From the Library

[Biggles]

On the return leg of a trip to the east coast, one cold grey Sunday morning I was filling up the R12 at a station in farm country near Gilman, Illinois. Two guys riding tricked out Harley choppers had pulled off to the side. They came clinking and clanking over for a chat and to check out the bike. They were local to the area and their bikes were suited only for short rides. Even though they were only twenty five miles from home they had a third companion driving the pickup. BMWs by the way come with a three year road side assistance policy. Harley's come with a pickup truck. (Sorry, couldn't help it.) When they saw the New Mexico plate I had instant big cred.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p26

[Biggles]

The next morning riding the To The Sun Road across Glacier and then south though Kalispell was the turning point in the trip, I was now homeward bound. I spent the night in Missoula and had the R80's oil changed at the local BMW shop. Showrooms at BMW dealerships are the ultimate candy stores. There sat a new R1100RS, a radical design departure for BMW and a beautiful bike, this one was black. I could feel the Visa card in my pocket getting hot as the bike sang the siren's song. I didn't want the R80 to catch me lusting for it. You don't want your bike getting put off with you - ever.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p43

[Biggles]

"What will this cost?"
"You will of course pay for the parts."
I stammered out some objection. "No. You will work along side of me, but there will be no charge for labour."
"TJ. I need to pay you something for this."
He thought about this for a moment, and said, "Some day you will know someone who will need help. Help them. That will be my only pay." This was the end of any negotiation. I stood there flabbergasted. And relieved. TJ went on. "Further, you will not ride this motorcycle back to Santa Fe. If that bearing seizes, the rear wheel will lock and you will go over the bars. You will ride my motorcycle home tonight and use it as if it was yours while we are working on your bike." Another foregone conclusion.
I'd known TJ for about a half hour and he was handing me the keys to his bike. There are occurrences in life, you never know when or where they will come, that change the way you see, the way you are, forever. TJ opened a door. With no special effort on my part life has since included giving and receiving on a greater level than I could have imagined.
Only some of it's been around motorcycles.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p50-1

[Biggles]

One of the good days I was carving the High Road to Taos. Curves, hills, no cages, snow capped mountains off in the distance, on the gas and in the groove. Rpm's rising and falling with perfect shifts. The bellowing exhaust note. Who cares about chicken strips? This was heaven! In Taos I stopped for gas. The station was busy. 
The Ducati was beautiful, that luscious coat of red paint, the bronze painted frame and wheels, gold anodized brake and suspension components, black carbon fibre mud guards and clutch cover. And of course me, stud guy in all black leathers standing there filling the tank. And this beautiful young woman walks by and smiles that kind of smile where the whole world lights up and she says, "Nice bike."
Looking back, if I were half as intelligent as I would like to think I am, I would have dropped down on one knee right then and there and proposed marriage. And not taken no for an answer. But instead the best I could manage was squeak, "thanks." And she and her bottle of Gatorade got in her Toyota 4 Runner and were history. 
Damn! OK, the next time that happens I'm proposing marriage.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p64-5

[Biggles]

The weather was mixed, and climbing into the Diamond Mountains I ran into a snow storm, it was coming down so hard and so fast, before I knew it the road was covered and there was no traffic to make tracks. I turned back. Now I was riding on snow. Like grease. I could make only the lightest inputs into the controls, picking my way down the mountain switchbacks I reached a relatively level spot and coasted to a stop. Crashing the bike was an issue but of greatest concern was faster traffic coming up behind and in the almost zero visibility not being able to slow quickly enough to avoid tail ending me.
Pulling off to the side and coming to a stop, shutting down the bike in a full on snowstorm fifty miles out in the middle of Nevada desert with visibility so low I had no idea what my surroundings were, I felt exceedingly small. It was huge out there. And save for the slight hiss of the snow hitting the ground, quiet. I considered pitching my tent and crawling into my sleeping bag and waiting it out, but the duration the severity of the storm were unknowns. Falling asleep and freezing to death was a real possibility.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p79-80

[Biggles]

It had to be either Ernest Shackleton or some motorcyclist  who said,  "Adventure is duress seen in retrospect." So, if our adventure experiences are so unpleasant, why do we seek them?
My friend Ben and I were having a beer at a local watering hole. Ben is a Master Technician for BMW, a quiet unassuming guy who is way beyond what any certification can attest to. Ben is a master craftsman and mechanic, one of the three. We got talking about why we do this thing called motorcycling.
We determined it all comes down to survival of the fittest, or more immediately, mating. Going back to when the guy who had the skills and accepted the greatest risk came home with the biggest one, more or less. The good provider naturally gets the girl. Of course he may die in the process, but all are going to die in the process, which helps get the proper perspective on risk tolerance. So, in terms of motorcycling, if you make it through some nasty weather this is good. If you make it through a hurricane this must be better, right? Go out and ride, and bring it on Mother Nature. You basically go through hell, but come home with tales of adventure and get the girl (giving her a gift item helps). Either that or she looks at you like you're completely out of your tree and decides to have nothing to do with you. She goes for the guy who brings home thrilling tales of high adventure with his actuarial tables.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p89

[Biggles]

Then, of course every once in a while the adventure is fun. Imagine! A few years ago, on the second day of a ride to Michigan's Upper Peninsula, I rode Route 191 from Vernal, Utah to Rock Springs, Wyoming. The section of the road east of Flaming Gorge in Wyoming just blew my socks off. It was getting on into early evening. 
The road climbs into high open range country, it is rolling hills with long views all around. It was late May and must have been a wet spring. It was lush, grasses were tall and thick and green and bursting with life. The sun was going down and I had the place to myself. Rolling along on the BMW, I carved into big sweeping curves one after another. Low golden sunlight streaked across the land, making the greens more intense. The temperature was dropping and the air was full of evening dampness and grass smells. Sublime. In Rock Springs I checked into a motel, and went out for some dinner feeling so alive I could barely contain it. It was a high that briefly put me in the middle of what it's all about.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p90-1

[Biggles]

I was dreading a little jog to the south in my route. It would be eleven miles of crosswind hell. And taking that turn, indeed hell came with thick black dust, once rich topsoil blowing off plowed fields reducing visibility to where I could only hope nothing would pop into my way too late. I put the headlight onto high beam and was glad to be running an illegal but effective 100 watt lamp. If anyone was coming the other way at least there was a chance they'd see me coming. I was one happy camper coming to the end of my southward run. I turned east and pressed on to Watertown, my destination for the night.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p93

[Biggles]

Eight or ten miles down the road Mo had pulled over and shut down the R6. He was off the bike and had his helmet off and was ogling over this hot rocket. It took me a while to catch up. Eventually I pulled over next to him. His eyeballs were like white china saucers with big lurid silver blue whirlpools in them. He had that silly grin and handed me the keys.
Waving his arms around, "I gotta stay away from that thing. Holy shit, it goes SO fast SO easily! I'm slicing along and look at the speedo and I'm doing a hundred!"
He collected himself as I was pulling off my helmet. 
"What did you think of the Harley?" He was all proud and grins.
"Well Mo," I said, "if what you want is a cross between a motorcycle and a farm implement it's nice." The poor guy's face dropped. After that whenever the opportunity presented itself he gave me generous rations of shit about my bikes. And I deserved every bit of it.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p106-7

[Biggles]

Cars just sit there when you stop. A bike at least has the inherent decency, the instability if you do nothing when you stop to fall over. So, in this most basic way a bike requires your participation to make it work, that is, stick your foot out. And from this point forward a bike demands a lot more from you than a car. Bikes will always be more challenging to operate than cars, especially to operate well.
Cars are containers. You get in a car, you get on a bike. The confines of a car isolate you from your surroundings, the windshield becomes a frame and thus the outside world becomes a movie-like abstraction. On a bike you are directly in the environment. Heat, cold, wet and dry are experienced and responded to directly. You respectively sweat, shiver, swear and smile. There is no frame to constrict the view. In a car your surroundings are designed to be functional and comfortable and impress your girlfriend. Or boyfriend. On a bike your surroundings are the whole wide outside world. Thank you Mother Nature, who was busy in the environmental design studio long before cars were even a glimmer in Adam's eye.
The Making Of A Motorcyclist  Gordon Bunker  p134

[Biggles]

My mouth went dry as I threw my leg over her massive bulk and settled into the seat. Her frame had been built around mine- it was like putting on a tailored smoking jacket in a gentleman's club for sociopaths. But I had no fear of consequences, none at all. Steve strapped the red emergency stop cord to my wrist and flipped up the three bright red switch covers concealing the fuel pump start, fuel management module and the engine start button. He primed the throttle and flicked the first two switches and the bike whirred, the digital instrument cluster blinking to life, tiny bulbs glowing green and needles jumping to indicate fuel and oil pressure, battery levels, engine temp, oil temp, engine revs and speed. He looked directly at me, grabbing the sides of my helmet: "Push it."
I nodded, looked down over the metre-wide front end surrounded by a massive green fairing, inside a cockpit of lights, gauges and switches. Fear suddenly rose up into my throat.
Before it reached my head I pushed the engine start button and she barked, shuddering alive with that unmistakable diesel rumble.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p48-9

[Biggles]

I tuned into the sound of her engine as my right hand rolled the throttle back and my left released the clutch. She pulled hard, rolling forward and gathering speed much faster than I'd expected. I slipped down and back into the seat base and let my feet find the pegs. Laying my chest down over the front end, I focused on the horizon and popped her into second. She was smooth and accelerating as fast as my regular bikes do.
Third gear at 2500 rpm and 100 kph dead straight no problems, I cruised to the end of the track and discovered she has the turning circle of a battleship. The wind gusts had been picking up and I was very conscious of them and the wet track, but the bike was just so big and heavy it reassured me, so by the time I'd gone down the track four times I was ready to see just how fast we could go.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p49-50

[Biggles]

The first orange traffic cone was coming up fast; I held the throttle open although everything told me not to, glanced down, passing 170 kph.
I don't know what the odds are, you tell me, on a windy, rainy day, but right at that moment, not one but two eagles decided to fly across the track at head height.
I pinged the movement in my line of sight, stopped my brain from making my reflexes roll off the throttle, and smashed on. At that speed hitting an eagle wasn't going to make any difference, it was all in the hands of the gods now.
Bird one didn't see me hammering at him but bird two did; he slammed on the brakes, looking for height, while I passed through the gap between them. The funny thing is, when I tell friends these sort of stories, as I've always done, they invariably say, "Bullshit" then "Did you get a photo?"
Well, this time I did; one of the guys was snapping away and the moment was caught on camera.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p50-1

[Biggles]

My ride back was interrupted by the metabolic chain reaction of riding a fast but homemade experimental motorcycle down a racetrack after consuming a dodgy curry the night before, followed by coffee. As I leant forward to lie over the fuel tank, my brain put a bit too much effort into getting the gear changes right and forgot to maintain the clench and I passed what felt like a gram of gas. No problem, I thought, I can make it to the pits, get my leathers off and find a toilet before I lose my arse. Then it hit me. The tiny fart had expanded into a cubic metre of horrendous air that rose sharply up through my leathers and filled my helmet. I gagged, my eyes stung, the bike was passing 160 kph, I sat up and flipped open my visor in a desperate effort to breathe fresh air, nearly crashing when the wind hit my open lid and tried to rip my head off my shoulders.
Pulling up fast I leapt off, handed the bike to the boys and ran off pointing at the toilet block. Our bike passed the shakedown with flying colours, so did my curry.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p71-2

[Biggles]

[Back in Perth] There was only one hitch: we had to put the bikes in crates. So I called the companies that make crates to order, but there was either no time, no response to messages or no actual sense of effort. That meant I was going to have to build the crates myself. Erwin called me from a rig somewhere in the South China Sea while I was on my way to the timber yard to ask how it was all panning out. I got as far as explaining the crates when he laughed. "Shit, Pauli, you're a dumb arse," said the man who was, to me, like a brother, mentor, friend and Yoda.
"Well, bugger you, too, champ!" I barked.
He chuckled, which annoyed me even more. "What kind of bike is Diego riding?"
"A new BMW 650 Tourer," I replied curtly.
"Mate, call up the Harley and BMW dealers in Perth and ask for a shipping crate. I guarantee they'll have crates out the back purpose-built for both your bikes."
And this is why the man is a legend.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p88