From the Library

[Biggles]

There's even a UFO museum. It's free, but after five minutes I still want my money back. Until a nipper runs past and right into the perfect gag. "Did those aliens come from Mars?" All together now - No kid, they came from Uranus. I've never been thrown out of a museum before.
Britain has climate, America has weather. I leave Roswell with a greasy sweat on. An hour later, the dazzling desert sunshine turns purple then turns horizontal white. Snow? Snow, and wind, wind so fierce it has the bike slapping like a sail as we dodge car-chasing tumbleweeds the size of scribbled thorny dogs.
I stop for a smoke and a snivel. A cop pulls over. To check I'm OK? Er, no. To throw a cheap gag. "Know why it's so windy in New Mexico?" Go on. "Cause Texas sucks and Arizona blows." Right. Thanks.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p184

[Biggles]

Stroll back to the bikes, stretch out, one foot on my front tyre to gently rock the hammock, watch the yellow moon sparkle on the waves and drift into dreamy sleep.
Yeah, right. After an eighteen-hour watch in a wind-lashed, salt-stung crow's nest, fending off the amorous advances of a lonely bear from Portsmouth, I'm sure a hammock is heavenly. Otherwise, it's just sleeping in a rope bag. I feel like an old lady's shopping. I try to enjoy it, I try to concentrate on the lullaby wash of the waves, but you can't fake sleep. When dawn hits my cross-hatched, cross-patch face I give up, rub seawater in my eyes, pour coffee up my nose and get back on the off-road.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p194

[Biggles]

Until I hit Mexico City. Just as I'm congratulating myself for toasting the crush hour with 'old couriers etc' nonsense, I get pulled. Two smiley cops point to my number plate and say something like 'No circulo' and 'Jueves' No traffic on Thursday? Bugger. A speed-read, quick-forgotten by-law to reduce congestion, they've set up a scheme to limit traffic based on number plates. No ones or twos on Thursday, no threes or fours on Friday and so on. And it's Thursday. And my number plate ends in a two. And bugger. Sometimes a little local corruption is a good thing. Truth is, I have broken the law. I am riding illegally. In England, corruption involves four figure donations to the appropriate election fund. Here, it's more democratic - it's chump-change figures, so everyone can join in. The cop gives me a lollipop and we haggle. "One hundred dollars."  Five. "Ten." Done. Best of all, he gives me a receipt. Next set of lights, another cop points at the plate and blows his whistle - I flash my chits and, bingo, he apologises, smiles and waves me on. I think I'm gonna like this city.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p199

[Biggles]

In between, a summer's worth of spicy jungle mountain roads compressed into one green, dizzy day, buzzing on nothing but the bends, motorcycle emptiness and high on histamine after a giant wasp flew into my shirt and stung me like a taxman. Like a small boy on a swing, like a little girl dancing on her dad's feet, that relaxed, that happy, lolloping side to side, side to side, side to side for mile after mile after mile, and if this isn't nice, what is?
And the second truth. For many British riders, the US coast-to-coast is the biking dream. Which is good, but this is better. Beautiful beaches, belting roads, tasty trails, bouncing bars, punny people. Really. These are the days that must happen to you. Viva Mexico.
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[Biggles]

I don't like to generalise, but for these bastards, I'll make an exception. Hondurans are the worst drivers in the world. Shit and slow is one thing, but these maniacs are shit and fast. Their preferred road position is wheels on either side of the centre line. Which I suppose gives them fighting chance of avoiding the children and dogs, cows and taxis dashing out from the verges with the fatalism of suicide bombers.
The road whistles through palm forests, industrial sprawls and dramatic mountains. I only know because I keep stopping to smoke and calm down. When I'm riding, I don't see a thing - too busy looking round oncoming buses for the inevitable head-on double overtake. By the time I reach the US garrison town of Comayagua, I'm a nervous wreck and decide to call it a night. Though it's only afternoon. 
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p226

[Biggles]

Pull over, though I don't know what I'll check. Oh, right. Even I understand that the rear brake disc shouldn't be, er, on fire. For some reason, the smoke and red glow don't completely convince me and I still feel the need to touch it, just to make sure. My fingers sizzle and stick to the calliper. Bugger.
Seems I've been watching too many History Channel stories about heating machine guns. Why else would I decide to pee on the brake? I've got no water and I can't just sit here, nowhere. I start the splash, then panic that the heat will travel back up the stream and scald my willy, so pinch the end and this running interference turns the stream into a spray. Just as I spot the farmer. At a very basic level, there's something deeply wrong about saying "Good afternoon" to a man with a machete in his hand when I've got the lad in mine. A lad that's pissing all over my boots, bags and bike. I guess from the look on his face that he agrees.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p228

[Biggles]

Next morning I email the boys at Bike magazine for advice. "Yep, it sounds like the bearings; yep, it's dangerous; nope, you shouldn't ride" says Stevie Westlake. I try to find a mechanic, but no one's innarested in helping this barely comprehensible anglo with a weird bike. Their advice- 'Managua'.
I have me a big decision. Should I stay or should I go? Managua's over a hundred miles away - not country-backwater miles, but Pan-American Highway miles down the main truck route from LA to Panama City. If it goes shit-shaped, if the buggered bearings crunch too hard against spindle, if the disc gets jammed in the caliper, it could be sorta fatal.
What's the alternative? Live in Esteli for the rest of my life?
Managua or bust. As stupid calls go, this is right up there with riding across a Saharan minefield and cuckolding a stone-cold killer. At least it'll give me something to write about. First, I'll change my pants – my gran impressed upon me the vital importance of always wearing clean pants in case of an accident. I guess it stops any confusion about which set of skid marks the investigating cops should measure.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p230-1

[Biggles]

On my own again, On The Road again. Everything's going well, and I should be in Cali by early afternoon. 'To make God laugh, tell Him your plans,' say the Mexicans. 
Heading into another armed village, the bike cuts dead. Nothing. Coast downhill to an army post, smile "Buenos dias" so they won't shoot me, try to think of something useful to check. Two boy soldiers wander over, chatting happy shit ("You know Meek Jagger?"), gurning for photos, while I unpack the tool kit and scratch my arse. "Good bike," nods one and slaps the tank. The lights come back on, it fires up again. We look at each other and laugh.
What to do but keep going? Maybe I can find a mechanic in Cali. "Please, bike, don't break down" prayers whinge pathetically round my lid. Heading out of another armed village, the bike cuts dead again. Coast uphill to a muddy verge and try to think of something useful to check.
This has happened once before, all the way back in New York State; trying to leave a snowy Albany gas station, turned the key and nada. What did I do then? Had a smoke, kicked it, tried it again? What's the connection?
Slow as Homer, tumblers fall in my daft head. Albany. Bogota. Albany. Bogota. Planes? Planes. Damn. I bet I haven't properly reconnected the battery. I haven't. 
That's all it is. Maybe I really will make Cali.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p268-9

[Biggles]

An hour out of town I guess I catch a branch in my chain, 'cause I hear it snapping. Two hours out of town, and the rain just won't stop, so we do. We wring out and I glance at the sprocket. It's got fewer teeth than MacGowan's grin. Guess that wasn't a twig. Bugger.
Next day I stick Brian on the bus and the bags on Trys and limp back to Quito, hoping the slipping chain doesn't jump off the sprocket and through my leg. By the time we get back to the Turtle's Head, I've two clutches. "That'll be you stuck here then," says Albert.
He's right. There's a BMW dealer in Quito, but despite the liveried logos and shiny new 1200GSs in the showroom, the spares department is empty as a Soviet shop. I play my cheat trump card and call BMW GB's David Taylor for help. He just happens to be visiting Panama City. And they just happen to have a chain and sprocket set in stock. "I'll Fed-Ex it tomorrow."
That was two months ago. The parts were sent, snared by Ecuadorean customs and swallowed whole. Two months of emails, phone calls, websites. Two months of "no se puede". Two months without the bike, watching the rain fall hard. This town can drag you down.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p277-8

[Biggles]

A BMW dealer service should smoothly reassure like an opium draught. These monkeys have me spooked like a face at a dark window. Despite the shiny showroom floor and flapping liveried flags, the workshop is run by backstreet abortionists. That's not a white lab coat, it's a butcher's apron. First, they fit new sprockets, but not the new chain. Why? They shrug. Er, it's normal to change them at the same time. They look at me like I've got my lad in my hand. 'Manana.' No, today. Then I catch them oiling a freshly waxed chain on the outside. Er, it's normal to oil a chain from the inside. They look at me like I've just stuck my hand down their sister's pants. Praise the Lord and pass the knitting needle.
A quick test trip round the car park, once I've fixed the newly sloppy clutch, shows that the front brake doesn't, despite a dickhead's too-strong handshake, and the newly slack throttle's got maybe half a turn's play and needs wringing like a wet towel. I hate to think what happened inside, hidden under the engine casings. Smile and say thanks and get out of their harm's way.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p287-8

[Biggles]

The bike shudders, dragging its arse like a dog that's been hit by a car, and stops dead in the outside lane. Trucks and buses parp past and rasp round. Two lads from the Indian market help me bounce the bitch to the safe side. Nothing to do but smoke, shrug and murmur 'I wonder what the hell's wrong with the back brake?' as Gatorade splash sizzles into sweet steam.
For appearance's sake, I dig out the tool kit. Trying to prise apart the lock-jawed pads, I snap a screwdriver, which makes me burn my hand, which makes me bang and scorch my head on the pipe. The market claps like they're watching Punch and Judy. All I need now is a rake to stand on. Painful, but works a treat. What to do but wobble off?
There's an urban myth that medical students play a game, an aesthetist's relay, where they jab each other with ketamine and see who can run the farthest before the sleepy drugs kick in and the muscles collapse. That's how this trip feels. Not if, but when. I'll see just how far south I get before the bike nods off.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p288

[Biggles]

While I relax in a picture-perfect paradise, the Dakar deteriorates daily. A squeak becomes a rattle becomes a knock. It's not a bike, it's a game of KerPlunk, and any moment now marbles and straws will clatter out of its bottom.
"Sounds like yer bearings are bollocksed, lad." His name's Ian, he's a 61-year-old farmer from West Yorkshire and he's travelling the world on an Africa Twin. 'I told them I were going for four months. That were in '99. She's not best pleased. Shall we have a look at that hub?"
I've been riding this luck too long. And what once felt pleasingly punk-rock now grates as dumb. Big trips mean taking more responsibility. Rather than bitching about bad services and depending on the kindness of strangers, I should be grown-up enough, organised enough, knowledgeable enough, to fix my own problems. Until I sort that, I'm still half stuck at home.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p288

[Biggles]

This is the world's Wild West, the edgy West End where deserts, mountains and oceans collide with a jagged scream that settles into a soothing spray; where skies are so high, it's disorientating; deliriously, delightfully dizzying. This desert's defined not by its cities or towns but by the empty spaces in between, by the dramatic pauses between the noisy people.
I'm in love. In love with this road and the way it makes me feel. Bubbling, warm, soulful, real love that sings inside like Otis. Slip-slide down a dirt track and up a cathedral dune 'cause I want to look down from the gods. When the bike topples sideways in soft scrunch, I don't bother picking it up, but keep going on foot. 
Collapse outside a cave and look. Two buzzards watch me from the wooden arms of a giant, paganised cross...
Three days later I hit Lima. Off the bike, this sophisticated city of eight million seems too quiet. I miss the deafening wind rush, the anonymous momentum, the stimulation that stretches thoughts like gum as riding alerts interrupt every internal conversation. The Road works.
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p294

[Biggles]

Happy with the company, concerned about the compromises, we're all prickling with 'Who's faster? Who's smoother? Will he mind if we stop to pee? Will they mind if I stop to smoke?' nonsense. Irrelevant meta-clutter that becomes just that as soon as we stop worrying and start riding.
The sign reads El Camino Sinuoso, the winding road, but it could read 'The Most Beautiful Road in the World'. Ten minutes out of town and we already know this is gonna be very special. Smoky ochre hills concertina like folds on a bulldog's neck, and as we climb into the Andes there are snowy peaks above, sandy desert behind and below, the road falling away like coiled rope.
Magnificent views, rubbish riding. The Dakar's under-steering and 'umm?' vague. Stop for a smoke and kick the tyres. They're proper hot. "When did you last check the pressures?" asks Dick. Umm? He whips out a digital gauge: 18 and 23. He whips out a compressor. And the bike's transformed from squelching in wet wellies to strutting in slutty heels. Air pressure, you say? Who knew?
These Are The Days That Must Happen To You  Dan Walsh p297

[Biggles]

They're celebrating a tap - the first time they've had running potable water in the village. I'm expecting some interest, but I'm overwhelmed by the no-angle hospitality. The bike's surrounded by 'Who? What? Where? Why?' questions, handshakes and hugs and I'm showered with shots of chicha.
Halfway through my second cup of cold sick, my host reminds me how this moonshine is made - the raw maize needs an enzyme to break it down before it will ferment. An enzyme found in human spit. Old women chew the grain for hours then spit it into barrels. A gurning gummy granny offers me a refill. How could I say no?
Dick and Jane follow me down, English hesitancy drowned in grubby kids' kisses. Three lads produce a table and chairs and we're sitting targets. Kids on knees, hanging off arms, climbing over heads. "Will you dance with me?" a pigtailed girl whispers in my ear. Why would I say no?
Exhausted by the hokey-cokey, dizzy from ring-a-ring o'roses, half-cut on granny phlegm, we hit Cusco just as the setting sun's backlit the red roofs like dashboard light. An hour later we're plotted up in the Norton Rats pub, admiring owner Jeff's '74 Commando. Two hours later we're in a back room with a pint, a pie and pipe of Peruvian pollen, chuckling along to 'Easy Rider'.
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