From the Library

[Biggles]

A quarter-mile sprint later, me following on my bike, we reach an ageing cement-block apartment complex where he pulls me by the arm upstairs, rambling out questions and answers in Russian. Hungry Jack points to himself and declares, "Sasha!"
Once inside his 10-by-10-foot kitchen, he flings open the antique refrigerator door with one hand and pitches jars of sweetened fruit with the other. Soon a steaming pot of tea and Russian ravioli arrive, with crackers and homemade raspberry jam. He points to everything in sight, asking if I want some. After force-feeding me whatever he can, we're off to the living room for home videos and invitations to accompany him and his wife to their dacha for a Russian banya. It's already nine o'clock, and, fearing an all-nighter, I decline and instead politely request a hotel.
Back on my bike with Sasha leaping ahead like an eager puppy, we reach the only hotel in the village. While I unlock the aluminium panniers, he grabs the nylon tote bags, stuffing whatever he can under his arms. After hauling my gear inside, he surveys the room as if searching for something written on the faded wallpaper. I assure him everything's fine and that I now just want to sleep. His farewell is a Russian bear hug, picking up my 210 pounds and shaking me like a rag doll. 
Disappointed that we couldn't hang out more, he lopes back down the road, turning every few steps to wave.
I am going to miss Russian hospitality.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p67

[Biggles]

Later, back in the storm, I realize it would have been wiser to quit at the one-hour mark when the shakes first started. Now there is nothing but freezing rain and fierce winds pounding the empty Siberian plain. By nightfall, when a small village appears, the stages of hypothermia have already hit and my thinking grows mushy. 
Two federal marshals driving in off the roadway find me spinning my tires through muddy streets.  They know something's wrong and pull alongside, displaying hand-signs asking me to follow. Six blocks later, we arrive at a grey cement hotel without lights.  Before I can step off the bike, they grab me by the arms.  Shivers had turned to uncontrolled shakes, and I'm unable to walk on my own.  Inside the ageing hotel lobby, an overweight matronly desk clerk is bundled in sweaters and overcoats.  So much for heat.  I need to get warm immediately, so the marshals lead me next door to a warm, smoky cafe crowded with uniformed men playing cards.  I'm uncertain if they are Tartars or Buryats, but they are friendly, bringing cups of steaming tea and huge metal bowls of vegetable soup. While I sit shivering, one of them pries off my helmet and motions me to remove my soggy riding suit.  Siberians know the dangers of hypothermia, and they bring a heavy wool blanket and towel.   
After gulping down hot liquids, the shakes subside enough for me to strip off the rest of my clothes.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p69

[Biggles]

High-capacity fuel tanks provide extra-long-range riding when needed and can be left half-full when it's appropriate.  That morning, I had deliberately filled mine only halfway, to help me maneuver through the slippery conditions ahead.  Five gallons less means 40 pounds lighter, a significant plus when trying to wrangle a 600- pound bike through mud.  Even when the low-fuel light blinks on, it still means that there's 120 miles left — provided the electronics are functioning.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p71

[Biggles]

I always stash a set of spare keys on the bike where they are easy to access in emergencies.  They are wrapped in soft duct tape and tucked up underneath the rubber boot on top of the gas tank, under the seat.  But constant pounding and jarring from washboard roads disturbs everything, no matter how tightly packed.  Pills turn to powder and even the foam padding in the rear top-box gets beaten into gum, sticking on the instruments it's intended to protect.  Most items change shape after only a few days off-road.  Even knowing this, I never imagined a set of hidden keys could cause such a problem.
About the time I started looking for a place to stop and get warm, without warning the motor quit.  Not with a sputter- an abrupt cutoff.  After a brief inspection, it becomes apparent that repeated attempts to restart will only lead to a dead battery. Bikes with carburettors are easy to fix.  Even a motor mower can be cannibalized for enough parts to get home.  New BMWs come with electronic fuel injection, a superior method of metering fuel  and supposedly bulletproof, but it's also difficult to repair without tools.  There's a nagging fear, wondering what to do if this system malfunctioned here or in Africa.
My brain overloads analyzing the problem.  Is it a broken wire buried somewhere in the yards of electrical tubes?  A burned-out circuit board?  A malfunctioning computer?  Chips gone haywire?  How could I repair defective electronics out here?  And what about that slowly expiring Russian visa?
---
Now, suspecting it's a dirty filter or a faulty fuel pump, I unbutton the tank-filler to discover the real problem- no gas!  Inside the lid, my set of jangling spare keys had severed the wires connecting the low-fuel light, the reason there had been no warning my fuel was about to run out.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp72-3

[Biggles]

As cowboys love their horses, riders love their motorcycles.  We get to know each other through customizing and maintenance checks.  From meticulous tinkering and studying specs, we memorize their features and weaknesses while constantly drooling over the latest gadgets.  Forged steel and machined aluminium rolling on vulcanized rubber become sacred vehicles that we name. 
My mighty Blue Beast, survivor of a rugged Tran-Siberian crossing and stained from the red clays of Mongolia, has earned its place as my faithful companion. Capable of taming the roughest terrain and gobbling up long stretches of highway, its reliability is important to the success of my journey. On top of all that, it goes fast! Russian police checkpoints, machine gun-toting guards stop me to point at flashing red numbers on radar guns.  They don't seem angry so I laugh aloud- only 80 miles per hour?  But they are more interested in where I'm going, and before they wave me on, I must recite a list of recent destinations. So far, Russian cops have been friendly to the "Amerikanski" from "Calleekfornia".  Once, I'm even given the emblem off a police uniform, a souvenir from an otherwise forgotten moment in a distant land.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p74

[Biggles]

A passing summer squall  sets me squinting through my face shield at the glare from a setting sun glistening off slick black pavement. Twenty-one hundred miles to go - from Novosibirsk, it's a straight shot over the Urals to the onion domes of St. Basil's.  After a loop around the Kremlin, I'll be off to the Middle East via Europe, but for now it's a ride into rapture.  With a twist of the throttle, my iron steed snorts and stretches its legs, winding through the gears in a mechanical fury, flowing through the drive train to rushing asphalt below.  Captured in the euphoria of rapid acceleration, as always, I can't imagine a better state of mind.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp74-5

[Biggles]

Motorcyclists welcome motorcyclists on motorcycles.  It's a sign of respect when I see a dozen bikes heading toward me in the rain outside a city, ready to escort me in. Actually, it's often easier to ride in alone, but it's also impressive to see the spirit of like-minded fanatics infected with the same fever. The first question from the diehards: "Did you ride the stretch between Chita and Khabarovsk or take the train?" A cheer erupts when I tell them I rode it.  Even by Siberian standards, it's one of the toughest roads in the world. They are further impressed when they hear of my anticipated trip around the planet.  For most motorcyclists, this is a fantasy ride.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p76

[Biggles]

The Other Men, a local club from Omsk, come to greet me on motorcycles, guiding me back to their bike shop clubhouse.  A few of the riders have casts on their legs, reminders of the price of our passion.  No drunks either - they ride sober, in sharp contrast to the Russian truckers I met, sucking on vodka bottles at breakfast.
Until 10 years ago, the only machines available here were comical Soviet Urals, unreliable copies of '40s model BMWs.  Now big, meaty imported Japanese sport bikes dominate. The locals have learned how to keep them running without access to the proper parts - they make their own on old, rusty lathes. When I discover another broken sub-frame bolt from my ride in Mongolia, they machine a new one from an otherwise useless chunk of steel.  Drowning me in hospitality, they've taken to calling me the Siberian Viking.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp76-7

[Biggles]

I've been warned that friendly country cops turn aggressive as you near Moscow, demanding money after flagging down speeding motorists.  In preparation for foreigners, they've learned to make commands in English: pay up or else.  No one wants to find out what "or else" means.  The only way to know for sure would be to call their bluff. In 60,000 miles of Third World shakedowns, the most I've surrendered is a pair of scratched-up Korean sunglasses in Peru.  Despite numerous Russian speed traps, I am determined to maintain that record.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p78

[Biggles]

After the first straightaway, blowing off a string of lumbering big rigs, a lone highway cop holding a radar gun steps from the shoulder, pointing his red reflector paddle directly at me.  I've been gambling all day, ignoring them, pretending not to notice, but my luck was sure to run out eventually. Although unarmed, the cops could have radios with them to notify comrades ahead of a belligerent speeder.  This time there is no way around the man in the roadway - I rein the Beast to a halt. 
As he fixates on the California license plate, I blurt out in rapid-fire English, "Howdy, how's it going? Can you tell me how to get to Poland from here?" He goes on the defensive.
"Ni panimah." I don't understand.  I continue sputtering nonsense until he regains his footing, demanding "Documenkis!"
He points to the blinking red numbers on his radar gun and then growls at me. "You!"
Showing him my watch I say, "Oh how interesting, is that a clock like this?"  He holds out his hand. Rubbing his thumb and index fingers together, he hisses, "Muneeeee."
More babbling about Poland and pointing to the sky taxes his patience as I refuse to admit understanding a single word. Exasperated and convinced a shakedown is futile, he says in Russian, "Never mind just get out of here and slow down."
I smile and say "Spa cee bah." (Thank you). His head whips around and with a glare of suspicion he says, "I thought you didn't speak Russian.  I cover my tracks with a big stupid smile, "Pree vee et, pree vee et, spa cee bah, spa cee bah" (Hello, hello, thank you, thank you).
Aware he's been had, he reluctantly lets me go.  His time is better spent squeezing speeding drivers of expensive German cars.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp78-9

[Giggles]

After the first straightaway, blowing off a string of lumbering big rigs, a lone highway cop holding a radar gun steps from the shoulder, pointing his red reflector paddle directly at me.  I've been gambling all day, ignoring them, pretending not to notice, but my luck was sure to run out eventually. Although unarmed, the cops could have radios with them to notify comrades ahead of a belligerent speeder.  This time there is no way around the man in the roadway - I rein the Beast to a halt. 
As he fixates on the California license plate, I blurt out in rapid-fire English, "Howdy, how's it going? Can you tell me how to get to Poland from here?" He goes on the defensive.
"Ni panimah." I don't understand.  I continue sputtering nonsense until he regains his footing, demanding "Documenkis!"
He points to the blinking red numbers on his radar gun and then growls at me. "You!"
Showing him my watch I say, "Oh how interesting, is that a clock like this?"  He holds out his hand. Rubbing his thumb and index fingers together, he hisses, "Muneeeee."
More babbling about Poland and pointing to the sky taxes his patience as I refuse to admit understanding a single word. Exasperated and convinced a shakedown is futile, he says in Russian, "Never mind just get out of here and slow down."
I smile and say "Spa cee bah." (Thank you). His head whips around and with a glare of suspicion he says, "I thought you didn't speak Russian.  I cover my tracks with a big stupid smile, "Pree vee et, pree vee et, spa cee bah, spa cee bah" (Hello, hello, thank you, thank you).
Aware he's been had, he reluctantly lets me go.  His time is better spent squeezing speeding drivers of expensive German cars.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp78-9

Real life experience with coppers overseas.  I got sent to Zimbabwe to move the embassy to a new location.  We hired a car and was driving out to the new place when out of a bus stop jumped a copper waving us down.  We pull over and demanded an 'on the spot fine' for speeding.  Problem was that the currency had been changed due to runaway inflation and he hadn't worked it out yet.  So we gave him the equivalent of about $5 in the old money but he gave us back $20 in the new in change.  Bonus.  God bless him, he paid for dinner that night !!

[Biggles]

The Czech Republic is a well-kept secret for motorcycling.  Fresh asphalt roads slice through thick-forested scenery with plenty of quaint cafe stops for delicious local food at half the cost of most of Europe.  Czechs cook like the French, organize like Germans and greet like Mexicans.  Avoiding touristy Prague, I stop in a medieval stone block village just on the outskirts.  Podebrady, population 15,000, is an orderly town plucked straight from the last century, with prices to match.   
Twenty bucks a night for a mini-suite, color TV and a desktop computer with free high-speed Internet.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p86

[Biggles]

A darkening overcast sky cools the landscape with mist as early evening fog creeps in mischievously to alter the odds for motorcycle riders. Against piercing headlight glare, streams of water droplets form sparkling cobwebs on my face shield, making me drowsy. Mesmerized by blinding smoky white, the second I forget caution, the looming back end of a big rig instantly zooms into view.
Stomping the brake and squeezing the hand lever almost hard enough to snap, the ABS kicks on with a klicketyy-klickety abrasive motion. Bright red lights approaching too fast is a familiar panic scenario for unfortunate motorcyclists in the sphincter-puckering moment before we know we're going down. Regrets flash as blazing neon- what was I doing out here at night? The rain-slicked road loses the battle of friction as the front wheel of the Blue Beast bites into the asphalt, barely tapping the steel fangs of the truck's undercarriage bar.
Spared without reason, I release a breath, fighting the shakes as the sinister square ghost chugs eerily back into the dark. With a shaky smile, I acknowledge the mercy of the Travel Gods once more and search for somewhere to sleep.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p99

[Biggles]

It's been tricky coordinating the shock absorber rebuilding process. A repair kit had to be mailed from Sweden to the local Ohlins distributor, now a bike shop with tools was needed to remove the shock. After that it had to go out to another shop for rebuilding and yet another for spring compression. But because of days off for Ramadan, a half-day job stretched into two days. Strangers wrenching on my bike to access the shock was nerve-racking to watch, especially when the mechanic who reassembled it was different from the one who initially disassembled it. Finally, after bolting the Beast back together with pliers and vice-grips, the wires were reconnected and sealed with masking tape. Life is laid-back here, and nothing stops Turks from chain-smoking, not even gasoline pouring out onto the floor from severed fuel lines.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p104

[Biggles]

Three flights down from my tiny hotel room, the Blue Beast waits patiently for the order to ride. The destination is not important. Today, settle for anywhere, as long as I am travelling on two wheels. At last, a warm autumn wind and rushing asphalt transmit the soothing relief of the open road as I roll beyond the Istanbul city limits, heading south. After crossing the channel to Bandirma, reaching the ancient Roman city of Ephesus is a four-hour sprint over the opposite mainland and into a thousand years of history. It's hot enough to ride without a jacket, but I recall my pledge, enjoying the sweltering heat. I imagine I'm absorbing the sun's energy like a recharging battery, storing it for the upcoming mountains. After a short search, I find a cozy hostel in Selcuk, a tree-shaded village nearly two miles beyond the best-preserved classical Roman city on the eastern Mediterranean. It's here where the apostle Paul is said to have written his profound epistle to the Ephesians.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p106