From the Library

[Biggles]

All of a sudden we came upon the Madura Pass, where the flat plain suddenly drops away towards the Great Australian Bight, offering an astounding view of the plain from above. It looked just like the Serengeti, minus the herds of wildebeest. It was breathtaking. At Madura Roadhouse the next day, the halfway point between Perth and Adelaide, we sat drinking coffee and looking down the hill at the Nullarbor stretching out to the horizon.
On the roadhouse sound system was "The Power of Love", that old eighties power ballad which made women come over all funny at the end of discos and men glad they did.
Oz around Australia on a Triumph Geoff Hill & Colin O'Carroll p210

[Biggles]

Certainly waking up these last few mornings of the adventure was a bittersweet feeling: on the one hand I was looking forward to going home, to sleeping in my own bed and having all the old familiar things around me, yet knew that, as always, I would miss getting up every morning, putting all my stuff on a motorbike and riding off down the open road in the early morning sun, not having a clue what the day would bring.
As this morning proved, for we had been on the road a mere half an hour when we spotted three Royal Enfields parked by the side of the road, as Enfields often are. 
As I knew only too well, from having ridden one back to the UK from India where they are still made, the vagaries of old British bikes combined with Indian quality control created a machine on which even a trip to the shops was an adventure, although radical innovations such as electric start and a unit construction engine have more recently given them a disturbing reputation for reliability. These ones turned out to be owned by Ian, Charles and Russell, who were making their way back from the Hutt River fortieth anniversary, having ridden all the way across the Nullarbor to get there. Naturally, since you can take the Enfield out of India but not India out of the Enfield, Charles had spent several days in Perth while most of his engine was rebuilt.
Oz around Australia on a Triumph Geoff Hill & Colin O'Carroll p212

[Biggles]

In a way, they were following in the honourable tradition of Winifred Wells, who in 1950 at the age of twenty-two rode an Enfield 350 all the way from Sydney to Perth and back on dirt roads at the height of summer, arrived back and announced that her machine hadn't missed a beat. She is still alive and well at the age of eighty-two.
How strange and wonderful it was, though, to watch them kick-start the bikes into life, to drink in the familiar heartbeat of single cylinder engine, like the purr of a lion after eating a particularly satisfying wildebeest, and then to ride with them for the rest of the day, feeling for all the world as if I was back crossing the burning sands of Persia with Paddy Minne the world-famous Franco-Belgian motorcycle mechanic, Enfields painted pillar-box red and lemon yellow, on my first motorcycle adventure twelve years before.
Oz around Australia on a Triumph Geoff Hill & Colin O'Carroll p213

[Biggles]

On the stroke of noon, we dismounted in Penwortham, walked up a grassy path past the little church, and found ourselves standing before the grave of John Horrocks, who set forth from these parts in July 1846 to find good pastoral land. From the very start, his expedition was prescient proof of W.C. Fields' later adage that you should never work with children or animals. Particularly animals: first the goats took great delight in leaping on the tent and eating it. Then Harry, a psychotic camel who was the first of his species to be used on an Australian expedition, tried to eat one of the goats, bit Garlick the tent-keeper, who was presumably wandering around redundant since he had no tent to keep, and chewed to bits the precious bags of flour.
As if that wasn't enough, one evening as Horrocks was unpacking, Harry lurched to one side and discharged Horrocks' gun, which was rather unfortunately pointing at Horrocks at the time. Harry was subsequently shot, although it took two bullets to kill him and he bit a stockman on the head before succumbing. Horrocks died of his wounds two weeks later, and 164 years later, we stood in mute homage before the plain grey cross and matching slab which marks the last resting place of the only explorer in history to be shot by his own camel.
Oz around Australia on a Triumph Geoff Hill & Colin O'Carroll p216

[Biggles]

Vehicle ferries are a major mode of transportation for crossing the Puget Sound in Washington. On many a sunny Saturday afternoon you can find hundreds of cars queued up and waiting hours for the next crossing. But this is not the case for motorcycles. Yes, there can easily be twenty bikes in line, but we do not wait. It is perfectly legal to skip around all cars, butt your way to the front of the line, and rally together with the other motorcycles in the staging zone. The officials will then have the motorcycles get on first and consolidate them at the front of the ship. And for this magical moment, be it thirty minutes or an hour and a half, you are no longer riding alone. All from many directions, we join together for that time.
On the ferry, you find out really quickly that everyone has a story, and, because you are not in a car and cannot roll up your window, you enter each other's world. 
All introductions start with the other person's ride and usually involve the history of their former bikes and ones they currently have but are cheating on this particular day. We then can get into stories about their journey.
Ride On  Joseph Fehlen p60-1

[Biggles]

Sunrises and sunsets. Make the effort to watch at least one sunrise and one sunset every month, preferably while on your bike. Riding at these times has a magic all its own that cannot be described. To watch a new day come to life and to be part of it is a privilege and should be treated as such. Sunset is a sign of that day's passing and a glorious reminder that no day should be wasted. Pay attention to these things. Life is a fantastic journey and sunrises and sunsets are the mile markers.
Road Tales Steve Reed p18

[Biggles]

The love of a good woman. You'll need this one most of all. Not only in all aspects of life, but especially with regards to motorcycling. She'll need to understand your need to ride in bad weather, your desire to see distant places, the times you need to ride alone, your constant obsession for your bike, the trips with your buddies, and dozens of other things. Maybe she'll ride, maybe she won't. Regardless, she should never feel threatened by your riding. Instead, strive to make her part of it. Involve her in more than just the bike cleaning rituals. If you're out on a trip, call her so she can hear your voice. See that she knows you'll return from each and every ride. Take the time to let her know that she's special and that the best part of any ride is coming home to her.
Road Tales  Steve Reed p19

[Biggles]

That black Bridgestone 125 was the biggest, baddest, motorcycle he had ever seen and he was standing right beside it. He didn't dare touch it and knew better than to ask how fast it would go. Grownups didn't like foolish questions, you know. None the less, he couldn't help but be drawn to that machine. Something about it kept beckoning him back time and time again.  It was as though he was a fish on a line and the bike kept reeling him in.  Even when he would lay in bed at night, he could feel ifs pull on his soul.  There was something mystical about that motorcycle and he was powerless  against its spell. The thought of actually owning something that grand, that powerful, that beautiful was more than he dared to imagine. Maybe when  he was grown up and rich and famous he would buy that bike and it would  take him on hundreds of adventures. Yeah. That's exactly what he would do.  He'd show everybody what a person could do if they had a bike like that! So the next day, he went to see the bike again. But this time he had a purpose.  However, as he approached the bike, his resolve started to crumble. It was so big! The speedometer went all the way to 80 mph! How could a person drive something so big so fast! It just didn't seem possible. His dreams of  excitement and adventure started to fade when he heard a voice say "Want to sit on her?" He whirled around to see a man smiling down at him "Are you serious? You'd let a little kid like me sit on this motorcycle?" the boy asked  excitedly.
"You wont be a little kid forever," came the answer. "Who knows?  Maybe you'll grow up to be a motorcycle rider. You gotta start somewhere."  Having said this, the man lifted the boy up and placed him on the seat of the  motorcycle. Sitting there, the boy noticed the gasoline price on the sign was 24.9 cents a gallon. And he had not one, but TWO quarters in his pocket! All the excitement and adventure came rushing back, pouring over the boy like rainwater pouring out of a downspout in a thunderstorm. That one voice had  made a difference. It opened a whole new world when it placed that small boy  on the seat of that shiny black motorcycle. 
To this day, it's still my favorite seat. 
Road Tales  Steve Reed pp23-4

[Biggles]

Grab six or seven friends and take off for nowhere in particular. After about 10  minutes, have the leader fall back to the last position. In another 10 minutes, that leader falls to the rear as well. Continue this procedure until the original leader is back at the point position. During the ride, all leaders should be encouraged to get the group as lost as possible, since it would be someone else's responsibility to get the group back on track. The larger the group, the more lost you can get. After a couple of these rides, you learn to have an eye for detail, believe me. One thing to remember, don't take this ride too seriously. Enjoy the companionship and tuck those memories in a safe place. You'll want to pull them out some cold winter night.
Road Tales  Steve Reed p26-7

[Biggles]

Do you know how to tell if you live next door to a motorcycle rider? Tall grass in the yard, weeds in the garden, dirty gutters, windows that need washing, house in need of painting, all signs of the 2 wheeler's creed, "If its nice enough to work outside, its nice enough to ride." My long-suffering wife, Angie, can (and has) testified to witnessing my possession by unseen forces once the temperature climbs above 70 degrees. Gotten the mower out of the shed, gassed it up, went by the garage, and the next thing I know, I'm cleaning bugs off my Gold Wing's windshield.
Not only did I claim to have a 10 hour memory gap, possibly caused by alien abduction, but those rascally aliens put 350 miles on my bike as well! And not one of them was thoughtful enough to cut the grass for me! In their defence, they did fill the gas tank before returning the bike to my garage.
Probably in the name or intergalactic peace or some such thing.
Road Tales  Steve Reed p45

[Biggles]

"So many roads, so little time". That phrase rings true with so many of us. So many places you haven't seen. So many adventures yet to experience. So much to see and do and so little time. And finally, you get it. That elusive answer to the question you've been asking yourself these many years. You come to realize that each ride is the best ride you've ever been on. The saying, "there are no bad rides, just some better then others," takes on a special meaning to you. When you hear a guy whine about being cold and wet you smile quietly to yourself. That guy over there telling about his 800 mile ride, the kid with the gauze on his forearm, the couple in their matching vests, all give you an inner peace. You know that they are part of you and you are a part of them. All of you are taking the same ride regardless of where you're at on the journey. You say to yourself, what an incredible and wondrous adventure I've been on. It's been more fun than I could have possibly imagined all those years ago. Now, I can't wait to see what's coming up around the next bend in the road.
Road Tales  Steve Reed p110

[Biggles]

After a hot shower and a great dinner (thanks Dear), I can now reflect on the day's events. The elation of the morning had been replaced with pleasant weariness. The overcast skies had been replaced by the glow of my wife's smile. The coldness of the ride had been replaced with cosiness. Strange how two totally opposite sensations are so dependent on the other? Without cold weather riding, you cannot truly appreciate the pleasures and comforts of a meal in a warm home. Without winter, how can you appreciate spring? And, if you don't go away, how can you come home?
Philosophy is not my forte. I just love to ride motorcycles. However, could the two be related? I may have to ponder that puzzle for a while, perhaps over some carrot cake and coffee.
Road Tales  Steve Reed p113

[Biggles]

Rouen is one of those places that, having visited once, you wonder why on earth you haven't been before. However, as I'd never visited previously I was keen to find somewhere to park my bike and take stock of my journey so far. Like most large towns, Rouen is a nightmare to navigate, particularly on a motorbike. It took about two hours of riding around in something like circles before I learnt the most important lesson of the trip: whenever you arrive at a new town or city, always make a beeline for the tourist information centre (they're usually located in the middle of whichever town or city you find yourself in, and are usually pretty well signposted).
The lady at the information centre was very helpful; unnecessarily so, some might say. She kept me talking (or rather, she kept talking to me, I've no idea what she was on about) for the best part of half an hour, and when I finally managed to flee, I did so under the weight of a hundred folding maps, brochures and pamphlets. 
Still, she was kind enough to point me in the direction of a cheap and cheerful hotel near the train station which I found with remarkable ease.
I booked a "chamber pour une nuit avec salle de bain", and - with literally nothing else to say - dragged my luggage up three flights of stairs before cracking open a bottle of red wine and collapsing on the bed, a big, idiot grin writ large across my grimy face.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p10-11

[Biggles]

I spent the next couple of hours wandering around the city, taking in the various sights, stopping every now and again for a relaxing drink, but mainly worrying about my bike. The Suzuki SV650S isn't a particularly desirable machine, but it was all I had and, in the run-up to my trip, I'd heard countless horror stories about bike theft in France, which, if the tales were to be believed, was pretty much a national pastime.  Conveniently, the Suzuki has an under-seat storage area just big enough to accommodate a hefty chain and padlock - it's always a good idea to chain your bike to something, even if it's just a tramp - and this, coupled with a front disc lock and an alarm, meant it was pretty much theft-proof. Even so, I couldn't escape the nagging fear that, as I sank my third beer, my pride and joy was being wheeled into the back of a van. I decided to return to the hotel earlier than planned to check on her.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p14-15

[Biggles]

I was hugely relieved to find my bike shackled to the post where I'd left it. Maybe it was the glow from the setting sun, or maybe was the half bottle of wine and five beers, but the SV had never looked better than it did there in the cool French evening light: the jet black, slightly bulbous semi-fairing exposed the dull silver engine casing, like a satin dress slipping off an elegant thigh. Well, not really, but in my drunken state I found myself lapsing into that strange, singularly male state of mind that equates fast bikes and cars with the female form.  I'm sure Freud would have an explanation for it, but honestly, I don't think I want to hear it. Anyway, for whatever deep-seated psychological reason, I couldn't resist the urge to throw an ungainly leg over the tank and sit there for a while, watching the world go by, just me and the Suzuki.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p15