From the Library

[Biggles]

At the entrance to Houston, the cars are stopped on the freeway for miles and miles, bumper to bumper. I go slowly along between two lanes of cars that are almost stationary and hear a siren. It's a patrol car racing me in the emergency lane, alongside the crash barrier, with its lights flashing. As I am now an expert in this, I move in front of them and stop. Two officers in uniform get out. The one in front starts barking at me; it seems he's unable to speak. He reminds me of a Chihuahua with hiccups. He shouts so much and so fast that all I can do is look at him carefully, because I can't understand a word of what saying. Anyway I can't imagine that I've done anything wrong. I wasn't even doing 10 miles per hour. Then the other one, as big as Hercules, comes up to me. "Here comes real trouble, Emilio," I say to myself, but he only looks the bike up and down. "Drugs again," I think. It's like an obsession with them.
But no, he's not looking for drugs. He quiets his partner and asks, "Don't you know you can't drive between the cars?"
"But they're stopped. In California..."
"This is Texas, not California. Your plates are from Argentina. Why?"
"I'm from there. I'm going around the world."
"You're joking."
"No."
"When did you leave?"
"A year and a half ago."
"And where are you going now?"
"Houston."
"Where are you going to stay?"
"At the campsite."
"Campsite! My friend, you've just found yourself a place to stay. We'll go to my house. I have a Honda Gold Wing, too, and it will be an honor for me and my family to put you up. Follow us on your bike."
The other cop is speechless, and I am too. This is crazy. A cop inviting me to stay at his home!
The Gold Wing Road Riders Association organizes a meeting in Shreveport, Louisiana, and we go there: my friend Terry, the sheriff, and his son and daughter-in-law, who follow us in a van. Of the ten thousand motorcycles present, mine is the oldest, but the way the people welcome me makes me feel at home. "Americans are cold," someone once said to me. Well they ought to attend a meeting like this one. The only cold things are the thousands of drinks consumed.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p65-6

[Biggles]

Are there no options for getting out of here? Yes: walking. Leave behind what has become an anchor to me. I look back at the bike. "I'll be back for you, Princess. I'll bring help to get you out of here." I walk off, carrying just the clothes I'm wearing, already in rags. I turn again to see her, before we're separated by the jungle. I know my chances of survival are not very high if I walk, but they are less than zero with the bike. And I'm clear about one thing. I won't go back over those terrible hundred kilometres. I walk off in thick, muddy water, telling myself- "It's only 20 kilometres. Come on Emilio! A little further. Come on!"
Somewhere-I don't know if a hundred yards or a mile further on- my spirit breaks. My legs fold, and I fall in the water and start to cry. I cry because of my failure, because abandoning the only companion I have is a failure. I'm exhausted, soaking wet, hungry, and confused, in the middle of the biggest crisis of my life. 
I don't want to die, but I fear death less than what awaits me: failure. I have to go on, that's true, but my motorcycle is my spacecraft. How can I get where I want without her? Yes, there is another way of getting out: the way I came, those hundred kilometres, step by step, with the Princess. I start to walk back, maybe a kilometre or two. I don't know. And I find the Princess, and I embrace her. I drink some water and lie down next to her.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p98-9

[Biggles]

Getting the bike up the hills was difficult, but getting her down again is worse. With gravity as an unwelcome companion, I fight to control a vehicle which is heavier than me by a ratio of five to one. She gathers speed as she slides through the mud, and I even have to use my feet as brakes. Then, on a hillside, the front tire hits a stone, and we lose balance and fall. I hang onto the handlebar and pull for all I'm worth, but I'm beaten and forced to let go, and the Black Princess starts slipping down the hill. She slides 30 feet and ends up with her wheels in the air.
I go down and examine the position she's in. I conclude that her position might be an advantage to me. I contemplate pushing her and making her slide some more, using the impetus to get her up, but this plan could end miserably if she slips much further down the slope.
With these horrors in mind, I decide to try and get her up without making her slide any more. I manage to upright the bike and carry on downhill. By midday, both bike and I are on level ground; the asphalt road that goes back to Bissau.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p99

[Biggles]

I come to another river, the Chari, which, apart from carrying water, fulfils the function of the border. There is supposed to be a bridge, and in fact there was, but its collapsed and sank into the water. Even so, some people risk the crossing, balancing on a narrow cornice of the bridge which is still sticking out, and which the water rushes over. After a long while I admit there's no other alternative. I see two locals who are about to cross, and I offer them money in exchange for their help. We begin to move forward along the slippery cornice. The water carries all kinds of tree trunks and trash, and we can't see the edges. One man walks in front of the bike, marking with his feet where the edges are. The other goes behind, holding the rear trunk to counter the swaying. The rapids are very strong. As the water hits me sideways, it rises over the tank. Slowly, with great difficulty, we reach the middle of the river, and now the water surprises me, or surprises the three of us, because it comes so strongly that it almost goes over our heads.
A tree trunk hits us and the man in front grabs hold of the wheel so as not to be dragged away, and twists the whole bike toward the river. The wheel comes off the cement, and with the impetus the front part of the bike is left hanging off the cornice, practically submerged up to the engine. The water is about to carry us away literally as if we were a piece of paper. The engine stops, and although I have hardly any firm space at the sides, I triple my efforts, desperately hanging on, trying to save Princess. If we fall in the river, I'm sure I will swim, but she will go to the bottom, and my journey will be over.
"Pull back! Pull!" I shout to one of them. "Lift the wheel back onto the cement!" I shout to the other.
"Let's push! Together! Now! Come on!" I keep shouting, trying to direct the operations in a battle that seems lost already. Then, as if from heaven, another two boatmen arrive and willingly pitch in, holding the bike by the sides, helping us to set her straight and back on the cornice, and then managing between us all to get her upright and heading toward the opposite shore again. We're still fighting the current, but by pushing, we slowly move forward.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p107-8

[Biggles]

When we reach Yaounde, the capital, the driver brings the train into the station to let the passengers off, but the goods wagon, where the bike is, still sits outside the station. I wait for him to move the car forward, but the guy pulls the wagon off to one of the side tracks that make up the immense railway terminal, half a kilometre from the station. He unhooks it and goes away.
I jump down onto the tracks and walk over to where he's stopped his black engine. He asks me for 500 dollars to take the Princess' wagon into the station, and another 500 for the stationmaster. The deliberations last hours, but the bastard laughs and won't accept the 100 of the last 150 dollars I have left. The other possibility is to find some strong, steady arms able to hold the Princess up when she comes off the floor of the wagon. But they ask me for 50 dollars each, with a minimum of 10 men.
They have a kind of union, commanded by a boss who is the one that negotiates with me. They have me cornered, but there's one thing I make very clear-I don't have 500 dollars. My whole capital amounts to 150 dollars, and if I give it all to them, I'll still e stuck in Cameroon. It's a war of nerves, but finally, when it's about to get dark, they give in. They want to go home with something, and I'm offering them something: 10 dollars each.
Finally, nine hours after coming into the station, I manage to get the Princess onto the ground. It takes another while to get the bike over the rails to the street. 
I ride the last 250 kilometres and reach Douala, on the shores of the Atlantic.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p110

[Biggles]

The third morning they come back. They bring packs of cookies, but there's no sign of the officer. By mid-afternoon I start to protest loudly. I shout louder when I see they're submissive, but they're more scared of the officer, and they ask me not to pass.
At five they leave, ashamed of themselves and apologizing. It's my third night at the border, but I know it isn't their fault. On the fourth morning they come back and finally take me to M'bini where I'm arrested by the border commander. He takes away my passport, the keys to the bike, and kicks me out of his house. I move into a small hotel, and the commander has me at his mercy for four days. Every morning I have to go and stand outside his door and wait.
Finally, on the fifth day, he lets me in. He's sitting with three friends on some moth-eaten armchairs. He shouts at me, insults me, threatens me, and makes me publicly apologize for bothering him when he's so busy.
And I do so. Because this is a lesson I've learned: it's better to swallow my pride rather than have a brainless animal with no scruples swallow up me, the bike, and my future, all in one go. These are the rules of Africa. After my public humiliation, stamped passport in hand, I take to the road again. I pass the village of Kibangou and continue.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p114

[Biggles]

There's no moon, but it's very damp and hot. I'm wearing sports shoes, shorts, and a sleeveless shirt. I have to hurry to get through the difficult exit formalities. 
In this country, all passengers at airports have to give a currency declaration, prove that they changed their money legally, and then completely undress in a changing room in front of a guard so he can see nothing is being hidden. They explained to me that they even make you separate your buttocks to make certain.
The freeway is also in darkness. As it's getting late, I accelerate to 70 miles per hour. Suddenly I enter a roundabout. The darkness, tiredness, the lack of signals: the crash is tremendous. The front wheel hits the cement border, and I take off like a jet plane. When I come down, I'm on 1,200 pounds of metal that is no longer vertical.
We roll 30, 50, 70 meters. The bike slides along in front of me, bouncing off the cement, with pieces of bodywork and sparks flying out in all directions, and making an infernal racket of metal being filed down. My body follows her, like a sack of potatoes, with no will of its own, dragged along the asphalt.
I finally stop.
I get up. "I'm fine, I'm OK," I say to myself. I try to get the bike up, but I can't because my left hand won't respond. I use my leg as a lever and manage it. I try the starter. It takes a while, but finally the engine responds.
"It's all OK, just a fright," I say to myself over and over and try to get into gear, but the clutch lever has gone. I get off and push. I'm only 200 meters from the airport. "I'd better not miss the plane," I say to myself "I'd better get some repairs done in Mauritius or Madagascar, rather than stay here in Tanzania to get them done."
I park the bike right by the glass doors of the central hall. I cross the hall and reach the counter. Philippe looks sees me, and gives a shout. "Mon Dieu! What's happened to you?"
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p119-121

[Biggles]

Before long I am crossing the Iran-Pakistan border and find myself in Baluchistan, the dustiest, ugliest, and most depressing desert in the world. This region is the refuge of Afghan guerrillas, so I put pressure on the Princess, urging her ahead, with the intention of reaching some village before nightfall. A mound of soft sand makes me lose control. Body and bike whirl through the air and we both lie on the searing sand. I have a few skin scratches, and the Princess has a broken windshield.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, appears a decrepit truck. Several men with thick black beards and turbans on their head get out, their Kalashnikovs in their hands. They are Taliban guerrillas. They share food and water with me, and we all stay there for the night.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p156

[Biggles]

From horizon to horizon there is not a soul in sight, but the guerrillas- if they really do exist- are said to appear out of nowhere, like spirits. I manage to keep up my speed, and everything's going fine, except for the sun that beats down helmet and the helmet that burns my brains out. The terrain is mercifully hardy and I don't sink into the sand, as in the Sahara. Then the front wheel of the bike catches in a pile of stones, and the bike, with me astride, somersaults through the air.
After making sure I have no broken bones, I start to pick up the Princess, but she is sprawled on a clump of sand, in a clumsy position, and try as I might I cannot straighten her. A truck drives up and stops about 50 yards away, and a group of men get out, bearded, armed with Kalashnikov rifles. They are  Afghanis- Mujahideen or Taliban rebels. I'm a dead man, I think to myself.
They all babble at me at the same time, in Farsi I suppose, pointing at the bike and the horizon, but I don't understand what they are saying. They approach, and I brace myself. They take their rifles off their shoulders and lift up the bike. Then they sit down in a circle and invite me to join them. They take out a large amount of food and water, serve me a generous helping and we sit there eating.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p158

[Biggles]

There are many things that have happened to me that for space reasons, I did not include in this narrative, but that doesn't make these experiences less valuable.   
Through my journey, my life consisted simply of moving forward, from Alaska to the Himalayas, from Cape North to Tasmania, from Bourbon Street to Manchuria, from Cape of Tribulation to Tierra del Fuego, from the tomb of Christ to the mines of King Solomon. I was Chinese in China, Russian in Russia, Christian at The Vatican, and Muslim in the lands of Allah. I was a poor man in Calcutta and a wealthy man at the Champs Elysee. But, above all, I was a wanderer. Along 460,000 miles (735,000 kilometres) of highways, roadways, rivers, seas, mountains, steppes, jungles, deserts, and even swamps, I experienced everything that I possibly could, and I always did it with only one intention: to feel myself alive.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p222

[Biggles]

I am not the Marco Polo on motorbike that some newspapers have called me. I'm not even- for God's sake- the last of the romantics, as a French magazine described me. 
I am only a man, a little bit crazy maybe, who believes deeply that whoever does not invest in dreams is not living reality.
In the end, the world I have known has gone away forever. This book is already a period piece, almost a historic novel. Now I shall say good bye to all of you, my friends. I am going to dream of my roads, my enchanted forests, my yellow and desolate deserts, and the legends of distant cultures that I found at each turn of a wheel of this never-exhausted motorbike. This book is dedicated to all of you, wherever you are. Most importantly, it is dedicated to you Monica, because without you this world that I love so much would not be worthwhile.
The Longest Ride  Emilio Scotto p222

[Biggles]

Folks often ask me why I ride, how it feels, and why I would take off for hours, or even days with no specific destination in mind. I have no easy and quick answer for them. Often it is uncomfortable, lonely, exhausting, and dangerous. It can also be uplifting, sensuous, enlightening, and inspiring. It can be all of these, or something never before experienced and completely unexpected.
Motorcycling is a part of my life, a part of my soul, but it is so much more than just transportation. Would folks understand if I told them that my soul cries for it? Would they comprehend if I said that how they choose to view the world determines what they experience in it? Would they believe if I cried out that the world is magic? That the mundane threatens to overwhelm only because it is so much easier to find? Could they see? Would they see?
Life Is A Road  Daniel Meyer p xvi

[Biggles]

I felt it coming before it actually happened. I let off the throttle and eased toward the left shoulder just before the action started. Hard braking and intense manoeuvring were not going to be effective yet, the standing water and driving rain would see to that. Traffic was suddenly tightening up, and everybody was moving way too fast for the conditions. It goes without saying that they were not giving me any space. This was going to be ugly. Call it intuition, gut feeling, or maybe magic. Whatever it is, once again it called and I listened... and lived.
Suddenly the sound of crunching metal and squealing tires assaulted my ears. An 18-wheeler slid into my lane, covering the space I had just vacated. Barely behind me a mini-van hit the wall. In front of me a pickup slid onto the shoulder backwards, scraping the concrete barrier and sliding along the space in front of me, blocking my avenue of escape. This entire mess was moving at about 60 mph. A hair's breadth separated me from death, and even that piddling distance would not have been there had it not been for my early reactions.
In the dilated time that was spread before me a detached part my brain notes that there is a car sliding in front of the big-rig, and the driver is out of the action completely. She has both hands over her face, and has trusted her fate to her car's ability to drive itself. Probably not good.
All of this mess is sliding together, my small island of space collapsing in on itself with annoying rapidity... I have survived the initial assault, now I must make good my escape. One chance remains, there is a small space in between the leading (back-wards) pickup, the 18-wheeler, and the driverless car. if I can get through there, I will still be taking my chances that there is not a car in the middle or right lane that will clobber me, but I can think of few things worse than what is coming at the moment.
Life Is A Road  Daniel Meyer p17

[Biggles]

I aim vaguely for the hole and mash the back brake. This results in an instant tail slide. Normally this would be setting myself up for one of two conditions- laying the bike down and sliding along with it, or a "high-side" when I let off the brake or scrub off enough speed and the rear wheel grabs again.
In a "high-side", the bike will typically violently straighten up and throw the rider off in the direction of travel. Even if the bike does not land on or tumble over the rider, these are bad. This one would be worse; it would be directly in front of an 18-wheeler. Death and death in this case. The Devil wins. I find that a bit distasteful.
Violently twisting the throttle as she begins to whip around for the high-side. Now I have not done this since my dirt-bike days, and I have never done it on concrete or with a bike that weighs in at about a half a ton with me and fuel, but the result is the most gorgeous power-slide I have ever done. This is a controlled slide, using the power-slipping of the rear wheel to moderate the violence of the bike's attempts to straighten itself out. I do not want to get bucked off directly in the path of a sliding 18-wheeler.
I slide heavily to the right, cross in front of the big truck, over-correct and facing the direction of travel, with The Dragon idling smoothly beneath me. Yep. The Dragon and I understand each other.
Life Is A Road  Daniel Meyer p18-9

[Biggles]

Fifty yards ahead of me where the sliding mess finally came to a stop I see the truck driver running up and down the side or his rig with a flashlight, peering under all the axles. I've a pretty good idea what he is looking for (me) so I toot the horn at him and casually wave as he looks up. He immediately drops the light, grabs his chest with both hands, and nearly falls over backwards. He turned out to be OK (no serious injuries in the wreck either), he was just so sure I was smashed underneath his truck, he said he thought I was the devil himself standing there on my black beast.
Sometimes the Devil wants to dance.
I was forced. No choice or quarter was given.
So I danced with the Devil.
But I was leading.
Life Is A Road  Daniel Meyer p19