From the Library

[Biggles]

Covering a 30-mile shortcut to the main highway consumes four hours, but, from that junction, riding becomes an eardrum-popping soar into the mountainous mist of the towering Himalayas.  Commercial traffic is confined to tightly packed, chugging convoys of diesel trucks, while speeding local motorcyclists haul colourfully dressed Nepali women sitting sidesaddle.  Corroded electrical connections have rendered my GPS useless, and there is no English on the road signs.  But after concerns that I'll be travelling past dark, the rust-tiled rooftops of Kathmandu soon poke upwards into the radiant skyline.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p208

[Biggles]

And there is no forgetting the 20-year-old Dutch girl who had been backpacking solo across southern India when it struck her that two-wheels was more challenging.   
Nine riding lessons later, she was en route to Kathmandu on her first motorcycle- alone.  The last I saw of her, in a Thamel District backstreet hostel, she was double-checking her saddlebags, heading for Tibet.
World motorcycle travel is nothing new.  Swilling down Indian beers in a Chitwan Park cafe, an 82-year-old Scotsman recounted his adventure of 1956, riding from Sri Lanka to London on a German- built 49CC one-half horsepower scooter- cruising at a thumping 22 miles per hour.  His mesmerizing tale prompted obvious questions: "Tell me sir, do you ever miss the two-wheeled thrill?"
"Aye, that I do, I do. That's why I've rode 'ere now on me bicycle!"
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p216

[Biggles]

At that time, big-bore bikes were illegal in Thailand, so I shipped a 1985 Yamaha V-Max from California to Penang, Malaysia, to sneak across the border along a notorious smuggling route. Off I rode, using gas station maps written in unfamiliar languages while gawking at road signs trying to memorize their mystifying symbols.  A purple metal-flake helmet kept most of the wicked monsoon rains at bay, and a small set of throw-over nylon saddlebags held an extra set of dry clothes and canned food.  Spare parts were unavailable.
Fast forward into the cyber-age, where long-riders can remain in constant contact with each other - ahead or behind, with hardly a week passing without an exchange of message of some kind.  Using Internet connections in major cities, we can update each other on border problems, road conditions and civil disturbances.  Yet even with the high-tech advantages, there're still enough unknowns to keep the journey challenging.  Almost every developing nation is in turmoil and subject to sudden violence from rebels or governments.  Bridges and roads still wash out, while earthquakes, typhoons or equipment failures always arrive when least expected.  Still, alien cultures and fascinating traditions continue to dazzle even the most experienced wanderer.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp225-6

[Biggles]

Several days past our last communication, while cutting through an arcade parking lot, a long-haired man with a Canadian accent steps in front of my bike. "Glen Heggstad! Striking Viking! It's me - Art Kernaghan!"  We spent the next few hours like old friends, ranting about recent routes and adventures. I tried hard not laugh when I saw the $150 clunker he'd been riding from Saigon.  Guided by the sympathetic hands of fate, this young man from Toronto had somehow passed through the twisting mountains of Laos into the Land of Smiles.  Grinning with pride, he stood chest-out, displaying his smoking two-stroke 12 horsepower 125CC sputtering weed-whacker on two wheels.  Motorcyclists call these wheezing rattletraps Rat Bikes.
On one side of the bike, village-made steel racks supported a plastic beer crate packed with tools and spare parts, while on the other, a backpack was held firm with overstretched bungee cords.  Oil seeped from gaskets, a red taillight lens was taped on and a dimly lit headlight only functioned some of the time.  He explained that most of the flickering electronics on the bike had been "sorted out" and that the dubiously thin cables should hold.  In a grimy Vietnamese bike shop, one American dollar bought a new clutch, a few more to straighten bent forks and purchase two locally manufactured tires that might last if he kept the speed down.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp226-7

[Biggles]

Depressed and alone, he'd thrown up his arms in defeat.  And until stopping to speak with other Western travellers, he'd been headed back to Vietnam to fly home.  But roving Australian strangers had provided much-needed inspiration. "Never give up mate - keep riding.  You don't need anyone but yourself."
Art's destination is south and mine north, but we're having so much fun exploring the spices of Thai nightlife, we opt to zigzag together for a while. Side by side, we growl and sputter amid blue plumes of wing-ding-ding-ding through bustling city streets at a rampaging 20 miles per hour...
The fact that he made it this far is astounding; that he's continuing, oblivious to the potential mishaps is admirable. To Art Kernaghan, the glass is always half full.  Defying the laws of physics, he bobs and weaves across Thailand with inspired determination and blind faith. He can make it because he believes he can.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp227-8

[Biggles]

Next to painting the house, changing a motorcycle tire is the least pleasurable way to spend an afternoon. Yet the Travel Gods had smiled on me once more as a blowout occurred while white-lining through stalled border city traffic. Within seconds, a wobbling Blue Beast slowed to a graceful halt directly in front of a well-stocked motorcycle shop. Twenty minutes and four dollars later, we're back on the road with a new tube, a lubed drive chain and some new friends.  Even the last hundred miles in the rain to Bangkok was uplifting. Motorcycle maintenance is a constant.  For anything not welded solid, if there is a reason for it to wear under the bike's vibration, it will.  Holding out until Singapore to avoid the high-priced imported parts in Thailand wasn't going to work, and recalling a recent raping at the hands of Bangkok motorcycle dealers, mercy was unlikely.  Up until now, the local's unwritten rule of two-tier pricing for taxi rides and trinkets has had minimal effect on my travel expenditures. But doubled prices for foreigners on already expensive BMW replacement parts means budget bites in the hundreds of dollars.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p244

[Biggles]

Slicing through Malaysian jungle terrain, a seamless asphalt corridor connecting the Thai border with Kuala Lumpur unravels for a straight 300 miles south.  With First World infrastructure, toll stations and chain restaurants replace noodle stands and traffic-clogged small towns.  Car drivers pay fees, but motorcyclists ride free in special lanes to the sides of toll booths.  At my first gas stop, passive Malays welcome me with thumbs-up gestures and the usual question, "Where are you coming from?"
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p253

[Biggles]

Without crossing any rivers, the trail appeared exactly where indicated, complete with a sign in three languages - "Road Closed " After verifying I had four gallons of fuel remaining, I reset the trip meter and switched on the GPS Breadcrumbs function to show a dotted line indicating the exact route I had just travelled.  It's easy to get lost on the hundreds of forks and overrun trails throughout Borneo, but harnessing the technology of a half-dozen orbiting satellites evens the playing field. Yet this GPS is well-worn, and sometimes vibration shuts down the power connection, erasing recent tracks.
This could cause a problem on the way out.  The first three hours' ride is over a mixture of wheel-wiggling, rocky adobe and sandy gravel - a persistent reminder of departing off the beaten path.  At the 20-mile mark, a bulldozed raised barricade blocks the road.  The emptiness beyond is marked by multi-shaded green mountains cursed by trackless miles of mud trails and landslides.  As advised, the road has been abandoned, but has the jungle?  Why has the logging company sealed the forest? 
Indigenous people around the world resent international corporations raping their natural resources. Would the natives accept or reject a wandering Westerner violating their isolated wilderness on a shiny blue riding machine?  Were tribal troubles ahead?
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp262-3

[Biggles]

Through an early morning mist, the deteriorating trail grows thick with creeping vines and storm-eroded gullies.  It was a pleasant ride dry, but after a solid rain, the return trip would be a miserable, perilous slide.  How big a fool rides solo into an unforgiving rain forest hoping it will not rain?  Yesterday, the decision came down to whether I would keep spinning my wheels in Kapit or spin them in the forest.
The objective was to ride in as deep as possible the first day and take two more getting out. There was no way to judge how far the road would hold - 10 miles or 100?
Just before sunset, after getting buried to my axles in sucking mud one last time, I mark a GPS waypoint and record odometer readings - 55 miles of delightful, challenging jungle track in eight exhausting hours.  After setting up camp in the sweltering tropical heat, eating imported apples and canned sardines by the iridescent glow of a silvery rising moon served as the grand finale of an adventurous day.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp263-4

[Biggles]

Often, the quality of an adventure can be measured by what went wrong. But this week's deviation into the rain forest's mystical gardens ends as smoothly as it began. No flat tires, engine failures or tumbles off precarious rocky ledges. Poisonous spiders and snakes kept to themselves, while evil spirits attacked only those who believed in them.
Back in Kapit, local wharf workers lent a hand loading the motorcycle on the first boat heading downriver.  A pipe-smoking skipper, shirtless and sporting tattered, baggy shorts, was pleased to aid a man with wild dreams.  As a penetrating tropical sun caked layers of red clay on my boots, dreams of expanding horizons glowed like red-hot embers.  After this test run for the harsher conditions which reportedly existed on the other side of the island, I'm confident Kalimantan is passable.   
My new challenge is laid out - to be the first person to circle the entire island of Borneo on two wheels.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p265

[Biggles]

Over fried noodles and boiled eggs, Mr. Gkwa says he knows of a special machine shop that can make a new bushing and bolt for my crippled brake pedal. As one Chinese to another, a wave of his hand signals to the restaurant owner that breakfast is paid for, and we are off to solve my problems. The industrial zone winds through a 10-mile maze beyond Kota Kinabulu and into even rows of modern cement-block shops run by older men speaking only Chinese.  The creative genius of any machinist is amazing, especially when working from enormous piles of rusting salvaged steel. Instead of using his lathe to make a separate new bushing and bolt, this confident artist insists that carving a complex one-piece part is best. Considering the odds of calculating such precise measurements correctly and certain that German engineers had done it right the first time, I reiterate, "No, please just make a separate bushing and bolt."
He laughs, "I make. You no likey you no pay."
Nothing goes to waste in developing countries, especially scrapped metal. Verifying his eyeball calculations with micrometer checks, Mr Wong carefully trims a rusted old hexagon-shaped crowbar on a spinning lathe, creating a part that, in the West, would take a team to design.  The equivalent of five bucks solves problem one.
As a maintenance step, I should have replaced the rear-wheel inner bearings 10,000 miles ago, but procrastination prevailed.  Mr Gkwa also knows of a bearing shop that might supply cross-referenced BMW parts.  An afternoon passes puttering across town in his rattling old pickup truck being entertained by haggling Chinese merchants hunting down fresh wheel bearings. Mr Gkwa is the ultimate fix-it man, and we proceed to the next step. With critical parts now in hand, an ageing mechanic stares through coke-bottle glasses muttering, "Can do, can do." 
From riding through storms and river crossings, hardened steel balls have rusted into shattered fragments that dribble out when the wheel is removed. A debate rages in Mandarin as expert fingers scrape away debris and tap in new bearings.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p268

[Biggles]

So that was then and this is now, and what the hell am I doing back in the ring gagging for air in some tropical jungle?  The word impossible has always been a challenge to me, even if there wasn't much to gain beyond bragging rights. If so many people hadn't claimed looping Borneo was impossible, I probably would be relaxing right now in a comfortable Kuching hotel.  But as I am discovering, there are good reasons why no one else has done this. It has taken me five 12-hour days merely to cover the first thoroughly fatiguing 300 wheel-spinning miles.  A Trans-Siberian crossing is a cakewalk compared to this.  Muscling 600 pounds of motorcycle on a hard surface is tiring enough.  In slick mud, sitting on the seat paddling with burning legs while pushing on the handlebars is exhausting.  But to be honest, I would not have felt so alive without those familiar lung-burning gasps for air. If I can ride Borneo, I can ride anything.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p278

[Biggles]

When clearing the last bog and asking a woodsman in sign language how much further this misery goes on, I am uncertain if he answered 10 miles or 10 minutes.  On the edge of the equator, a relentless tropical sun boils a gallon of moisture from my flesh every eight hours.  The fatigue is so intense I lack the strength to sit upright, let alone continue paddling with my legs and feet.  But gazing ahead into the vibrant, forbidding jungle exhausted, stinking and hungry, I cannot recollect when I've felt more content.  And thank god for those youngsters who twice lifted the bike off my leg while I was laying sideways.  They seemed to enjoy following me, as they could walk faster than I could ride through the slop.  At the point of total exhaustion, thinking it impossible to push through the mud any further, they suddenly rushed to my aid, shoving from behind.  While I stand red-faced and gasping for air, the inspiring Dayak girl holding my helmet shocks me when urging in decent  English, "Come on mister, you've got to try harder. I know you can do it."
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p279

[Biggles]

The shock of the day came at the end while unsnapping my aluminium panniers in the hotel parking lot. Noticing an unusual gap between the fender and frame, I discovered that the false exhaust pipe containing 15 pounds of hard-to-replace vital spare parts had vanished.  My ratchet tools, tire irons, patch kit and spare brake pads lay somewhere in the last 100 miles.  Twelve hours a day of jack-hammering had taken its toll.
Double-nutted bolts supporting the stainless-steel tube had sheared in half. Because my last set of brake pads had cost me 180 bucks in Israel, I'd been waiting until they were completely shot to change them - now, front and rear were nearly worn down to bare metal.  Because of their superior stopping power, I use sintered pads likely unavailable in Asia.  Even in a major city, the typical customs-clearing delays to get express-mailed spares could take weeks, if they made it at all.
It's too early to know if the worst is over or just beginning, but I have come to accept that real adventure starts when things stop going as planned.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p282

[Biggles]

Coal miner Mohammad Siah explained that with a Korean corporation covering his room and board, at the end of five years, even  while supporting his parents, he could retire rich enough to buy a house and motorcycle- raising his status to most-desirable in the eyes of Indonesian girls looking for husbands.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p283