From the Library

[Biggles]

We came across the other riders and together we roared around underneath this famous Olympic venue, thirty bikers, most of whom were athletically challenged yet doing something that most in our world could only dream about, and in front of 80,000 plus screaming fans. It was a blast (fully sick, if you are under 25).
As we neared the exit ramp something else happened that to this day has me shaking my head in disbelief. Coming around the final section of the road and on our way to head up the ramp we came across about eight cops. To my amazement they began applauding us as we passed, all of us. It was a moment to savour. Usually bikers and Police keep pretty distant from each other in social situations. Here they were reacting to us in a positive, friendly even supportive way. Even when an older sergeant stepped in at the death to stop this public bonding exercise, it was too late. Something had happened that none of us expected to see in our lifetimes. 
Police clapping riders instead of reacting in a negative way. I guess anything can happen at an NRL Grand Final.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p40

[Biggles]

I could again see a constant stream of bikes go around Parliament and park. This time it took a full hour for all the bikes to pass which delayed the official start time by fifteen minutes. Not that anyone seemed to mind, as the band on stage was playing some jumping rock music. Finally we were ready to start. As I got to the microphone to welcome everyone I could sense the excitement amongst this huge cross section of clubs and individuals. Besides the usual riders' rights suspects there were tourers, vintage riders, Ulyssians, Outlaws, Christian clubs as well as road and off road racing types. Darrell Eastlake got a huge cheer as did the other celebrity speakers. Impressively Triple J's Merrick Watts and Triple M's Brendan Jones rode all the way and spoke passionately about their motorcycling life. Jonesy was particularly impressive having ridden to Canberra after stopping at Goulburn Hospital. On the way down he caught a bug in the eye, requiring it to be bandaged. 
Even in pain he finished the ride and spoke with passion about his clear love of riding. Politicians from the Liberal, Labor and Democrats all spoke in support of this endeavour, taking the opportunity to present written policies ahead of the next Federal election. Warren Fraser and Ray Newland represented the industry and hailed this united approach of riders, industry and sport to positively challenge society in a pro-motorcycling way. In the end this call to work in unity provided a fitting end to an event that had drawn riders from all over Australia and remarkably, in 2001, appeared as big as many of the rider's rights rides in the United 
States and Europe.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p60

[Biggles]

However, it was on the way home that the action really started. We had decided to go back to Sydney via the New England Highway and unexpectedly ran into the mother of all inland storms. Not only did it rain heavily but a fierce, driving cross-wind made riding extremely dangerous. Regardless we rode on. As time passed Grunt, who was on the back, started to get ill. It got so bad we had to stop at a servo at one of the small towns near the border in NSW. It was a good thing too. Little did we know that the battery on my bike was in trouble. It couldn't cope with the long ride with the headlight hard-wired on and was on the verge of complete shutdown. It wouldn't start at the servo and the mechanic who inspected it gave it a death sentence. In fact if we hadn't have stopped then, the battery would have been fried. 
And in those conditions, with fierce wind driven rain and the number of heavy vehicles using the road at the time, we could have easily found ourselves bent around a tree or sharing the grille of an oncoming semi.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p85

[Biggles]

As I walk the bike along the riverbank, following the man with the machete, I ask him how we will cross. He points to an esplanade ahead: "Bac. I'm the captain." Bac is a French word adopted in various countries to describe a raft.
Soon we round a curve and find in front of us a floating wreck- a rusty iron platform, full of holes, 25 meters long and 8 meters wide. It's fixed on top of a dozen rusty 50-gallon oil drums, tied to a rusty, frayed steel cable that leads to rusty pulleys anchored to trees about 200 meters apart on opposite shores. The bac will cross by means of the cable, which has to be pulled by hand. Everything looks as if it will fall apart in midstream, but my biggest concern, as always, is money.
"How much will you charge to take me across?" I ask.
"If is to the other shore, one million," he says. "You have to settle up with the pullers."
I smile at his term, "If is to the other shore." What could he mean, that he only charges half to get to the middle of the river? One million of his pesos equal $25 a fortune in these latitudes, so I start to bargain. We settle at $10, then I ask, "Where are the pullers?"
"I don't know."
"How can I settle up with the pullers?"
"I don't know."
"When do we cross, then?"
"I don't know. Maybe when the pullers come."
"And when do the pullers come?"
He shrugs his shoulders.
"OK, who are the pullers?"
"You. And others who may want to cross." 
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p8

[Biggles]

As an adult I took a job with Pfizer selling pharmaceuticals. One day a sales rep from another laboratory said to me, "I've bought a motorcycle, and I have to go to sign the papers. Why don't you come with me?"
I'd never been interested in those types of vehicles, which cost as much as a car but left you looking like a cat rescued from a river when it rained, but I went with him out of my impulsive curiosity. That decision changed my life forever.
At the dealership my gaze fell upon an advertising display picture, a photo of a big, black, bulky, enormous, shining machine. It looked like a bus, a motor home. It had saddlebags, one on each side, a big trunk at the back a large protective fairing with glove compartments, a soft seat that looked more comfortable than my grandmother's rocking chair, and a powerful 1100cc four cylinder engine. The ad claimed that it even came with a cassette player and antenna. Honda Gold Wing Interstate was the name of the hair-raising monster. Like a premonition, big red letters on one corner of the leaflet proclaimed, "Your future has come on two wheels."
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p12

[Biggles]

I went back to the show room with the money and signed the documents. The owner knew that sooner or later the moment would come when I wouldn't be able to pay the installments, and he would keep what I'd already paid, and the bike, which even used, would cost double the original price, because that was the way things worked in my country in those days.
A few weeks later my wonderful machine arrived from the United States. When they handed it over to me, I found another major drawback- I'd never been on a motorcycle, much less driven one, so I didn't even know how to start it. When I asked, they all looked at me in horror. They took it into the street for me and gave me a 10-minute crash course.
I started up. After 100 yards, I fell off. The left mirror broke.
My monthly salary was just enough to pay the installments, but I only managed to pay two of them; by the third I couldn't keep up the payments. Everyone who knew me agreed that I'd made the biggest mistake of my life, dreaming beyond the mark, and that in a few days it would be proven to me.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p13

[Biggles]

But before I could lose the bike, fate intervened. One Monday, the week began with the secretary of the treasury announcing: "Those who bet on the dollar, will lose," as he always did in his speeches. On Tuesday, when the country woke up, it discovered that either the newspapers had printed the secretary's name incorrectly or during the night the president had sent him on a permanent holiday. By Wednesday, a new secretary of the treasury devalued the peso. From that moment, the American currency no longer cost 170 pesos per dollar but the incredible sum of 1,700 pesos per dollar. On Thursday it rose to 3,000 pesos; on Friday 5,000; the following Monday, 6,000 pesos per dollar!
One week before you could buy 170 pesos with a dollar, now with the same dollar, you could buy 6,000 pesos. Generally these economic calamities only serve to make the rich somewhat richer, and the poor somewhat poorer, but never to make the poor richer. Well, there are always exceptions.
My Pfizer salary was fixed to a dollar tariff, so I went on to earn almost 6,000 times more pesos than I earned when I'd bought the bike, and, as the instalments were fixed in pesos, the total debt left outstanding for me to now pay became the equivalent of a pack of cigarettes. That's how I got a $26,000 motorcycle that ended up costing barely $3,000. The Honda dealership that sold me the bike survived for another year, but finally closed down.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p13-4

[Biggles]

I arrive upstairs feeling anxious. Sonia tells me that the hotel has no parking lot. I take my passport, and I run downstairs, Sonia behind me. Less than a minute has passed. An eternity.
The motorcycle is totally naked. Empty. Everything has disappeared. Even what was inside the locked fiberglass saddlebags and the rear trunk has been carried off. 
Everything that was not part of the machine itself is gone. Gone. Gone.
They left me nothing. Not even a thank-you letter.
I'm completely cleaned out. I've been totally, absolutely, undoubtedly robbed. Under the moonlight of Rio, and the neon lights of the street, I walk around the bike, not believing my eyes.
I'm an idiot.
Sonia ask me, "And now?"
"I've been robbed."
"I noticed. Can I help you in any way?"
I can't answer her. I need to think.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p17

[Biggles]

Of all of my essential things, only my documents and the few dollars are left. I'm wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers. And the underpants, of course, which I have on. More importantly, I still have my black flying carpet. What else do I need to go on my vision quest, my walkabout?
With the loss of all my amenities, I could have been sunk into misery, but instead, I find a good side to the disaster. For the first time since beginning the journey, I enjoy driving. Without the extra 170 pounds, the bike rides like a grand prix racer instead of a garbage truck. Before I had a hundred things to look after, now I have only one: the bike. I can move my body, and I have space to carry Sonia. The robbery was a blessing.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p17

[Biggles]

Here on the equator the days become longer and the heat becomes hotter, but as soon as the sun goes down, the shadows swallow everything faster than it takes me to switch on my lights. My skin roasts, my blood boils, and the motorcycle melts. I've driven all day, without a break, hitting cracks, falling into deep potholes, crossing faults in the ground, streams, fjords, rivers. The insects have eaten me alive, and I feel as if I've just done 30 rounds with 10 boxers the same time. More dust has entered my body than I've trodden on in the last 30 years. The people who warned me how difficult it was going to be were right. I've driven 15 hours nonstop. Of the 300 miles to the next post, I've done 40.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p27

[Biggles]

I start the engine. I accelerate. She doesn't move. I look around and, with horror, discover what has happened. The rear wheel is not only stuck in the mud, but is also completely deflated, squashed flat The situation is as follows: I can't get the bike out of the mud, I don't have a pump, I have no tools for repairs, and I have no idea how to get the wheel off the chassis. I've never done it before, and I barely paid attention when some mechanic did it. And it's raining. No, not raining, pouring. The jungle has disappeared in the darkness of the night, under a curtain of water. I leave the bike in the middle of the track, half sunk in the mud and I walk back about 200 yards. There's a small clearing, with some pieces of wood laid like a roof. I lie on the ground under it, with no strength left. I can't think clearly. I'm out of the rain, not completely, but enough. It's late. I'm very tired. I need to sleep.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p27

[Biggles]

The fifth day when I'm ready to continue way, the Atroari chief, who has come to the road, goes to say something to someone from the government. It's a request which makes me proud. With a bit of help, we fulfill his wish, and sit him on the bike. The chief is happier than a dog with a bone, and hangs onto handlebars, with his legs dangling to the sides and showing off his yellowish teeth.
When he's on the ground again, he takes one of the shrunken heads off the string round his neck and hands it to me as a gift. Everyone is astonished. This is a treasure more than one of them would like to have, but the Indians do not usually give them away, as it represents their fortune and demonstrates their status. They tell me I have to accept. I do so, and I thank him by giving him a gift in return. I take the shiny key ring which keeps my keys together and give it to him. The Indian takes it and goes back to his village.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p29

[Biggles]

I gently accelerate. I put the wheels in the water and go slowly forward, using my feet to help, preventing the water from knocking me over, or from going into the exhaust pipes. If the engine fails, that's it. I'm not going to let this Buraco [Hole] River be my hole. I just hope God has come to love the bike and helps us. Now I'm in the torrent. The front wheel slides one way and then the other, and the back wheel slips on the rounded rocks. I tighten my grip on the handlebars. We're 
going dangerously deep, too far. The water is already over the engine. I keep it revving, although not so much that I have to lift up my feet. The current hits us sideways and washes over my head. We're almost in center of the river. The bike is almost completely covered. Only the tank and the fairing are out of the water. If the water touches the air filter it's all over. We're sinking deeper and deeper. I stop.
Bad mistake.
I can't keep upright, and I'm about to fall over. The eddies push the back of the bike and slide it sideways. Now I'm facing the current, which is hitting the fairing so hard it seems it may smash it to pieces. The noise of the flood coming at me covers all the other jungle sounds, even the roaring of the carburettors. I can't go on like this, in the riverbed; I have to face the other bank, but I can't move. I'm petrified.
It's almost all over. Now I know that you mustn't brake when you're in the middle of a river.
When I jump off the bike and leave her to save myself, a message came into my head: "Facing it, always facing it, that's the way to get through. Face it!" My right hand twisted the accelerator more and more, and I'd say I sailed, rather than rode, to the other side.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p30

[Biggles]

I go forward, revving. The sleepers are in pairs a foot so apart, riveted to a labyrinth of iron girders which, criss-cross below, but between them there is nothing, just the ravine. The bike's wheels get stuck in the gaps. I accelerate and push with my feet. Things are getting complicated. After about 60 yards I skid, and to my shame, I fall off, landing heavily and dangerously on my right side. I drop something which falls between the girders to the gulf below. I don't know what it is, but I haven't the time to find out. The trucks are about to run over me. They hoot. They'd like to push the bike over the edge. I pick up the dead weight of the motorcycle using all my strength. I get on and start up. The engine coughs. I try again, pushing the starter button. At last the cylinders fire. I accelerate, but this time I decide not to let myself be intimidated or pushed. I'm going to go slowly, and very carefully. I go over two sleepers, and crash! The front wheel falls into a gap. I give gas to the engine, the tire crawls out, goes forward, and crash! The rear wheel falls into the gap. I accelerate, go over the sleepers, go forward, and crash! The front wheel falls into the next gap. I accelerate, go over, and crash! The rear wheel. Accelerate, forward, crash! And so on, from sleeper to gap to sleeper and back to gap again. It's as if the bike had big square wheels. It goes up and down, and up and down. The soldiers in the body of the truck in front of me, which is now moving further and further ahead, try to encourage me by waving at me to follow them. Some of them clap when I come out of the gaps by burning rubber from the rear wheel. The truck behind me speeds up and hoots at me a couple of times to get a move on. One thousand feet below I can see the bed of the River Lempa.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p50-1

[Biggles]

A guttural whine from an antique taxi- probably from the time of the Mayas- alerts me to the fact that the taxi's brakes have failed. "Whoomp!" The driver crashes into the left side of my motorcycle and sends me flying. I make a spectacular pirouette.
Luckily, I'm OK. Only my pride gets a little dented. I raise up the bike, surrounded by dozens of Guatemalans who discuss the accident. My Gold Wing has stoically endured the knock, but will need some bodywork repairs.
I'm in Guatemala, and although the taxi driver crossed the intersection at high speed through a red light, I know the law here is not any different from in any other country in which I have been. I play my part and he plays his; we exchange a few harsh words, and then everybody continues on their way.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p52