From the Library

[Biggles]

And finally, as they crowd close enough to block the sun, I rise, impatiently demanding that they all move back.  But within minutes, kicked-up clouds of fine dust indicate they again feel the need to inspect up close the progress of patching a tube.  No one wants to miss anything, and soon my wrenches and screwdrivers are buried beneath leathered feet and dirt rearranged by those pushing and shoving.  Most just wanted to help but were killing me with kindness, and I considered hiring the biggest man to drive them away.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp396-7

[Biggles]

(After weeks of negotiations and struggle, Glen managed to airfreight his crated bike out of Ethiopia to Germany and thence to Mexico where he rejoined it to ride home to California.)

Dodging infamous Mexico City traffic required that I get rolling before dawn. And in Centro Historico, just as the first rays of sunlight bounced off the commanding granite bell towers of a Spanish cathedral, I was riding past fast-walking office workers bundled in overcoats with upturned collars. Accustomed to the mild temperatures of Africa, it took me a moment to realize that riding into biting mountain air required foul-weather clothes and heavy gloves. 
Passive old men on early morning strolls responded to my requests for directions with pats on my back accompanied by animations that rivalled Shakespearean players.   
Unable to merely indicate the next corner where to turn, with waving arms they felt compelled to describe the building and its historical significance.  Together we formulated an escape route from an awakening megatropolis whose commuters were soon to choke the boulevards leading to the open road.  Against a background of dilapidated shantytowns and honking taxi horns, the exclusive skyscrapers of the glimmering commercial district were the final farewell as I headed northwest toward the Pacific Ocean.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp408-9

[Biggles]

How the old buzzard came to be on the salt was difficult to comprehend.  Under its quaintly old-fashioned fairing his machine was a battered heap, generations old and looking every day of it. He was in similar condition, an elderly codger wearing baggy suit pants that might have been fashionable once, with the cuffs tucked into his grubby socks, not-quite-worn-out tennis shoes and a weathered, black leather biker jacket.  If you asked him a question he was likely to react with the kind of loud and guttural exclamation the aged and crusty use to indicate both deafness and indifference.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 11

[Biggles]

How the old buzzard came to be on the salt was difficult to comprehend.  Under its quaintly old-fashioned fairing his machine was a battered heap, generations old and looking every day of it. He was in similar condition, an elderly codger wearing baggy suit pants that might have been fashionable once, with the cuffs tucked into his grubby socks, not-quite-worn-out tennis shoes and a weathered, black leather biker jacket.  If you asked him a question he was likely to react with the kind of loud and guttural exclamation the aged and crusty use to indicate both deafness and indifference.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 11

[Biggles]

There was something spooky about the way he stood beside his red, goldfish-shaped machine, one hand resting on its dull flank as if it were alive and in need of reassurance. 
And then he was climbing into it, or onto it, with his back sticking out the top like the goldfish's fin breaking the surface.  A team of like-minded misfits was preparing to give him a push start while he yelled instructions at them in some incomprehensible patois.  They should have known better than to encourage such stupidity.  It was bound to end badly and when it did they would be at least partially responsible.
And then he was off, his helpers pushing like maniacs until the thing suddenly caught with an unholy racket and leapt away like the demented fish it so resembled, leaving one of the pushers sprawled flat on his face in the Bonneville salt.
The car full of officials was off after it, accelerating hard to catch up with the red machine until both car and bike settled at about ninety miles an hour, running smoothly across the shimmering salt. The machine was obviously a bit faster than might have been gathered by looking at it in repose. The officials nodded their Stetsons at one another and agreed that, surprisingly enough, everything seemed under control... when suddenly the red oval in front lurched while its rider groped about in its innards for something - a gear lever as it turned out - and changed up a cog.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 12

[Biggles]

The machine slewed slightly as the rear tyre spat a shower of salt back at the following car, giving them a brief view through to the nose before it straightened up and hurled a further shovel load all over the car's windscreen.  The salt landed with a solid thump that made the car's occupants duck, and the suddenly bellowing machine in front lit out for the horizon like a stone out of a slingshot.  It simply disappeared.
There was no catching him, and that was the end of the story until they found him at the other end of the run, standing beside his streamliner, which once again had its little landing wheels extended.
Earl Flanders, the American Motorcycle Association (AMA) steward for Utah's legendary Speed Week, got out of the car and strolled over.  The old guy was looking a bit flustered but, considering he must have been going over 140 miles an hour by Flanders' educated reckoning, that was hardly surprising.  Flanders nodded at him with a puzzled smile that belied a certain new-found respect and which made him look a lot friendlier than he had when he first spied the ancient combination an hour or so earlier. He said something like, "The old girl seemed to run pretty good."
"You think so, Earl?" replied the old guy. He seemed as surprised as everybody else.
Earl Flanders nodded again. "She really took off when you changed into top!"
Once more the old guy looked puzzled. "Top," he repeated, shouting like the old deaf coot he was. "I never got her out of second."
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 12-3

[Biggles]

What he loved most of all, however, was to run his Indian motorcycle.  He'd bought it new in 1920 and tuned and rebuilt it ever since to go faster and faster, until he was sure that with 'just one good run' he could achieve at least 200 miles an hour. 
What he did not like were high-speed accidents.  He'd survived enough of those to last several lifetimes and he hated the sight of blood, especially his own. And the way his new streamline shell had encouraged the Indian to weave from side to side in the most violent and wayward manner as he approached 150 miles an hour had scared three kinds of crap out of him.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 14

[Biggles]

Why anyone would want to take a 1920 Indian Scout, a fine machine in its day but no rocket, and turn it into an alcohol-burning fire-breather to attack international speed records almost half a century later, at speeds almost four times those it had been capable of when new, was not a question the old rider had ever bothered to exercise.  He did what he did mainly because meeting the challenge gave him more satisfaction than anything else, with the possible exception of an encounter with a willing woman.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 17

[Biggles]

McLean ... wheeled the Douglas out and showed Bert the brake, throttle, choke, fuel cock and starting technique.  Douglases were easy to start and Bert soon had the hang of it.  After a couple of loops of the circular driveway he was off down the road on the most exciting adventure life had yet granted him.
The day was warm and he could hear the drone of cicadas and smell the fresh scent of the roadside bracken as he gradually opened the throttle wider and wider.  Soon he was flying along, the gentle blat of the Douglas's engine bouncing back at him whenever the road went through a cutting.  He remembered McLean's warning not to speed through the several fords as the shock of the cold water could split the hot engine, and he eased the machine through the first with hardly a splash.  Then it was back up to full speed, leaning the machine into the steeply banked corners and laughing out loud for the pure joy of it.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 43

[Biggles]

Ever since his experience with the Douglas, Bert had dreamed of having another ride and his opportunity came at last when one of new friends offered him a spin on his almost brand-new silver Norton.  He and another mate were going to a dance at a small country hall in Fortrose, about seventy kilometres out of town.  If Bert was keen he could ride the Norton on the way up while the owner pillioned on his mate's Matchless.  They would swap for the return journey, which would be in the dark and therefore somewhat more hazardous.
It was a generous offer and Bert was quick to accept.  The ride up to Fortrose, a small country backwater, was a further revelation.  The Matchless took off like a startled hare and Bert had to keep travelling faster than he would have thought possible and at every corner he expected the lovely Norton to slide onto its side.   
But it tracked through the gravel with its front suspension jiggling up and down while Bert bounced in the saddle like a jockey on a trotter.  As he banked the bike through the corners, the exhaust alternatively cackling and roaring, exhilaration flamed through his body.  By the time they got to the dance he had made up his mind: he had to have a machine of his own.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 61-2

[Biggles]

On the way home Bert was keeping company with yet another Munro, a distant uncle named Hugh, who was just a few years older than Bert.  Hugh's New Imperial had developed a misfire and he was struggling to keep up.  Bert fell back to make sure he made it home.  From time to time he slowed right down to allow Hugh to catch up and amused himself by practising stunts.  As they were clearing the foothills Hugh came around a corner to see his nephew wheeling briskly down a gentle incline with the bike in neutral, standing on the seat with his arms outstretched.  Hugh nursed his ailing machine alongside and yelled at his grinning nephew,  'Who the hell do you think you are? Jesus Christ on a bloody motorcycle?'
Bert grinned, flipped him a smart salute and then fell off, landing heavily on top of his head.  Certain that the fall must have broken Bert's neck, Hugh skidded to a stop, switched off, dumped the New Imperial on its side and scrambled back to the figure stretched out on the road.  He vaguely heard the Clyno, which had rolled on for a considerable distance, finally crash over.  Bert lay there as if fast asleep, his breathing deep and even.  A careful examination revealed no blood or obvious injuries, so Hugh pulled him over onto the grass verge and rolled up his coat to make a pillow. The Clyno puttered away happily in the background until it finally coughed and stopped and the afternoon was suddenly awfully quiet. 
There was little Hugh could do except to make himself comfortable and hope another vehicle came along.  He retrieved both machines and placed them on their stands, grabbing a picnic blanket out of his saddlebag to cover Bert.  Dusk began to fall and it was getting dark before Bert groaned and wearily sat up.  His eyes slowly focused on the two machines standing in the gathering gloom.  He gave a puzzled sigh and then suddenly noticed the worried Hugh.  "Oh, hello Hugh," he said. "It was good of you to wait."  He rubbed his head and then calmly stood up. "Well come on.  We need to get home."
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 63-4

[Biggles]

Bert enjoyed the Clyno but he was not besotted with it.  It took another bike to give him a bad case of love at first sight.  He was passing the Criterion Hotel car park and saw her sitting there.  She was red but not an obvious red like the Clyno; a more subtle shade for a more seductive creature.  The elegant script on the side of her shapely tank proclaimed her to be an Indian and at her heart was a neat and compact, narrow-angle V-twin. 
Bert's eyes wandered all over her, noting the way the soft glint of nickel plate contrasted magically with that lustrous red paint.  He patted the rich, tan leather seat, testing the spring and smiling as the saddle bounced back against his palm.  His gaze lingered on the multiple leaf-spring suspension, admiring the simple and solid design, before he got down on one knee like a suitor to gaze upon the shape of her cast alloy primary case.  Like everything about her it was beautifully executed.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 66

[Biggles]

One of the best things about the job, other than the fact that it paid well at a time when this was rare, was that he got to ride the Indian to work.  It was a good long haul over twisty roads and took several hours.  He always made a point of detouring at speed along the front verandah of the Waimahaka store.  There was a considerable drop at the end of the board verandah and Bert would sail over it, trying to extend his jump each time.  Anyone lucky enough to witness Bert's passing enjoyed a free and quite spectacular show. For the storekeeper, however, the sudden burst of the engine and the thudding progress along his verandah was a constant irritation.  He complained loudly that he could never catch the silly bugger who was bound to break his neck.  By the time he bustled from the counter at the back of his shop to the door to give the bastard a piece of his mind, Bert was always disappearing around the next corner.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 85-6

[Biggles]

The club had decided to change the start from one end of the course to the middle, a popular innovation with the spectators, who could now easily see the start-finish line and both turns.  The crowd was kept off the track by heavy ropes strung along posts driven into the sand, although this didn't deter one man from wandering on to the course to fossick for toheroas, the highly prized shellfish that can be dug up at low tide. 
The premier event of the day, the Ten Miles Open Championship, had been flagged away just a few minutes before and onlookers watched horrified as the three leading motorcycles bore down on the man who was now bending over with his back to the action, ignoring all the shouted warnings.  The lead rider, who was mounted on a very rapid 350cc overhead-valve Velocette, veered to the left, missing the man by centimetres at something like one hundred miles an hour.  A split second later the second machine, a big 1OOOcc Indian, screamed past on the man's right.  Bert, who was thundering along in third place and whose vision was obscured by the two leading bikes, did not see him until the last moment.  How he managed to avoid the man, who was now reeling about the beach from the shock of the first two near misses, was something spectators would talk about for some time.  He seemed to almost lift the motorcycle sideways and then skate down the beach in a frightening series of full opposite-lock skids, until by some miracle he brought the machine back under control.  The toheroa hunter scuttled back to the rope barrier without endangering the rest of the field which was now streaming past.  Someone in the crowd gave him an almighty boot in the pants to the cheers of all who witnessed it.   
They then turned back to the furious action on the beach.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 100

[Biggles]

Casting something as complex as a cylinder head was ambitious for a number of reasons but Bert was cheerfully undeterred and forged ahead.  First of all the negative image of the head needed to be established in a mould full of sand.  This was complicated because a wooden copy, complete with cooling fins poking out at different angles, could not simply be pulled out without destroying the desired impression.  In fact, the wooden pattern had to be made in a number of pieces so that each could be extracted without destroying the desired hollow.  This hollow would eventually shape the molten cast iron Bert had elected to use for his heads.  Second, the internal shape of the head needed to be established during the pour and this required two cores, one for the inlet tract and one for the exhaust port.  These curved shapes were to be made in a core box, using sand held together with a bonding agent, after which they would be carefully positioned in the mould.  If nothing moved during the pour a rough casting of the part would result, ready for the months of careful machining he estimated he'd need to finish it.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 111