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#81
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 04, 2026, 12:59 AMI'd never ridden along listening to music before, because clearly that would be hazardous on a motorcycle. But whereas listening to music on a normal road might prevent you from hearing a car horn, and thus failing to take evasive action, I doubted that, on a deserted road in these parts, hearing an incoming RPG would leave you much time to do anything apart from mutter: "Fu-"
I put on my headphones, replaced my helmet, clicked play, from my Best of MGM Musicals came the soothing tones of Debbie Reynolds: "Good mornin', good morrrrrrrrnin."
It's something the world has seemingly known for some time, but only latterly discovered by me, about just how totally music can affect your moods. In no time, I was riding with a happy heart, joining in with Debbie and Gene and Donald, all thoughts of snipers and landmines and RPGs gone.
The iPod shuffled into its next song. If there's another disadvantage to listening to music on a motorcycle, it's that, what with the thick gloves and the iPod being tucked away in your pocket, and the desirability of keeping two hands on the bars, you're kind of stuck with what you get shuffled.
On this occasion it was 'The Ride of the Valkyries'.
On the shadowy ridges, there were small figures moving everywhere I looked.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p234-5
I put on my headphones, replaced my helmet, clicked play, from my Best of MGM Musicals came the soothing tones of Debbie Reynolds: "Good mornin', good morrrrrrrrnin."
It's something the world has seemingly known for some time, but only latterly discovered by me, about just how totally music can affect your moods. In no time, I was riding with a happy heart, joining in with Debbie and Gene and Donald, all thoughts of snipers and landmines and RPGs gone.
The iPod shuffled into its next song. If there's another disadvantage to listening to music on a motorcycle, it's that, what with the thick gloves and the iPod being tucked away in your pocket, and the desirability of keeping two hands on the bars, you're kind of stuck with what you get shuffled.
On this occasion it was 'The Ride of the Valkyries'.
On the shadowy ridges, there were small figures moving everywhere I looked.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p234-5
#82
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 03, 2026, 12:55 AMI stopped at a garage for petrol. As ever in Kurdish Turkey, and most other places in Turkey for that matter, I was immediately mobbed by men looking at the bike and asking me questions: always "How fast?" followed by "How much?", then gazing at the bike with awed reverence. It was always men. Women, I had disappointingly discovered- were supremely indifferent to motorcycles; if women responded to them the way that men do, I'd still be on the road. Perhaps next time I'll ride a giant shoe.
Tea was always brought out as a matter of course and, as at every garage in Turkey, I was presented with a man-size box of tissues. Finding space on a motorcycle for dozens of breezeblock-sized boxes of tissues was problematic. Refusal was impossible without causing major offence. Believe me, I'd tried.
And so I took them graciously and cleaned my visor with them, my sunglasses, my windscreen, my exhaust pipe, rocks by the side of the road, mopped up oil spills, plugged holes in dams and, just when I'd managed to get through a whole box, the petrol gauge would start flashing and soon I'd be saying "125mph", "£9,000" and "Thanks for the tissues, just what I needed".
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p232-3
Tea was always brought out as a matter of course and, as at every garage in Turkey, I was presented with a man-size box of tissues. Finding space on a motorcycle for dozens of breezeblock-sized boxes of tissues was problematic. Refusal was impossible without causing major offence. Believe me, I'd tried.
And so I took them graciously and cleaned my visor with them, my sunglasses, my windscreen, my exhaust pipe, rocks by the side of the road, mopped up oil spills, plugged holes in dams and, just when I'd managed to get through a whole box, the petrol gauge would start flashing and soon I'd be saying "125mph", "£9,000" and "Thanks for the tissues, just what I needed".
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p232-3
#83
Far Road Rides / Re: IRode Tassie #9 Saturday 3...
Last post by Carsten - Feb 02, 2026, 09:38 AMDone and dusted. 1014 km for the ride. Perfect riding weather, amazing. Did the west coast on Friday, little traffic and some new roads. Ended up with 830 done and an easy ride to Carrick to finish off. Lunch with Pete, Matt, Nannette and my wife Laura. Capped off with a beautiful warm night at Festivale in Launceston. Cheers
#84
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 02, 2026, 12:58 AMWe stood there for a minute, awkward. I was frustrated that I couldn't ask him anything about his life. I had so much I needed to tell him. So much I wanted to ask.
He looked over at my bike again.
I pointed to him, then I pointed to myself, then I pointed to the bike. His face broke into a huge grin.
I lifted him up on to the pillion seat, climbed on myself and fired the engine. Then I took off across the scrub, slowly at first, then getting faster, faster, in the rain. His hands dug through my T-shirt and into my skin. I could hear him screaming. I slowed down. The screaming stopped. I turned the throttle, the screaming started again.
Finally, I pulled up outside the tent, put the bike on its stand and lifted him off. He stood there grinning. He didn't look old any more. He looked like a boy.
He put his arms around me and squeezed tightly, then he ran off towards the tented village.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p230
He looked over at my bike again.
I pointed to him, then I pointed to myself, then I pointed to the bike. His face broke into a huge grin.
I lifted him up on to the pillion seat, climbed on myself and fired the engine. Then I took off across the scrub, slowly at first, then getting faster, faster, in the rain. His hands dug through my T-shirt and into my skin. I could hear him screaming. I slowed down. The screaming stopped. I turned the throttle, the screaming started again.
Finally, I pulled up outside the tent, put the bike on its stand and lifted him off. He stood there grinning. He didn't look old any more. He looked like a boy.
He put his arms around me and squeezed tightly, then he ran off towards the tented village.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p230
#85
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 01, 2026, 04:03 AMSo, as the bike pointed due west for the first time in three months, I opened the throttle and hurtled, helmetless, across the desert, touching 70, maybe 80, miles per hour, egging the bike on, patting it on the petrol tank, slipping and a sliding and a hollering and a screaming in the pouring rain; the exhilaration and sense of freedom quite indescribable.
For about two minutes, anyway, until the smell of burning filled my nostrils. I pulled up and killed the ignition. There was smoke rising from my radiator grill. The engine was oil-cooled. I'd only discovered this a couple of days before when the same thing had happened after I'd pulled in for petrol.
Seeing me looking puzzled at the smoke pouring out of the bike, the garage owner had come over.
"Your bike is oil-cooled," he'd said.
"I know that," I'd said.
"Tsk. In this heat, it will use much oil."
"I know that."
"You need to fill it up more often here."
"I know that."
"Or else it will overheat."
"Obviously," I'd said.
"Tsk. Would you like to buy some oil?"
"Of course," I'd said. "That's why I stopped here."
He'd gone off, returned with a bottle of oil and handed it to me.
"Thank you," I'd said.
We'd stood there for a minute or two. I was subtly scanning the bike.
"Nice garage you've got here," I'd said.
"Would you like me to show you where the oil goes?" he'd asked.
"Yes, please," I'd said.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p228
For about two minutes, anyway, until the smell of burning filled my nostrils. I pulled up and killed the ignition. There was smoke rising from my radiator grill. The engine was oil-cooled. I'd only discovered this a couple of days before when the same thing had happened after I'd pulled in for petrol.
Seeing me looking puzzled at the smoke pouring out of the bike, the garage owner had come over.
"Your bike is oil-cooled," he'd said.
"I know that," I'd said.
"Tsk. In this heat, it will use much oil."
"I know that."
"You need to fill it up more often here."
"I know that."
"Or else it will overheat."
"Obviously," I'd said.
"Tsk. Would you like to buy some oil?"
"Of course," I'd said. "That's why I stopped here."
He'd gone off, returned with a bottle of oil and handed it to me.
"Thank you," I'd said.
We'd stood there for a minute or two. I was subtly scanning the bike.
"Nice garage you've got here," I'd said.
"Would you like me to show you where the oil goes?" he'd asked.
"Yes, please," I'd said.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p228
#86
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Jan 31, 2026, 02:04 AMIn Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig talked about his motorbike and the moods it had and its living, breathing soul. And you think, "For crying out loud, I know you've had a nervous breakdown, matey, but it is only a machine."
But here's the thing. You spend hour after hour, day after day, listening to your bike, and you do begin to hear it speak. Some days, there's a sweet mellifluous, contented purr and on others a distinct grumbling and weariness.
And the really weird thing is, you start to talk back to it encouraging it, patting it gently on the petrol tank like you would a horse when it's done something desirable, like stop in time in an emergency, for example, and gently scolding it when it does something not so clever, like wobble or slip on a bend.
And you know logically that this is arrant nonsense, that maybe you need to seek out more human company, that a BMW R1200GS is not a horse, despite its dead-sheep saddle and coterie of flies, but simply a marvellous piece of Teutonic engineering, that the only variable here is the lump sitting astride it, and that if I were reading this instead of writing it, I'd be making that twirling gesture against my temple, but...
I'd been talking to my bike a lot in Turkey.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p224
But here's the thing. You spend hour after hour, day after day, listening to your bike, and you do begin to hear it speak. Some days, there's a sweet mellifluous, contented purr and on others a distinct grumbling and weariness.
And the really weird thing is, you start to talk back to it encouraging it, patting it gently on the petrol tank like you would a horse when it's done something desirable, like stop in time in an emergency, for example, and gently scolding it when it does something not so clever, like wobble or slip on a bend.
And you know logically that this is arrant nonsense, that maybe you need to seek out more human company, that a BMW R1200GS is not a horse, despite its dead-sheep saddle and coterie of flies, but simply a marvellous piece of Teutonic engineering, that the only variable here is the lump sitting astride it, and that if I were reading this instead of writing it, I'd be making that twirling gesture against my temple, but...
I'd been talking to my bike a lot in Turkey.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p224
#87
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Jan 30, 2026, 05:29 AMI rode through one of Europe's last primeval forests in Bialowieza, and as I emerged an acute pain shot up my left leg. At first I thought I might be having a stroke, but then it occurred to me that it was possibly even worse: there was a wasp in my boot.
Ignoring the sensible action of pulling over and removing my boot, I started to smash myself in the left foot while riding one-handed through the traffic. This only seemed encourage the wasp to intensify his attack.
It also encouraged the attention of the local police who'd been sitting in their squad car in a lay-by and, in this most Catholic of countries, probably concluded that here was some kind of self-flagellating tour of penitence.
They drove behind me and gave their siren a quick toot. I pulled over, dismounted Frankie Dettori style and hopped around in circles, simultaneously punching myself in the foot while trying to get my boot off, shouting "Wasp! wasp!", which, in all probability, was not the Polish for wasp. The two policemen looked confused, unsure of what the appropriate action was to take.
The stings kept coming. Finally they stopped. I removed my boot and a battered wasp fell out. Can wasps smile? This one looked pretty happy. The policemen looked pretty happy, too.
"Wasp, wasp," I said, pointing to the lifeless stripey corpse.
"Osa, osa," they said together.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p168-9
Ignoring the sensible action of pulling over and removing my boot, I started to smash myself in the left foot while riding one-handed through the traffic. This only seemed encourage the wasp to intensify his attack.
It also encouraged the attention of the local police who'd been sitting in their squad car in a lay-by and, in this most Catholic of countries, probably concluded that here was some kind of self-flagellating tour of penitence.
They drove behind me and gave their siren a quick toot. I pulled over, dismounted Frankie Dettori style and hopped around in circles, simultaneously punching myself in the foot while trying to get my boot off, shouting "Wasp! wasp!", which, in all probability, was not the Polish for wasp. The two policemen looked confused, unsure of what the appropriate action was to take.
The stings kept coming. Finally they stopped. I removed my boot and a battered wasp fell out. Can wasps smile? This one looked pretty happy. The policemen looked pretty happy, too.
"Wasp, wasp," I said, pointing to the lifeless stripey corpse.
"Osa, osa," they said together.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p168-9
#88
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Jan 29, 2026, 06:52 AMOn the single-lane 'motorways', the tarmac was warped from wear and cold and heat, and the ruts trapped my wheels from time to time like tram tracks and took them off towards the oncoming juggernauts. Target fixation's not an issue in Poland. It's perfect midlife crisis territory. You just get in a rut and see where it takes you.
Leapfrogging a track at a time was the only way to progress - escaping the fog of exhaust, a brief face-off with a wall of metal speeding my way, a sonorous blast of a horn, and a return to a warm lungful of diesel. It was like a perpetual game of chicken.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p167
Leapfrogging a track at a time was the only way to progress - escaping the fog of exhaust, a brief face-off with a wall of metal speeding my way, a sonorous blast of a horn, and a return to a warm lungful of diesel. It was like a perpetual game of chicken.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p167
#89
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Jan 28, 2026, 12:40 AMI logged on to the Internet again. It had been over 45 minutes since I'd last checked. There were dozens of messages from the motorbike site inviting me to come and stay in countries on my route. This only confirmed my growing conviction that motorcyclists, along with gardeners, are the nicest people on earth. Put motorcycling gardener on your CV and I guarantee St Peter will have you down on the VIP list.
One Aussie couple, Joe and Sue, emailed me to say they were riding around Europe and were currently heading for Poland. After that, they'd be going to Romania, Bulgaria and Turkey. If our paths crossed, they said, it would be great to tour around together for a few weeks. I emailed them back.
'Would love to,' I wrote. 'Hopefully see you in a few days.'
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p155
One Aussie couple, Joe and Sue, emailed me to say they were riding around Europe and were currently heading for Poland. After that, they'd be going to Romania, Bulgaria and Turkey. If our paths crossed, they said, it would be great to tour around together for a few weeks. I emailed them back.
'Would love to,' I wrote. 'Hopefully see you in a few days.'
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p155
#90
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Jan 27, 2026, 03:10 AMThen the tunnels started. On the road to Bergen there were 45 in all, drilled through the mountains. The first went sharply uphill and then corkscrewed, like a Disney ride, shooting me out high above a fjord with waterfalls tumbling down the massive bluffs and minuscule white cruise ships humbled below. Then, plunging back into another, over 15 miles long, this time the road falling away from me steeply down into a diesel fug, like a descent into hell.
I took in the clutch and (look away Kevin Sanders) let myself roll, bottling it when the speedo glowed 60 mph and I was still accelerating. After an eternity in the gloom, I was fired back blinking into the bright light again and flying, leaning sharply into the bends, buttocks clenched, the tyres slipping slightly. Inside my helmet I was screaming at the top of my lungs. For this was the landscape I had imagined when I first dreamed of hitting the road: majestic and vast, wild and remote.
And whether it was because I'd got a few thousand miles under my belt or something else, I didn't know, but for the first time it was difficult to feel where the bike ended and I began.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p81
I took in the clutch and (look away Kevin Sanders) let myself roll, bottling it when the speedo glowed 60 mph and I was still accelerating. After an eternity in the gloom, I was fired back blinking into the bright light again and flying, leaning sharply into the bends, buttocks clenched, the tyres slipping slightly. Inside my helmet I was screaming at the top of my lungs. For this was the landscape I had imagined when I first dreamed of hitting the road: majestic and vast, wild and remote.
And whether it was because I'd got a few thousand miles under my belt or something else, I didn't know, but for the first time it was difficult to feel where the bike ended and I began.
Uneasy Rider Mike Carter p81