From the Library

[Biggles]

It was now clear that he could not really develop his engines further without a dynamometer, which would allow him to methodically test his improvements to the bikes without the complicating variables that racing introduced. 
He had talked with a number of people over the years about building such a machine, and he now set out to do it.  It was a fearsome looking device when finished, with two flat thirty-five by twenty-centimetre plywood paddles, driven by a long chain from the engine running though exhaust pipe to stop it flying off the sprockets at either end.  When the dynamometer was in use both the bike, with its rear wheel removed, and the paddles were mounted securely to a heavy steel frame.
Burt had also made an electric starter (using an old Ford starter motor) with handles on either side that fitted over the drive side mainshaft nut on both the Indian and the Velocette.  He had first seen such a thing when a local grass track hotshot named Earl Bryan built one.  Earl was asthmatic and had trouble push-starting his speedway JAP.  There were a number of copies about that Burt would borrow, until their various owners decided he could build his own, which he finally did.  He could now start the bike while it was hooked up to the dynamometer and run his tests.
Burt persuaded Norman Hayes to help with the first trial something Norman, who had followed the construction of the machine, was reluctant to do.  Burt kept at him until he relented and Burt soon had the paddles whizzing around creating what to Norman felt like a hurricane in the confines of Burt's little shed.  He was relieved when the engine refused to run properly and the trial was aborted.
The bike might not have performed but Burt was happy with his dynamometer.  The only further equipment he needed was a hand-held rev counter to ensure the one on the bike was accurate, and without which he could not accurately calculate the horsepower the engine was developing.  Luckily a friend named Vern Russell had just such a thing, which worked by holding it over the end of the crankshaft, and he agreed to help Burt. He soon regretted it.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 291

[Biggles]

Having operated the starter motor to get the engine running, Vern held the rev counter over the end of the crankshaft and Burt slipped the bike into second gear.   
As he let the clutch out, the unshielded paddles began to revolve, horribly close to where Vern was crouched beside the bike.  Burt opened the throttle until the paddles were spinning at about 2000 revs, at which point the din from the open megaphones on the bike combined with the clatter of the chain in the pipes and the roar of the wind generated by the paddles was enough to daunt the stoutest heart.  Papers and dust were flying around the workshop and just as Vern thought matter could not possibly become any more unpleasant, the bike slipped out of gear, the revs went through the roof, and motorcycle engine blew up.  Vern was shaking violently as Burt calmly leaned over to have a look at the damage and announced, "That's the first time that has happened in the history of this church!"
Although he would thereafter allow Burt to borrow the rev counter whenever he asked for it, Vern was always too busy to help out in person.  Duncan and Ashley had also heard enough to avoid being roped into a session, and Burt was forced to recruit others.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 292

[Biggles]

He was forced to admit that those who had told him the magneto was faulty were probably right.  Arriving back at Bainfield Road a month later he immediately began to work to replace the magneto. Years before, Joe Hunt, American specialist, had given him a Bosch magneto.  The item was probably from a BMW and Burt had been dissuaded from fitting it because it ran the wrong way. Once he'd decided to use it, however, he quickly solved the problem by dispensing with the two idler pinions in the gear train driving the magneto.  He replaced these with a single large cam gear mounted on an eccentric shaft, to allow an accurate meshing of the gears. He had to move the magneto closer to the gear and to do this he cut about four millimetres off the base of the magneto and about the same amount off the crankcase mounting.  He drilled and tapped new holes to mount the magneto.  Because it was designed to fire a flat four-cylinder engine, rather than a forty-two V-twin, he next made a new brass cam ring and a set of cams to work the points.  The latter he created from old ball race that he annealed before filing it to the correct shape to achieve the timing he needed.  Once he'd annealed it again it was ready.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 299- 300

[Biggles]

Burt's tenth and final visit to Bonneville was in July 1971.  He was disgusted to learn that the rules had been changed and that all streamliners now had to have separate engine compartments.  The year before had seen a flurry of activity as three contenders chased the all-out motorcycle land speed record.  Don Vesco had fired his twin engined 700cc, two-stroke Yamaha, feet-forward streamliner across the salt to take the record with an average of 251.6 miles an hour.  A month later his good friend Cal Rayborn broke it again with a speed of 265.5.  Rayborn's head-first streamliner, powered by a 1480cc Harley Davidson twin, had been a handful to drive and he had a few high-speed slides before he got the hang of it.
Less fortunate had been the third contender Robert Leppan, who had set a time one-way of 266 miles an hour in his twin Triumph 650cc powered streamliner Gyronaut X-1.  On his return run the streamliner had become airborne at about 280 miles an hour, finally sliding for about 2.5 kilometres with a badly injured Leppan in the cockpit.  The high speeds had prompted the new safety rules, but they effectively ended any participation by streamlined machines that were conventionally ridden. 
Burt was allowed to make a few half-hearted passes in the streamliner for the Aardvark cameraman, probably the most frustrating thing he had ever done in his life.  He was also allowed to run his bike without the shell, but the gearing was far too high for him to do well.
On the way back to Los Angeles, alone once again, an axle broke on his old trailer which then collapsed.  He had to lash a tree branch underneath it, dragging it for miles until he found a truck stop and some assistance to slide the streamliner into the back of the $90 Pontiac station-wagon he had bought for the trip.  Once back in Los Angeles he spent time with Marty and Jackie at their home in Thousand Oaks.  Rollie came over and they talked about old times, each of them facing the reality that Burt's record-chasing days really were over.  It was a sad farewell. 
Back home Burt was soon in the thick or it again.  He and Duncan still thought nothing of driving 600 kilometres to compete in a speed trial near Christchurch, then home again for a trial the next day.  At a quarter-mile sprint along School Road in Invercargill, he kept the power on too long for his feeble brakes to pull him up, yelling as he careered down the road for someone to pull the traffic barrier out of the way.  Just in time it was whisked away, and Burt hurtled past.  Then he turned right around and lined up for another run.  He was seventy-three years old.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 302-3

[Biggles]

He suffered a heart attack but made a good recovery, teasing the nurses with all his youthful enthusiasm, and returned to his little house where he spent his days in a comfortable chair with a two-bar electric heater always going.  He had rigged up a special wire holder on the heater for his teapot, and the many visitors were always offered a cup. His tea no longer tasted metallic.
With the sun streaming into his cosy little house, he would sit in his old armchair, close his eyes and find himself back on the salt.  The Indian would be humming along, everything operating in perfect harmony.  The black line would be flickering under the bike as it hurtled along, rock steady at maximum revs in top, doing well over 200 miles an hour.  He would raise his head just a bit against the pressure of the slipstream and lift his eyes to take in the cobalt sky.  As he drifted into sleep his perfect run would slowly fade, until there was nothing but the glittering white plain and the distant purple hills and perfect, eternal silence.
One Good Run  Tim Hanna p 305-6

[Biggles]

Three days after the funeral, Margaret was cleaning out her father's house when she came across an address book. She flicked through it and stopped at the letter I, which contained a single word, 'Indian', and an American phone number. On a whim she called it. A man answered, his voice reverberating slightly. "Indian Motorcycles. Can I help you?"
For a moment Margaret was silent, then remembered the purpose of her call. "Hello, my name is Margaret. I'm Burt Munro's daughter and I am calling to tell you that he has died peacefully at home."
"I'm really pleased to hear that, Margaret." The unexpected sentiment hung in the air for a moment, somewhere near the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, that came out wrong. I'm real sad to hear Burt's gone and everybody else round here will be too when I tell them. We already miss him. It's just that we figured he would be awfully lucky to go peacefully. I'm so glad he did." There was another pause. "I would like you to know that he made all of here at Indian Motorcycles proud. Real proud."
As Margaret hung up, her eyes were drawn to the glittering trophies, waiting to be packed in boxes. She was struck by how much more there had been to the life they represented. Her father, she thought, had always been a true individual and, like all true individuals, he had always been himself.
It was enough, she thought, more than enough.
One Good Run Tim Hanna p 306-7

[Biggles]

A long-distance motorcycle rally requires the same time-management skills as a SaddleSore, along with a few more.  It's essentially a scavenger hunt, with bonuses worth different point values depending on the degree of difficulty to get to the location either in terms of distance or road quality.  Each rally is run by a Rally Master who plans, advertises, and oversees the entire event.  They take great pride in creating interesting routes, along twisty mountain roads filled with animals at night, blistering deserts in the heat of the day, busy cities at rush hour, or small towns with excruciatingly slow speed limits- anything to make the ride challenging.  The goal of a rally is to figure out the best way to get the most points while also, at least in the Utah 1088, riding the minimum number of miles to be classified as a finisher.
Two-Up  Lynda Lahman p 32

[Biggles]

The final few miles!  Turning west on I-80 towards the hotel, Terry said that because we had deviated from the main route, we might not have covered enough miles to be considered finishers.  The possibility that we might be short on miles had never come up.  We were well over what I thought was required, and I couldn't make any sense of his words.  All I heard was, "We need to ride a billion miles past our exit, blah blah blah, then turn around and come on back".  If I'd had the strength to strangle him, I would have. He later told me he could feel ice forming on the intercom wires from the sudden chill in my mood.  I was in a state of utter disbelief, but Terry was insistent. I reluctantly agreed to go another twenty miles farther before turning around.  I was not a happy camper when we passed by our exit and I could see the hotel from the interstate.
Two-Up  Lynda Lahman p 39

[Biggles]

Then another rider, Greg Marbach, appeared, jumped off his bike, took the required photo, and engaged us in a brief conversation.  He hopped back on his bike and headed east down the mountain pass to the valley below.  I turned to Terry and asked him if he thought Greg was doing OK, if he seemed tired, and if we should we have said or done something.
Not knowing Greg well, we weren't sure if he would successfully monitor himself.  Feeling slightly uncomfortable, but also freezing cold and wanting to re-hook up our electrics, we got back on the bike and took off in the same easterly direction.  Barely half a mile later we saw a bike on the side of the road and my heart skipped a beat.  I quickly realized the bike was on its side stand, and Greg was sleeping next to it on the hillside.  Later he told us cars kept stopping to see if he was OK, and he finally had to continue further down the road to find a better place to nap where he wouldn't be constantly awakened by well-meaning drivers.
Two-Up  Lynda Lahman p 87

[Biggles]

An elderly man wandered over to chat while Terry moved the equipment to different locations on the bike.  The man asked about the bike and where we were from.  I don't think I've ever spoken with anyone who talked as slowly, pausing in-between every word for what seemed like minutes.  I could tell Terry wanted to focus on fixing the bike, so I kept answering the man's questions, diverting his attention, trying to be friendly and engaging.
He had never been more than a few miles from his home in his entire life, and was struggling to believe that we could have come over 3000 miles in only three days.  He drew the words out, over and over, "Three thousand miles in three days!" as if the constant repetition would suddenly make it more comprehensible.  It was the kind of moment, unplanned and memorable, that happened often when we were on the bike.  Somehow, people were more willing to approach us, a couple sharing a single motorcycle, and pepper us with questions that they might never ask if we were in a car.
Two-Up  Lynda Lahman p 113-4

[Biggles]

But now we were far ahead of schedule.  It was only 10am and Livermore was a short 150 miles away.  We took off down the mountain with fingers crossed that we'd find an open fire station. The instructions for the fire station were as follows: "Take a picture of the Centennial Light, the oldest continually burning bulb in the world, on since 1901. You will need to go into the Fire Station and ask to see the light.  Go to the door and ring the bell.  You MUST also sign the guest book as we will be monitoring it!  If the fire personnel are out on a call, you must wait for their return."
We arrived to find an empty station.  Not sure what to do or how long to wait, Terry took a short nap. I studied our maps to see if there were other bonuses we could add if we stayed ahead of the clock.  I called Bob to chat and help keep me alert.  Thirty minutes passed.  I was pacing the parking lot, unsure what to do, when a fire truck pulled into the driveway. I shook Terry out of his slumber and ran over to the crew to say hello.
"Bet you've had quite a few people stopping by today," I said.  A firefighter looked at me oddly as he climbed down from the truck.
"Um, I'm not sure what you're talking about.  This isn't our station.  We're just here for a minute dropping off some supplies and taking off again."
"Would it be OK if you let us in to get a picture of the light bulb?" I asked as they were unloading boxes.
"What light bulb?"  My heart stopped.  How could it be a famous landmark and a local crew not know about it?  What if they couldn't find it?  What if it required a special key?"
"Oh, is this it?" he called as the bay doors opened, revealing a tiny wire attached to the ceiling with a small bulb dangling at the end.  I breathed a sigh of relief.
Had I been sleeping along with Terry the truck would have come and gone, no one the wiser.  We took our photo, with Terry lying on the floor to get me, the flag, and the light in the picture.  We signed the guest book, thanked the crew for letting us in, and waved goodbye as we rode off.
Two-Up  Lynda Lahman p 170-1

[Biggles]

The fleece neck gaiter I was wearing for warmth had gotten twisted inside my jacket and was bothering me.  "Can you tuck this back in for me?" I asked Terry.  "I can't reach the back to do it myself."
"I can't," Terry said.  "My hands are dirty."  He held them out for me to see. I stared at him incredulously.
"Seriously? Do you really think I care?"  Neither of us had showered since the hotel in San Jose, three days ago.  Our stop in Fort Collins had only been for sleep, and we had spent two nights on picnic benches in our gear and our helmets.  Dirt was the least of my worries.  We laughed at the absurdity of what he had just said and what we were doing- standing at a gas pump in the middle of the night, filthy, stinky, and having the time of our lives.
Two-Up  Lynda Lahman p 196

[Biggles]

One rider quoted Helen Keller's description of life as a daring adventure.  The quotation has always been a favourite of mine, and helps explain how these riders justify the risks to which they willingly expose themselves:
"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of humankind as a whole experience it.  Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run  than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or it is nothing at all."
Against The Wind  Ron Ayers p 46

[Biggles]

Just after midnight, some 130 miles south of Salt Lake City, I became sleepy and checked into the Iron Butt Motel at Fillmore.  This time the Iron Butt Motel was the parking lot of a convenience store.  The Iron Butt Motel is the term endurance riders use for sleeping on one's motorcycle.  Some riders do it by leaning forward, using their tank bags as a pillow.  I was most comfortable leaning back. Anyone who has difficulty believing that it's possible to sleep on a motorcycle just hasn't been that tired.  The Iron Butt Motel has a lot to recommend it.  It's easy to find, the rates are great, there's always a vacancy, and there's no problem about having to park your motorcycle out of your sight while you sleep.  And you don't have to awaken a clerk if you want to check in at 4:00 a.m.  There are a few disadvantages, too.  You never seem to be able to find one when it's raining, and there generally isn't a shower nearby unless it's raining.  They are some of the dirtiest places going. There's no service to speak of.  Security isn't great.
Against The Wind  Ron Ayers p 78-9

[Biggles]

Around midnight Charles was north of Los Angeles, dead tired and wanting an opportunity to stop to rest.  But his concern about being able to make it through the traffic in Los Angeles to reach San Diego on time caused him to try to get through Los Angeles before stopping.  Thinking that he had missed a turnoff to stay on I-5, he tried to cheat the highway by crossing the white demarcation lines, hit an unknown obstacle, and went airborne.  The short flight and abrupt landing awakened him enough to realize that he was heading in the wrong direction on I-5.  When he exited the freeway to examine the damage to the motorcycle, he entered an area that he described as a "war zone", replete with refugees, burned out hulks of automobiles, and abandoned buildings.  He quickly returned to the interstate.  When he stopped at a gasoline station a little farther on, the attendant was sitting in a bulletproof cage.  As he dismounted he heard the voices of several youths running in his direction from a half a block away.  Leaving the refuelling for later, he jumped back on the motorcycle and once again returned to the interstate.
Against The Wind  Ron Ayers p 82-3