, negotiating my way around 18-wheelers, automobiles, and campers, noting the location and relative speed of every vehicle within my field of vision.
Against The Clock  Ron Ayers p 15

[Biggles]

Earlier in the year, Manny Sameiro had published an account on the Internet of the mistakes that resulted in his last place finish in the 1997 Iron Butt Rally.  Manny had whimsically titled his account "Against the Pavement," a title apparently inspired by my book “Against the Wind”.
After travelling from Chicago to Madawaska, Maine, during the first leg of the rally, Manny had mistakenly filled his motorcycle with diesel fuel.  He discovered the mistake, but replacing the fuel with gasoline, and cleaning the carburettors and fuel lines caused him to fall behind schedule.  In an effort to regain the hours lost, Manny pushed his motorcycle beyond its capabilities, lost control, and wrecked his bike.  He then purchased the only used motorcycle he could find in the small town of Houlton, Maine, a 1983 Honda VT500 Shadow.  Because of the delays he experienced, along with the 10,000 point penalty that was invoked for his having switched motorcycles, Manny finished the rally in last place.  I thought Manny deserved a lot of credit for overcoming such difficult obstacles to finish.
Against The Clock  Ron Ayers p 61

[Biggles]

Like Scott Ward, Jeffery Foster also wanted to perform an Iron Butt certification ride within my 7/49 ride.  Jeff had attempted a Bun Burner Gold ride the previous October, but fell short of his goal, taking 27 hours to complete the 1,500-mile ride.  Jeff admitted he hadn't been properly prepared for the cold weather he'd encountered, and he'd tarried too long warming up at rest stops.  Jeff had established two riding goals for 1998.  The first was to complete a Bun Burner Gold ride, and the second was to complete the IBA National Parks Tour, which required visiting 50 or more National Parks in at least 25 different states in one year.  A "passport" would have to be stamped at the visitor centre in each park.
Against The Clock  Ron Ayers p 137

[Biggles]

Before I announced plans for the 7/49, Pablo Garcia sent me an email complimenting me on "Against the Wind".  He was interested in pursuing endurance riding because of the amount of riding that he could accomplish in a limited time:
This will allow me to put a lot of effort into something I really love into a limited schedule.  In other words, I once suggested to my wife that I wanted to take about a year off and break the world record for the number of countries visited by motorcycle.  She promised that she would be nowhere in sight when I got back.  So as you can see, endurance riding can work for me.
Against The Clock  Ron Ayers p 142

[Neale]

I like this bloke Bill.