From the Library

[Biggles]

And why else should I find myself now having my future told to me at a Rajput wedding?
"You are Jupiter," he said.  Of all the gods in the pantheon, Jupiter is the one I fancy most.  A lovely name, Jupiter, like cream and honey in the mouth.  And a sense of great distance and closeness at the same time.  He was a rainmaker, and I have definitely made my share of rain.  I rained all over the Southern Hemisphere in unprecedented quantities.  Then he was famous for his thunder, which is appropriate too for a god on a motorcycle, and (if it's fair to mix him up a bit with Zeus) then I like the idea of appearing in all those disguises. I have been changing my shape quite often as well.  All in all I would quite like to be Jupiter, if it is not too late....
"You are Jupiter," he said, and for a flash I was, "but for seven years you have been having conflict with Mars."  Of course.  It was a misunderstanding.  He was talking about the planet.
"This troubling influence will go on for two more years."  His grip on my hand remained firm and convincing, and I did not resist.  I wanted it to be important.
"During these two years, you will have two accidents.  They will not be major accidents, but they will not be minor either."  Really, I thought, that's stretching my credulity a bit.  I hardly need a fortuneteller to predict accidents, with ten thousand miles still to ride.  But he did say two.  Not major? Not minor?
"After this period, when you are no longer influenced by Mars, it will be well.  You will have great success and happiness."
Ted Simon.  Jupiter's Travels p 421-2

[Biggles]

I was carrying rice from Iran, raisins and dried mulberries from Afghanistan, tea from Assam, curry spices from Calcutta, stock cubes from Greece, halva from Turkey and some soya sauce from Penang.
In a polythene screw-top bottle bought from a shop in Kathmandu was the rest of the sesame-seed oil I had bought in Boddhgaya. The rice and raisins were in plastic boxes from Guatemala.  My teapot was bought at Victoria Falls, and my enamel plates were made in China and inherited from Bruno at La Plata.  A small box of henna leave leaves from Sudan, a vial of rose water from Peshawar and some silver ornaments from Ootacamund were all tucked into a Burmese lacquered bowl. This in turn sat inside a Russian samovar from Kabul. The tent and sleeping bag were original from London, but the bag had been refilled with down in San Francisco. I had a blanket from Peru and a hammock from Brazil. I was still wearing Lulu's silver necklace and an elephant-hair bracelet from Kenya. The Australian fishing rod was where the sword from Cairo had once sat, and an umbrella from Thailand replaced the one I had lost in Argentina.
By far the most valuable of all my things was a Kashmiri carpet, a lovely thing smothered in birds and animals to a Shiraz design, but it would have been hard to say which of my possessions was the most precious.
Ted Simon.  Jupiter's Travels p 443

[Biggles]

[It was predicted Ted Simon would have an accident, "not major, not minor".  He rode 60,000 around the world and it didn't happen. Then...]
In the South of France near Avignon, I came to a crossing.  There were no traffic lights, and I was on the minor road.  I stopped the bike completely and looked up and down the major road.  I saw no traffic, and set out to cross it.  I could hardly have been doing five miles an hour when I saw myself within yards of a big van coming straight for me very fast.  It should have hit me side-on and I would undoubtedly have been killed if it had, but I braked and the driver didn't, and so his van was just past my front wheel when I hit it. The bike was torn away from underneath me, and the front end was smashed beyond repair.  I fell on the tarmac with all the bones in my body shaken in their sockets, but otherwise unharmed.
The worst was having to face that I could look directly at a speeding van and not see it.  My confidence was more shattered even than the bike.  After all that I had done, with all the care I was taking, I could not explain how I could ride blindly into such a disaster. If ever an accident qualified as "not major and not minor" that was it.
Ted Simon.  Jupiter's Travels p 446

[Biggles]

Riding a motorcycle is technology's closest equivalent to being a cowboy.  Our modern horse has two wheels instead of four, but its nervous system is appropriately rated in horsepower.  Its reins are the handlebars, its stirrups the clutch and brake, its rider (hopefully) sufficiently experienced with the laws of nature to skillfully control his excitable steed.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p xi

[Biggles]

One of the great advantages of the motorcycle is its ability to bring its rider close to the environment- winds, weather, roads, surroundings, nature.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p xi

[Biggles]

And thus, within a few weeks, I found myself sitting astride two wheels, humming down the Dover road headed for what one of the motor-works heads had dubbed "a two-cylinder Odyssey."  Not that I felt like any kind of Ulysses nor did I have visions of a modern Homer becoming my biographer.  My feelings were a mixture of anxiety and boredom.  The anxiety  arose over the possibility that my mother and father might at any moment learn of my intended trek and take steps to intercede in the venture.  The boredom came with contemplation of the thousand or so miles across Europe...  I wanted real adventure- right away, a chance to use the bulky bundle of maps and all of the gadgets strapped so neatly to various sections of my motorcycle.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 14

[Biggles]

It is perhaps paradoxical that he travels safest who travels alone.  The solo traveller is much less apt to find trouble than when travelling in company.  The logic behind this is as simple as the minds of the natives.  When a native meets a stranger in his own kind among his own people, the normal reaction is that he has an advantage over that stranger.  He has the upper hand and is the strongest, so he is willing to approach and talk matters over.  The kind of reception he receives dictates his behaviour.  If the stranger is belligerent, then native can declare war.  If the greeting is friendly, then there is peace.  Had I been travelling with a companion, what would have happened?  The natives would have seen not a lone individual but two persons talking to each other: sufficient unto themselves.  Why then talk to them?  Why make move, except a move in self-defence if necessary.  When this dawned upon me in its full significance there came a tremendous thrill in realizing that I was alone.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 30

[Biggles]

The clutch had not behaved at all decently, jambing frequently as the dust penetrated the mechanism, making it practically impossible to stop... except by capsizing, and then a matter of running through the thick dirt with the heavy machine in gear to start it again.  Needless to say I often found myself going in circles, back the way I came, in any direction just to keep going, while making up my mind.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 39

[Biggles]

"You know," he said, "almost every week someone drives through here on some sort of expedition, some sort of tour, going some vague place or other.  And they all think that I should give them tires and tubes.  For publicity and advertising,' they call it.  Apparently they never stop to think that I am here in this shop day after day, that I would like to go off adventuring too, and have my way paid.  But you said you wanted to pay for the tube!"
"Certainly I do."
"Well, by Jove," his eyes gleamed, "I'll give it to you!" 
Despite my protests he not only refused to accept my money, but took me home to meet his wife for tea and gave me some very sound advice.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 55

[Biggles]

I thought of running. But where? I stood as if glued to the spot.  Not until the big car came to a stop beside me, did I move.  Five burly men tumbled out.
"What in hell?"
"Well, I'll be..."
"I'd like to know where in..."
One was an Englishman, a second a Persian, and the three remaining passengers were just plain Americans, the ones who didn't bother to restrain themselves.  They were jabbering away at me with shouted questions before they'd touched the ground.  We had a regular pow-wow and Old Home Week.
Good-naturedly they advised me that I was a fool, an idiot, and several other categories of mankind for trying to cross the desert by motorcycle.  They had to cross in their motor car for business, but I was just doing it... for what? 
They were generous in replenishing my water bottle and also filled my gas tank.  They brought out sandwiches and fruit and we talked and munched and all was fine.   
Here were businessmen, men of trade and barter.  They travelled by automobiles, they wore occidental clothes and spoke a strange language but they were no different from the merchants who for centuries have travelled with the caravans trading two goats for a cow, rolls of silks for bags of wool.
The meeting was... marvellous.  No other word describes it, for it buoyed my spirits and sent them soaring.
The time came to push on and one of the party who'd been doing business with the Anglo-Persian Oil Company stepped forward.
"Wait a minute young man," he said.  "I'm interested in this trip of yours.  When you come through Indianapolis look me up."
His card read, "Edward Herrington, President, Marmon-Herrington Motor Truck Company."
"That's interesting," I commented.  Then I told him of my father's connection with the motor truck industry.  The man almost exploded.
"What!  You don't mean to tell me you're Bob Fulton's son?  Why... why, I worked with him for years!"
He beamed, he glowed, he chortled and all but kissed me on both cheeks!
Suddenly the desert seemed like home, crowded with life and activity.  In fact, even the sand had a positively friendly look.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 86

[Biggles]

I was in Baghdad. I was approaching New Street, the main street of Baghdad. A turn to the right and then... CRASH!  For an instant I didn't realize what had happened. I had stepped clear as the motorcycle went over. A little boy of eight or nine lay sprawled over the front wheel.  He had dashed off the curb, directly into me and lay there screaming to heaven. The noise reassured my fast beating heart.  They were screams of fright, rather than agony.
Two policemen, in their dusty faded uniforms, immediately appeared.  The little boy scrambled to his feet.  Through the grime on his hands and face and his bare legs I sought to find signs of cuts, of blood.  There were none.  Suddenly realizing the presence of the two policemen his mouth reopened.  But instead of screaming he just left it open, rolled his eyes and then, as though propelled from a gun, disappeared from the scene, dodging between a cart and two trucks.
Dragging the machine to the side of the street, I kicked the starter.  The engine roared, and still the policemen had said nothing.  One even walked away.  But the other stood there looking me over carefully.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 93

[Biggles]

Bored and tired yet knowing this struggle had to go on for at least so long, my mind, as was most appropriate in India soon seemed to detach itself from my physical self and wandered to other subjects- until a thorny twig suddenly caught between my knee and the gasoline tank.  The unexpected pain made me jump so high that I completely lost control of the machine, and in an instant, capsized in one of the ever-present washouts.  I am sure that, at that point, I could have put any Indian magician to shame when it came to disappearing.  The ditch was full of wild boar.  In a few seconds I was so Far And Away that it was perfectly safe to look back.  To my amazement- pigs were running almost as fast as I, but in the other direction.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 121

[Biggles]

Many of the Indian railways are narrow gauge and the trestles are just wide enough to carry one track.  Riding the motorcycle, it was possible to travel between the 
rails and bump over the ties, meanwhile sliding one's feet along the rails on either side, thus keeping a precarious balance as the wheels bump-bump-bumped over the 
sleepers.  Sport?  You can have your wild game tracking.  Riding a trestle as high as a fifteen story building for three-quarters of a mile is every bit as thrilling as waiting for wild elephants to charge the guns.  I negotiated four trestles which, for all their wood and steel, felt no wider and no safer than a tight rope stretched across top of a circus tent.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 132

[Biggles]

The six thousand three hundred and seventy-second mile almost became the last for me.  As I was sitting admiring the sign's impressive, glossy surface and wondering just who had counted off the miles, a sudden cloud darkened the sky: an automobile whirling around the bend from Gujranwala, and in an instant I was busily flying through space.  Strange how quick thoughts can be.  As I sat astride the machine, one leg on either side, and turned my head just in time to see the sky go dark, there was still time to realize that nothing short of a miracle could prevent breaking my leg, crushing it between car and motorcycle.  Even before I finished rolling over in the dust, I was pulling and shaking it, hardly believing my eyes.
The motorcycle had only a broken carburetor dust-filter, quickly repairable at the next garage; and while the automobile awaited a wrecker to hoist it from its broken front axle, I drove away... soon to find the motorcycle's rear fork had been unnoticeably bent, but just enough to correct the Turkish "broken-bridge" calamity to the front fork, henceforth making the machine ride perfectly straight.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 133

[Biggles]

But the greatest problem was that of fording the innumerable streams swollen by the recent rain.  What otherwise might have been dry river courses were roaring torrents and, in several cases, they were more than a third of a mile wide.
The procedure was a ticklish one but from past necessity had already become a matter of routine.  Leaving the machine on the bank I would start wading, knowing that at any time the water rose above the top of my boots it would drown the carburettor and end things then and there.  The machine course, much too heavy to push through running water on a rocky river bottom. Sometimes it would take over an hour to find the ultimate ford.  But by that time the machine would have cooled and so there was no danger of parts cracking from a sudden chill.  Even with the smallest and shallowest streams there always had to be that wait to allow for this gradual cooling.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 237