From the Library

[Biggles]

The roads were a total mess.  It snowed all week and was still snowing on Saturday.  Places near my home got much as 30 inches in five days.  I probably could have gotten out Saturday, snow showers and all, but I wanted to spare the chain and engine cases from the salt brine- so I delayed it a day and left on Sunday.  My sons did a great job of shovelling and sanding the driveway to give me a safe exit to the street.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 275

[Biggles]

I came to a roadblock where six state troopers were inspecting vehicles, I pulled in and turned off the engine - I wasn't wearing my hearing aid and wanted to hear what was being said.  One big guy said, "Don't turn it off," as he walked around to the right side of the bike, while several others stood in a line on my left side. 
 I said as the big guy walked around the bike, "It's over on this side, at the top of the fork leg."  He said, "I already saw it.  Do you have a motorcycle license?"
I laughed and said, I sure do.  I've had one since they "grand-fathered" me in more than 50 years ago and I reached for my wallet.  He said, "I don't have to see it."
I said, "I'm out taking a ride to celebrate my 86th birthday" - which got a few smiles and at least one "Happy Birthday" as I restarted the bike and said, "Have a nice day," and I left.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 284-5

[Biggles]

There's another stretch of asphalt nearby that's stranger and perhaps even more fun to ride than the Rowena Curves: 3.6 miles, twenty-five curves, leading to absolutely nothing. Imagine building your own private road for the purpose of sport riding.  What would you build?  Well, you'd probably start with a hillside location that would provide lots of opportunities for elevation change and curves, but would be open enough to allow generous sight lines.  You'd make sure the asphalt was perfectly smooth and grippy, and you'd probably make each curve unique, designing a smorgasbord of hairpins, sweepers, increasing-radius, constant-radius and decreasing-radius turns.  And you wouldn't waste space on a straight.  Sport riding is about leaning, so the run would consist of turns, all the way. That perfectly describes the Maryhill Loops.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 25

[Biggles]

In an aerial view, the road looks like a very squiggly line drawn with a black marker on light brown paper.  The dry, treeless slope allows for sightlines through most of the tight curves, which is always a good thing, though it mattered less than ever as I rode onto the Loops knowing that absolutely no other traffic lay ahead.  I quickly dispensed with first gear and rolled into the series of curves in second, which would probably work for just about all of the road ahead.  Shifting above third just amounts to putting unnecessary wear and tear on the gearshift lever, so I concentrated on rolling on and off the throttle, taking advantage of the grip provided by this dry, unmarred asphalt that has been lying here, curing in the sun.
I scrubbed away the vestiges of chicken strips on my tires and soon, all too soon, I reached the gravel turnaround area at the top of the hill.  The brief 3.6-mile length is absolutely the only thing detracting from this ride.  But when you can ride it again and again, as you can during the rally, even that isn't much of a drawback.  And better yet, because I happened to get there early, I got to ride it alone.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 29-30

[Biggles]

Lured by the sheer oddity of the event, I mail in my entry for Lake Erie Loop V.I have no illusions of earning any of those bragging rights, but I can at least finish, right?  In a lifetime of varied and sometimes misguided motorcycling, I've done a thousand-mile day, I've survived the infamous and since revised Turn 12 at Road Atlanta, I've been caught on the road by unexpected snowfall, and sideswiped by a car at 60 mph on the freeway at 2 a.m. yet lived to tell those and other tales.  I can surely survive the Loop.  The only problem is, I don't have a Loop-legal motorcycle.
Ah, but I know where I can get my hands on one.  Years ago, my father gave my mother a 1996 Suzuki GN125 as a fifty-ninth birthday present, knowing she wanted to get back into motorcycling and knowing she probably wouldn't spend the money on herself.  She's since bought other bikes, but always keep the GN125.  As her phone is ringing, it dawns on me that it is Mothers Day.  How am I going to phrase this?
"Hi Mom.  Say, I'd like to borrow your sentimental favourite motorcycle, flog it near redline for sixteen hours straight and possibly blow it to smoldering bits somewhere in Canada.  Oh, by the way.  Happy Mother s Day."
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 33-4

[Biggles]

By the time I've survived Detroit and crossed the state line into Ohio, night and my enthusiasm are falling rapidly.  On the fly, I reach out and try to adjust the aim of the Suzuki's little five-inch headlight, but the effort is futile, and I learn to live with the anaemic yellow smudge of light in the roadway ahead as I roll through the dark, deer-infested woods and fields of northern Ohio, butt burning, shoulders knotted and aching.  It's that time of evening when even the mental image of a sleeping bag in a tent on the hard ground hovers in the mind like a nirvana of feathery pillows and Loopers peer deep into the abyss of the soul and ask themselves the central questions of life, such as, "Does that valve clatter sound like its getting worse?" and "Why did I think this would be fun?" 
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 36-7
https://store.steampowered.com/app/1811500/LOOPERS/

[Biggles]

For me, one of the rarest and most coveted feelings on any motorcycle ride is the luxury of free time.  Typically, especially at home, my rides and trips are accompanied by a small black cloud that only I can see, a nagging feeling deep in the background of my mind that I soon need to be somewhere else, that someone is waiting for me, or that dawdling means neglecting other duties.  That afternoon at El Tajin was the turnaround point in my trip.  I had no farther to go that day, my hotel room for the night was already secured (the same one as the previous night), and nobody was expecting me to be anywhere else.  That alone, that opportunity to relax on a grassy slope among ancient monuments after a 2,000-mile dash southward, was among the most savoured parts of my afternoon amidst the ruins.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 47

[Biggles]

I picked my way through the narrow city streets, trying not to lose the thread of the route leading toward Tamazunchale, trying not to lose the tires' tenuous grip on the greasy wet pavement, until a young policeman halted all traffic at an intersection.  Sitting at the front of the line of stopped cars, I had a perfect view of a Christmas procession as locals on foot carried figures of saints to the church.  Plodding along in the drizzle, the procession was more mournful, or at least more respectful, than festive.  This is the difference that travel makes: On a trip back home, I'd be annoyed to be stopped because of a parade, fuming about where I needed to be.  Here, nearly two thousand miles from home, I was just pleased to have a front-row view.  That, for me at least, is the transforming magic of foreign surroundings.  The ordinary can become memorable, and even mundane tasks become learning experiences. An inconvenience becomes an opportunity to peer into other lives.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 48-9

[Biggles]

The checkered flag is out for the session and I raise my left hand to signal that I'm coming into the pits.  The pit entrance at Mid-Ohio is curved and slightly downhill.  I'm leaning gently through that curve, left hand still off the grip, already in first gear and already thinking ahead to the next session, when I squeeze some front brake to slow down even more and... Wham! I'm on the ground! Worse yet, I'm lying in the grass with my feet higher than my head and the rear wheel of the Ducati pinning my right leg.  I'm splayed out on the ground with all the dignity of a deboned chicken, flopped helplessly in the grass for everyone to see as they ride into the pits, having just locked the front wheel and crashed.  In first gear. At maybe 30 mph.  On the pit lane entrance.
In the history of motorcycle crashes, many have been worse, but few have been more embarrassing.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 62-3

[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 to 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 won't 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