From the Library

[Biggles]

First it was a little grunt, followed by the smell; I knew before I turned around what I was going to see. Take one post-spaghetti-bolognaise-fed toddler, place padded comfy-looking receptacle within range, in this case my clean lid sitting hollow side up and supported on all sides, for protection in transit, on top of my leathers and boots, then simply turn your back and let it happen. Sid was not wearing a nappy and, unlike his sister who was very good at announcing her intentions, he simply gave you a three-second warning before he defecated on the spot. So we always had his potty within his window, but this time his potty was not in the garage, so he just improvised and went ahead and backed one out in my lid. 'Daddy, ka ka,' his little voice came seconds later. I turned around and, yes, there he was, bless him.
I didn't react, I just picked him up and carried him into the bathroom and cleaned him up. We walked back down to the garage together and he went quietly back to playing with my socket set while I dropped a thousand dollars of carbon-fibre helmet into a plastic bag and threw it in the bin.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p221-2

[Biggles]

Next was scrutineering or tech inspection, where the DLRA officials make sure that your vehicle is good to go. The rulebook is thick and very detailed so this isn't a hasty process. I jumped on the bike and rode it over to the three-lane queue forming for inspection. The vehicles that started lining up looked incredible and their noise alone vibrated right through my body: fully retro-styled hotrods, cigar-tube Lakesters with mirror-polished giant wheels jutting out that looked like full-size 1950s toy cars, the full spec Streamliners ready to push 300 mph, a Jaguar E type and an XJS, a 356 Porsche Speedster-  there was even an old split-windscreen Volkswagen Kombi in there, and a truck. The bikes were equally diverse and abundant, from a Honda CT 110 postie bike capable of more than 80 mph to vintage to ultra-modern, the lot.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p234

[Biggles]

As far as Speed Week goes, it's 90 per cent waiting and 10 per cent racing.
"How'd you go?" The starter at the GPS track yelled at me, smiling with his big hat on.
I smiled back in my helmet and gave him the thumbs-up. "Can I go over to the right?"
He nodded. "Crosswind?"
I shifted over slightly to the right, primed myself and the bike, gave the starter the nod.
"Stand by... Visor down... Go!"
Exactly the same thing happened again, at the same point: the crosswind collected me, but this time I held power, leant into the wind way past my comfort zone and held my breath, letting go on the power as the bike wobbled through the loose salt in the middle and slid towards the left edge. I remembered not to sit up or touch the brakes and changed down very late to avoid compression lock on the back wheel. The result was 95.5 mph, 153 kph.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p243-4

[Biggles]

Lake Gairdner is widely recognised as being just as good as Bonneville, the slightly fat but funny little sister of the queen of speed in the USA. As I rolled towards my third run, she reminded me that although fun to be around, and good to look at, she's got gas, and can ruin your day if you don't give her the respect she deserves. It was at this moment she blew one of her 30 kph crosswinds at the queue and half a dozen riders stack it, including me.
Embarrassed by this, everyone sprang up and immediately heaved their bikes off the ground. It took four guys to get mine back on two wheels and, unbeknown to me at the time, I had just fractured my L5 vertebra; that is to say, a half-tonne bike falling on you is going to hurt and it did, but I did what men do and ate painkillers to shake it off.
Half a box of Tramadol later I was back at the start line; the starter, still grinning, jogged over. 'You again, we need to stop meeting like this.' He leant in to remind me of the gusting crosswind somewhere after the first mile and asked if I was sure I wanted to make a run.
I nodded and flicked my visor down.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p244-5

[Biggles]

We loaded the bike into the trailer and headed down to the main track where only a handful of cars and bikes had qualified to race the full 8 miles. We pulled out deck-chairs and sat on the roof of the trailer with umbrellas, watching the show. And what a show it was. One car flipped at over 150 mph; its nose lifting and swapping ends mid-air, it smashed its way down the track several times while we stood on the roof frozen. The driver was pulled out with only eight-ball haemorrhages in his eyes, other than that he was fine. The safety procedures at Speed Weed work. But I was amazed that his first bounce covered 130 metres in distance, and totally floored when the driver announced he was ready to get back and do it again.
I watched other bike riders get hit by that potentially lethal crosswind and get the wobbles on, sliding all over the track at more than 200 mph, then regain control and hammer on.
There were a few who came off, but they all walked away. Well, except for the two guys who came off their bikes on the way home; one broke his neck, the other his femur.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p249

[Biggles]

[In the UK] I don't know how much time passes while I talk and Dad's chest moves in a slow, uneven rhythm with his breathing. He leaves us very quietly, just a brief last look, then his eyes close for the final time, and all the while Elisabeth talks to him, her voice so soft and reassuring. After a life that had been at times fraught with danger and so much tension, of which I only know of fragments, he had a peaceful death at home surrounded by his children and his true love. It's only now that I can start to understand how close life and death are all the time, so much closer than my rational mind can process here in my safe, secure, free western democracy. It takes on a new parallel when it's your immediate family; he was gone, just when our relationship was getting interesting. I step outside into the street with a glass of Dad's Macallan; I found the bottle in his collection, one that I gave him thirteen years ago still wrapped up, a 1969 vintage, the year I was born.
Ride Like Hell And You'll Get There  Paul Carter p254

[Biggles]

Motorcyclists love to ride. They don't really have a choice when the gotta-have-a motorcycle virus strikes. Dante said when he first laid eyes on Beatrice, "Here is a deity, stronger than I, who in coming will rule over me." Many have experienced such a moment, when the heavens open and something breaks into the soul that is more powerful than anything that has come before. Musicians, artists, luminaries, and lovers of all kinds have felt touched by something far beyond what can only be described as sacred. I felt that way about motorcycles for as long as I can remember. I didn't choose to swoon over motorcycles; that love found me and pulled me as surely as the ocean draws all rivers to itself.
Riding Off The Edge Of The Map  David Bryen p5

[Biggles]

When I discovered counter steering I realized how the journey of life is more like riding a motorcycle than driving a car. Motorcycle riding represents the inner urge to become an individual, to ride in the raw open air without the metal cocoon of a car or the restrictions of culture. Every corner, every change in temperature, every smell becomes another opportunity to intimately touch our surroundings. The soul thrives when it steps away from the habitual because in the unknown it discovers itself. Life in its richest moments is lived counter steering.
Riding Off The Edge Of The Map  David Bryen p12-13

[Biggles]

While riding a motorcycle, one must discipline the mind to not look backward, but to stay attentive to the moment. It's absolutely imperative to focus on the here and now. When we make a mistake, run wide in a corner, experience a near miss, or come across some hazard in the road, it must pass from thought immediately because the next instant requires all our concentration. A moment of inattention and boom, we're in the ditch or some other catastrophe has struck. Memory has little value while riding. Forgetting what has passed and letting go of the fantasy of what lies ahead helps the rider alive in the creative potential of every single moment. The attention demanded of every moment while riding is one of the reasons that I love to ride; I can't be anywhere else.
Riding Off The Edge Of The Map  David Bryen p34

[Biggles]

When I was teaching motorcycle safety we drove the mantra, "Keep your eyes up! Look through the corner!" into the heads of our students. However, now that I was afraid of hurting myself again, I had a compulsion to look straight down at the scary rocks on the ground. That invariably upset my balance because keeping my eyes looking up toward the horizon is essential to maintain equilibrium. My fear drew my focus to the rocks below, which upset my stability, which caused more fear.
Could I make the transition? Could I use my fright to remind me that my terror came from memory, not from what was going on in the moment? This is exactly what I have been teaching my psychotherapy clients for years! Fear comes from a story of what could happen or comes from a memory of what did happen. Those stories are useless when the task is to climb the next hill, cross the next stream. Look where you want to go! Stand up on the foot pegs! Get the weight on the back wheel! Pour on the power!
Riding Off The Edge Of The Map  David Bryen p79-80

[Biggles]

Jake must have figured that my resolve to continue was waning and, thinking it was time to educate us on the nuances of riding in mud, told us, "Truck tires ride in the centre of the left and right tracks and kick the loose rocks and gooey stuff to either side of the puddle. You'll find best traction in the middle where the water will be the deepest. Drive in the deepest part of the rut. The bottom will be firm there. Give it some gas and get your weight off the front tire."
Riding Off The Edge Of The Map  David Bryen p85-6

[Biggles]

By this time of the day, after righting our bikes so many times and standing on the foot pegs, my legs had turned into wet noodles. My mind was in worse shape. While we were sitting on the road, heaving from the exertion and our bikes clinking as they cooled off, we looked across the ravine of the hill we'd been climbing and saw hundreds of trees ripped away from the steep slope. We followed the trail of the recently slashed ground, and 400 feet beneath we saw the freshly crumpled skeleton of a dump truck that had tumbled down this mountainside, lying there like an insect belly up in its death throes. I couldn't imagine what business a dump truck would have on this nearly impassable section of road. We just shook heads. We didn't need to say much. The twisted truck, washed-out road, and stripped section of forest said it all. Worse, I still had to surmount the rock face that now looked taller than the Matterhorn.
Riding Off The Edge Of The Map  David Bryen p90

[Biggles]

We learn things from heroes that have gone before and use their resolve when ours is too small. But how do you know when you're supposed to stop? How do you determine if it's the fussy voice of fear that unnecessarily paralyzes, or the voice of deeper wisdom that is calling for a legitimate retreat? How to close that troublesome eye that insists on seeing all the danger when you know your task is to focus on where you want to go? Awareness was the goal I couldn't reach. The more tired I became, the less control I had. The dreaded "what ifs" boiled through my mind without interruption.
Riding Off The Edge Of The Map  David Bryen p92

[Biggles]

He went on to tell me some of the scary times he had while alone. "The road I was on forced me down this incredibly steep and crumbly section. I knew that if I started down, I wouldn't be able to turn around. At the bottom I discovered that the recent rains had washed out the bridge. In order to cross the river and get to the other side I had to pop a wheelie at the edge of the stream to get the front wheel up and over the 40-inch bank. When the front wheel cleared the lip I threw my body forward and pulled the bike with me." Jake stood up and showed the way he had to contort his body to get over the edge.
"As soon as I cleared the lip and headed up the road, the bike spun around and turned back towards the river again, and I crashed headed the wrong way. The road was too slippery to drive any further and I had no idea how I was going to turn it 180 degrees to climb the hill. While I was figuring out how to get going again, the rain started. I set up camp and waited for two days in the rain without food or water before I could move."
Riding Off The Edge Of The Map  David Bryen p178

[Biggles]

From the airplane flying out of Morelos, I got a taste of the Canyon's grandeur. But the glimpse didn't take care of the hole inside me. After I returned to Ajijic and had bought another bike, I found my way to a compatible bunch of motorcycle riders and began to enjoy time with Jake again. I took many rides across the spectacular Mexican Sierra Madres and rode to some of Mexico's many beaches. I rode on some more awful dirt roads and on pavement but my heart still yearned to settle into what I'd missed in the Canyon.
My deep regret about the motorcycle adventure was not that I'd abandoned the trip or lost the bike to the drug lord and an inept insurance company, or that my bank account took a hit. It wasn't even in the physical pain I endured or hurt pride. The failure that haunted me was not having reached that place on the rim of the Canyon where I could kiss and be kissed by its majesty. My longing to get to the Canyon ate at me like a cancer. While it was spectacular to have seen it from the airplane, I missed bathing in all it had to offer. The kind of immersion I wanted would take time, long, delicious, velvety time, sitting on the edge at sunset, watching the sun etch its shadow across the Canyon walls.
Riding Off The Edge Of The Map  David Bryen p198