From the Library

[Biggles]

From the word go I was hopelessly lost.  It quickly became apparent that the city's commuters were not in a tolerant mood. Like an ant in the middle of a football pitch I swerved this way and that, attempting to read road signs for any hint of direction. Cities aren't pleasant places to ride in at the best of times due to the sheer number of risks you encounter, but when you're lost, stressed and tired, mistakes become likely, and mistakes on a motorbike tend to hurt. Especially when they involve forgetting you're in France and turning left onto a busy roundabout instead of right... it seems that Lady Luck was riding pillion on that occasion.
Having received the sort of wake-up call that could feasibly raise the dead, I decided to call it quits: I rode the Suzuki onto the nearest pavement, took off my crash helmet and sank to the ground next to the bike exhausted and broken at 9 am.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p18

[Biggles]

Then an unusual thing happened: an angel appeared out of the traffic in the guise of a rough-looking chap on an old Honda CB500. He stopped next to me and gestured to the madness behind him, "Eez fun, yes?" he said, with a big grin. I replied that if by 'fun' he meant a complete bloody nightmare, then, yes, it most certainly was! We chatted briefly and I explained, in my sub-GCSE French and via steering wheel gestures, that I was looking for the Le Mans racetrack, which he kindly offered to lead me to. I couldn't believe my luck. Thanking him profusely, I pulled on my lid and fired up the Suzuki.
Unfortunately, my saviour had neglected to mention that he was suicidal, and that he had chosen this very day - the journey we were on, in fact - to be his last on this earth.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p18

[Biggles]

He rode like an absolute lunatic and it was only by following suit, ignoring every conceivable sense of self-preservation, that I was able to keep him in sight. We squeezed through gaps in the traffic that wouldn't have been possible had I had a slightly bigger breakfast that morning, and gambled with our - and every other road users' - lives at each and every junction. It quickly became apparent that my guide viewed traffic lights as a form of street decoration, pleasant enough to look at but of no practical value to a man in a hurry. In our wake a thousand car horns beeped furiously, while just feet ahead pedestrians dived this way and that, thrilled no doubt to have had their dull morning routine injected with such excitement. Through all of this my insane companion rode with heroic abandon, and I remember noting in a fleeting moment of calm that I hadn't seen his brake light come on once since he'd launched me into this hell just ten minutes earlier.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p18-9

[Biggles]

But the roads are so smooth and virtually empty that big speed is almost a pre-requisite, at least on the larger roads where the throaty V-twin will wind up a hot 120 mph without a glitch and sit there comfortably while you tuck down on top of your tank bag, a big grin spread across your face.
Pin the throttle on a downhill stretch and the needle edges slowly toward 130 mph, but now the SV's engine is straining. The red line approaches for both bike and rider, as instinct begins to tighten the muscles until your arms cease to function as useful shock absorbers. At this point you have to step back, at least mentally; not necessarily by rolling off the throttle, but by consciously relaxing, forcing the brain to release its stranglehold on the sinews, to unlock the talons clenched around the handlebar grips and let the forearms cushion and iron out the natural imperfections of the road. Then everything becomes slower, easier and paradoxically, faster.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p24

[Biggles]

I'd anticipated freezing, snow-covered highways and roaring blizzards, but in reality the roads were clear and smooth, the sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky, and the entire Alpine experience turned out to be one of the most enjoyable of the journey. In hindsight I wish I'd spent days, rather than hours, amid that rugged and beautiful scenery. Parked at the side of the road, gazing out across the mountains, it was wonderfully peaceful, with nothing but a light breeze caressing my face and a long, empty winding road stretching off into the distance: the only indication I wasn't completely alone in the world.
Alpine roads demand a certain respect; not only because they are twisty and awkward and often flanked with drops measured in hundreds of feet, but also because if you do throw your bike down the road and hurt yourself, you're unlikely to be found for a while (if at all). I rode along those treacherous mountain paths with fear as my pillion. I couldn't shake the notion that the smallest mistake might end with me either plummeting to my death or lying in a heap at the bottom of a frozen ditch, totally obscured from the view of other road users and utterly helpless.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p96

[Biggles]

Eventually, the road stopped going up and began to descend, gently first, and then with unexpected severity. It's surprising how much physical effort is involved in riding a heavy bike downhill continuously for the best part of 90 minutes.  Under braking - which happens quite a lot - your forearms and wrists take the full weight of your upper body, including, in my case, a rucksack which was full to bursting. It's like doing countless push-ups while also trying to concentrate on the road ahead, noting and avoiding that innocuous looking patch of gravel that could so easily rob the front tyre of its grip, or the pothole ready to hammer and send a bone-shaking jolt through the bars and down your spine. By the time I got to the bottom of the pass I was exhausted.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p96

[Biggles]

I was alone up there on top of the tower, with no one to tell me when or where or how to be. Just me and the clouds and the breeze. It's how I feel when I pull on my crash helmet and close the visor. Alone and at peace.
I looked out beyond Nurburg, Adenau, beyond the rolling hills and the Eifel Mountains, beyond Germany even, to Europe - a vast, sweeping mass of triumph and tragedy, romance and despair, heroism and  tyranny; as diverse geographically as it is culturally. This way for scorching Mediterranean beaches, that way for the snow-capped Alps and great swathes of excitement and challenge - and I had barely scratched the surface. Still, the time had come to say goodbye, for now, at least. 
With a heavy heart I made my way back down the castle's spiral staircase, through its ruined walls and along the pathway to where I'd left the Suzuki leaning heavily on its side-stand. After a final look around, I slid the key into the ignition, dabbed the starter, and with the sweltering heat of the Mediterranean now a distant memory, reluctantly began the final part of my journey back to London.
Bonjour!  Is This Italy?  Kevin Turner p130-1

[Biggles]

If you get a bit jittery because it's been two days since you last rode, or if you've ridden in torrential rain telling yourself "there's no need for wet weather gear because it'll stop soon"...  even if you find yourself talking to any rider about their bike, although the postie is getting tired of my questions about his CT90, either way, motorcycles are all consuming. Once bitten it's hard to shake them. The lifestyle that goes with them is just the same, not to mention the camaraderie. 
You don't see car drivers having an amiable chat at the lights.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p ix

[Biggles]

The very first time I sat on a bike was as a young teenager. A well-meaning mate talked me into hopping on the back of his Honda 350. He gave me a helmet and we took off. Unfortunately, he did little else and when we came to a major left-hand corner he did what was required and leant to the left. This didn't make sense to me at the time, and thinking we were getting too close to the road surface, I leant as hard as I could to the right. As a result we missed the corner and speared across the traffic into a petrol station. Thankfully we had room to stop and managed to avoid all sorts of stationary objects.  Then it dawned on him to explain to me how important it was for the pillion to lean with the rider.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p xi

[Biggles]

Then there was the time I was pulled up in Victoria at another biker rock concert. I encountered yet another Police roadblock, surely the bane of many major motorcycle events at the time. As I waited in line for the 'boys in blue' to get to me I wondered what would happen. This time the wait was short before a plain-clothes cop approached me. He asked for my license and questioned my reason for coming to this particular event. After looking me over he proceeded to write me a ticket for an illegal helmet. It seems that my helmet didn't have the appropriate Australian Standards sticker and he decided this was the way to make my visit to Victoria memorable. Initially I was dumbfounded. I knew I was being done-over in order to get at the event organisers but how to prove it? Then I asked the officer to explain the Victorian helmet law to me. Was it required to wear a legal helmet or was it required to show an approved sticker? I then explained how my helmet was, in fact, an older and legal one. Suddenly he went quiet and stopped writing the ticket. He looked up at me and then in a measured voice announced he was showing me undeserved favour and was not going to issue me a ticket. As he walked off I thought how fortunate that the law in Victoria was not clear. Perhaps he just didn't know it. Either way I was not shafted by a cop bent on harassing those who ride.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p 11-12

[Biggles]

The crowd present was made up of acting and media types plus a selection of the 'beautiful people'. This was my first TV launch and I got the invite after an acting appearance in the 3rd episode. The launch was held at a suitably decorated studio in upmarket Balmain. It was fitted with all the necessities, a boxing ring, a jacuzzi and, of course, a mud-wrestling pit. When I arrived there was plenty of security at the entrance and I parked my Harley in their view. Inside was packed and after looking around I found a place to set my helmet down and went off to get a drink. When I returned my helmet was gone. Security helped me search but with no luck. Pizzas Pauly came by and spent some time checking out possible hiding places, but at the end of the night it was clearly stolen. And by one of the beautiful people no less. In all the years going to biker events, pubs and clubhouses, I've never had a helmet or gloves stolen. But in two visits to what are supposed to be upmarket and safe venues, venues frequented by people who society looks up to, I ended up having crucial riding gear stolen within minutes. I guess you can't go by any sort of stereotype.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p16

[Biggles]

Getting blamed for things is a biker's lot. Many people think that if you get in trouble or hurt in a road accident it must be our own fault. This way of thinking has its roots in the early history of motor vehicles in Australia. From the earliest times motorcycles have been associated with risk and rebellion. Some years ago I met an old Aussie bloke who reminisced with me about riding a motorcycle down the Hume Highway to Melbourne when it was mostly dirt. He spoke in terms that riders today understand. Adventure, challenge, thrill and a sore backside. He also remembered something else; being regarded as a temporary Australian and treated as someone who needed to be looked after. Riders today get angered every time someone suggests motorcycles are dangerous. And with good cause as those who often make this claim have never had to face the reality of the car driving public.
My Motorcycling Life  Greg Hirst p17