From the Library

[Biggles]

The native had, of course, fled in despair, not even waiting to get his monkey. The end of the line, fastened to a stick, had caught in the dense foliage, and the animal was still up the tree.  Amid much fighting, pulling, and screaming I finally got him down and took him with me for several days.  He took to motorcycling like a circus bear, clinging to the luggage rack like dust.  He liked everything about his new life, even liked to hunt in my hair after he had finished with his own.  I was the first to get discouraged.  I could see myself in everything he did and he could, within three days, do many of the things I did on the motorcycle.  I had visions of him someday climbing aboard, tugging at the throttle and setting the machine loose or doing something equally serious. So I finally turned him loose in the jungle.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 253

[Biggles]

On the road out of Batavia to Bandoeng I vividly encountered this middle-of- the-road policy.  Descending a steep hill, at a corner I came upon two natives laden with a large straw house.  The walls were of woven reeds, tied over a bamboo frame, and the entire structure was suspended between them on a long pole.  Of course they were in the middle of the road.  But at the sound of a machine they dashed for the ditch- unfortunately each choosing a different side.  The house hung across the road, the front door stood open... there was no alternative.  For an instant there was a tearing of reeds, a splintering of bamboo; and suddenly, the machine, looking like a haystack, emerged through the rear wall.  The house rolled over and collapsed.  As I pulled reeds from my hair and the wheel-spokes, they emerged terror-stricken from the ditch.  They expected either a thrashing or jail.  I expected a great cry from them for payment.  When neither of the expected things happened, we grinned simultaneously.  It was all a good joke.  They had probably spent a month or two constructing the house .  But what's a month or two to a Javanese?
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 255

[Biggles]

The machine had no sooner rolled into a Kobe shop when surrounded by mechanics, some of whom spoke English and knew all about the trip.  "We read it in our newspaper!"  They were surprised that I did not know. The Japanese, even more so than the Americans, are a nation of newspaper readers, their principal papers having a daily circulation running into the millions.  Word must have spread by a grapevine system from the machine shop where the new horn was being installed.  Soon one motorcyclist after another drove up, to come in, examine the machine and ask questions, or merely bow a greeting.  There was much intense telephone conversing, much coming and going of people and machines, much bustle around the shop, but there was no moment of laxity on the job and there could be no complaint regarding the service.  Within an hour the horn was installed, tested and adjusted, the machine backing out of the shop.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 332

[Biggles]

I was no sooner back at the Yadoya than a delegation of three young Japanese arrived.  All spoke English.  Would I do them the honour of informing when I was leaving Kobe?  I said I was leaving next morning at about eight or nine.
"Would it be imposing if we, the representatives of the Kobe Motorcycle Club, asked for the honour of escorting you along the road to Osaka pointing out the most beautiful scenery in all Japan?"
"Not at all," I assured. They bowed and withdrew.
I rose at seven the next morning, shaved, and was just getting into my clothes when a din like that from a score of machine guns, roaring tractors and automobiles without cutouts, assailed my ears.  I pushed aside a screen and looked out.  Other guests were doing the same.  The clatter was terrific.  What I saw made me pull in my head a and try to hide. Not three motorcycles, as I had expected, were outside.  There were thirty-three (I checked the count later), roaring salutations. Other 
guests in the inn were starting to complain. The delegation of three sought vainly to hush the other club members by whispering their commands and jumping about frantically.  Amid roaring and racing motors I checked-out and made a bee-line for my motorcycle before the other guests, so unceremoniously awakened, could start throwing things.
But before we could leave there had to be a speech and the presentation of a pennant bearing the insignia of the club. They tied it onto the windshield.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 333

[Biggles]

"We will now escort you to see the fine, splendid scenery," the delegates announced.  The leader raised his hand, the motors raced more madly.  And off we went.  We were out of Kobe and into the suburbs in one-minute-flat.  The Kobe Motorcycle Club members did not believe in speed laws.  Nor did they believe in allowing their visitor to find aught but a clear path before him.  Every one of the thirty-three took it upon himself to be the pathfinder, with the result that I tagged along like a tired child after a day's trip to the country. They do say that the scenic route along the Inland Sea outside of Kobe is one of the really beautiful sights of Japan.  I'll probably never know.  The dust cloud raised by sixty-six whirling wheels was far too thick to see through.  My escorts roared into Osaka, to come up with a flourish in one of the downtown squares.  There they lined up and there again a speech was made.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p 333

[Biggles]

Then late one afternoon I drove into the Avenue, a slicker buttoned about my mud-caked corduroys, and my boots took the splashing of the New York delivery wagons and shiny limousines alike.  It was the day before Christmas.
As I lifted my foot over the saddle in the courtyard of an apartment building, I shed a surreptitious tear.  The haughty doorman, watching from behind the grilled door, didn't see that tear.  Or perhaps he thought it was rain on my face, if he thought anything other than that Mr. and Mrs. Fulton were having a strange visitor. 
So from Christmas to New Year's the motorcycle stood in the courtyard.  I looked at it when I came and went, but I did not touch it.  And when I glanced down from the lofty windows it appeared forlorn, a small thing in a vast wilderness. It had looked that way when I strode out with the Commandant at dawn to start across the Syrian Desert- so small a thing in such a large place.
Robert Fulton.  One Man Caravan p346

[Biggles]

To my mother's horror, at age 12, my father suggested constructing a homebuilt, mini-scooter using an old lawn mower engine.  The freedom and power of a motorized bike was like a match to gasoline for a troubled young rebel growing up in the 60s.  A lifetime lust for adventure had been ignited. Fiercely independent and anti-authority, I was constantly rejecting the status quo, and that made me feel more alive.  In high school, while others were elected most likely to succeed, my teachers often remarked that I would surely spend life behind bars, and I did - handlebars.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p5

[Biggles]

After only a week on the road, my first casualty is a broken kick-stand.  For increased ground clearance, this motorcycle was designed without a centre stand, a handy tool for raising the bike to change tires and lube the chain.  Normally it's easy to tilt the bike over onto the kickstand high enough to sweep a rock underneath and then pull it upright to balance the rear wheel off the ground. It's a simple move on lighter bikes, but with 200 pounds of extra equipment and fuel, today the hollow support tube buckled.
A loud crack before the kickstand bent in half afforded the split-second needed to catch the bike before it tipped over.  Now what?
Even simple problems in Japan are community affairs that require lengthy discussion considering all options.  After leaning the motor-cycle against a tree, a conference begins, prompting the first of several long winded telephone calls. After the third, I ask, "So what did they say?" The answer: "Wrong number."
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p18

[Biggles]

Since this was a small town, we felt safe and decided to use my one heavy-duty cable lock and Yasutomo's two chain locks to secure them to a tree outside our window. Not possible the cop declares, followed by motions indicating they would be stolen.  They take us outside to show how other hotel visitors secured their vehicles at night, even removing their windshield wiper blades.  They pointed to our mirrors and seat cushions and flicked open their hands demonstrating how they would disappear.
So far, everywhere in Russia we've been warned that our bikes or equipment would be in instant jeopardy if left unattended.  It's nice to think the best of people, but we are finally convinced into wrangling our bikes down a narrow hallway to park them outside our room. It's been a long day in Friendly Russia.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p38

[Biggles]

Exactly a half-hour later he appears with his private driver carrying a hardbound Russian road atlas. "A present for you my friends."  Then he leads us back to the dirt-surfaced Trans-Siberian-Highway, and were off, kicking up pea gravel with spinning tires.
We've only had to stop for document checks three times a day, including when caught on radar for speeding. Each time we end up humouring the cops and posing for pictures.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p43

[Biggles]

Occasionally we pass directly next to the Trans-Siberian Railroad, and, for a moment, catch glimpses of comfortable passengers in lighted railcars. I imagine them sipping wine and nibbling French cheeses in their steamy, warm carriages.  Yasutomo must hate me at the moment. Before we left together, he'd asked about taking the train to Chita instead of riding.
My bellowing reply was, "Are we motorcyclists or what?" I wonder now, as we ride into the night, blue with uncontrolled shivering, if he regrets his decision.
Humming loudly inside my helmet is Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again" and I tell myself once more that it's good to be here.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p45

[Biggles]

Gravel roads, although firmer than mud, cause mild wheel-wobbling, making the bike sway as though riding on flat tires.  Cognizant of variances in surface conditions, especially when the front wheel twists off in unintended directions, we lack proper control and have to resist the urge to fight the handlebars.  Like flying an aircraft, good motorcycling requires delicate steering.  To stay relaxed, its best to control the handlebars by pinching the handgrips with your outside two fingers and use the other two for brakes and clutch.  Caution is critical. If we slow abruptly the weight shifts forward, loading the front end and digging the front tire into the gravel instead of rolling over it.
This plowing effect can send the bike sideways into a horizontal slide.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p46

[Biggles]

On a long journey, it takes a month of adjusting to erratic routines to find the rhythm of the road. There is a point where weary travellers either flee for the comforts of home or cross a magic line beyond which home is redefined.  After four short weeks in Russia, the road is now home.  Long, hard days end in rain-soaked tents, cheap hotels or on mouldy couches in the tiny apartments of newfound friends - temporary shelters that reveal the starkness of how the other side lives.  A month is a year when travelling, and as each day passes, swinging through a forest of adventure, I release an old tree branch to grasp a new one, often dangling in the breeze, awaiting another life lesson.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p53

[Biggles]

After they ask why I'm favouring a left shoulder, I relate the afternoon's events.  They want to look at the bike; maybe they can fix it.
"Have at," I say, "but there is little we can do out here without tools."
At first, it confused me why they just laughed.  But an hour later these surgeons from heaven were busy straightening the frame, welding steel fasteners and using superglue with duct tape to piece together the shattered windshield.  Bundled metal water pipes served as a circular anvil to hammer round sections of the frame back into perfect shape. Within four hours, the Blue Beast was restored to health.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p57

[Biggles]

Halfway through a can of sardines and stale bread, I am suddenly aware of a presence at my side.  Looking down, I am startled to see a four-year-old girl staring up, holding an aluminium pail and porcelain bowl.  A scan of the surrounding terrain reveals no sign of nomads or their Gers, and it's impossible to determine from where she came.
"Sain ban noo" I say.  (Hello).  Her smudged face is frozen in an emotionless gaze upward at the Martian someone her family sent her to assist.  Because of their deep Buddhist belief in karma, it's in the nature of the nomads to feed and care for strangers. This is a training mission.
Accepting the pail and bowl, I pour myself a drink of hot, sweetened goat's milk. Finally, something I've been offered offer tastes good. "Bai ar laa" (Thank you).   
Still no response, just little brown eyes of apprehension.  Nothing moves her.  Funny faces and wiggling fingers in my ear changes nothing; she never flinches.
After a second cup of milk, I hand back the containers, flip the bike ignition and beep the horn.  Suddenly, she breaks into bright childish laughter.  I see her in the mirror as she scurries back across the desert to where she came from, and when I turn to see her one last time she has disappeared.  The sweet taste of goat's milk on my lips and a digital photo are my only confirmation that she ever existed.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p63