From the Library

[Biggles]

The angular headwinds switch directions unpredictably, flinging me about while I struggle to maintain lane position. On the plus side, there's no traffic and the road is paved. Even with the throttle wide open, the seventy to eighty mph headwinds keep me at fifty. Gas mileage drops from fifty miles per gallon to the low thirties. I crouch behind the fairing, throw all my weight toward the gale-force blast, and hang on. When slowing down to stop for fuel, the moment I pull in the clutch, it's as though I squeezed the front brake. Once, I came to a complete stop without braking and actually started rolling backwards, blown by the wind. It's 
far too intense to ride more than six hours at a time, but there are 1,200 miles left to Buenos Aires, and I want out of this madness.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p275-6

[Biggles]

Waiting at a small-town traffic signal, above the sound of the engine's idle, I hear the dreaded noise that sickens hearts of motorcycle riders- metal to metal contact. The low-pitched grinding noise, barely audible above the roar of the wind, compels me to stop and inspect, hoping it's my imagination. Perhaps something caught in the fender. No such luck.
Motorcycles are not popular in South America and outside of major cities there are few shops that sell or repair them. Even in capital cities, Kawasaki dealers are rare. Argentina is more up-to-date and I keep my fingers crossed while asking around for a repair shop. Yes, two blocks down and turn right- a small miracle. Close enough to push and coast. A lucky day after all. The owner is a professional motocross rider who also builds motors, and is about as good a man as you'll ever find. 
We unbolt the top end to check the valves and work downward from there. Finally we pull the timing chain and alternator to discover an ear broken off the crankcase and the balance chain tensioner is  shattered into five pieces. No parts available in the hemisphere.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p276

[Biggles]

The motocross team shows up to assist. Amazingly they reassemble the components in the correct order with no shop manual for technical guidance. To remanufacture the broken part, they saw off the end of a case-hardened wrench and weld it on to what's left of the original balance chain tensioner. Then they countersink the bolt hole inside the crankcase for the broken ear and use a longer bolt to hold it. The balance chain has stretched too far and won't adjust any further, leaving excessive slop. Add to that, the alternator is missing a magnet and out of balance. Still, I'm going to give it a shot, hoping it provides enough charge to keep the bike running.
A few hours later, I make it farther north to the city of Trelew where the lone motorcycle dealer only handles Yamaha. He says I may be able to order Kawasaki parts up ahead in Bahia Blanco, another 450 finger-crossing miles. The engine noises are getting louder, but I opt to roll those dice again and take a chance.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p276-7

[Biggles]

A hundred plus is the norm and apparently without consequence, as I've yet to see a cop anywhere. Speed seems to be a popular though perilous pastime, despite the vehicles being packed with families. When cruising at 100 mph and encountering a vehicle in the distance they wish to pass, drivers accelerate to 120, get as close to the rear fender as possible, and then barely drift to the left to overtake at the last second.
Used to zero traffic, I allow myself to be lulled into ignoring my mirrors. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a two-ton rocket blasts by, close enough to buff the bugs off its bumper, using the rubberized fabric of my saddlebags as a rag. In Argentina, this type of driving is the rule, not the exception. Everyone drives this way as if this manoeuvre is taught in school. I ask myself if these maniacs are the same helpful folks I met earlier in roadside cafes. They had been so friendly. What happened to these wonderful people when they got behind the wheel of a car?
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p278

[Biggles]

Nothing surprises me anymore. What was before considered bizarre is now the norm. Sometimes while lost in thought, I realize there is no baseline anymore. I'm no longer certain of who I am but, more important, who I'm expected to be. Nothing is written in stone and I feel as free as the winds of Patagonia. Reality is still foreign to me. It wouldn't surprise me to wake from a dream still a prisoner of the ELN in the mountains of Colombia. In moments of depression I still wonder if these are the final seconds before death. Am I awake or asleep? The avalanche is still closing in, and in times of open nightmare, I seek the only refuge I know- a twist of the throttle and another new town. At times, I sprint to outrun the lunacy.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p284

[Biggles]

That is what I am doing when, over the popping of my engine and the wind whistling past my helmet, I suddenly hear a high-pitched grating sound. It's the kind bikers are always on alert for and dread.
My heart sinks while I hold my breath, straining to hear and identify the noise. It's definitely getting louder. I pull in the clutch to see if it subsides when the revs drop. No luck. I hear the grating more dearly. Oh no, I think, what the hell else can go wrong? When applying the brakes there's no discernable difference in volume or pitch until coming to a complete stop with the engine shut down. I tear my helmet off, and the muffled sound becomes a roar. Zillions of crickets, locusts, or giant bugs of some species are rubbing their legs, grinding their wings, or just talking loud in their unique pulsating rhythm. The sound fills my head. It's coming from every direction, yet I do not see a single insect anywhere. If somebody were standing next to me, I would need to shout to be heard.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p308

[Biggles]

Following this string of lumbering boxes is maddening. I can't wait any longer. Truckers operate on narrow margins, with only three-foot gaps between front bumpers of one to the rear of another. Once taking on the pack, there will be no room to return to my lane if another vehicle approaches from the opposite direction. What the heck, here we go.
I kick it down a gear, hang the throttle open, and pull out of position, determined to pass a mile-long convoy of fellow frustrated motorists. Oncoming traffic forces me to weave in and out of my lane until I reach the front of the line of cars and the back of the monotonous procession of trucks. It's another now-or-never moment. I make it past the first dozen grinding monoliths okay, when suddenly an oncoming car appears over a slight rise ahead, closing in fast. There's no chance to brake, return to the rear, and get back into the correct lane. My only option is to nuzzle my right rear saddlebag as close as possible to the trucker's massive spinning trailer tires and hope for the best.
The approaching car manages two wheels on the shoulder, barely grazing my left rear bag while I fight overpowering hot-air currents sucking me under the trailer's belly. The deafening moan of the semi-truck's mighty engine is like a roaring animal inside my helmet, yet I seem to be in one piece. It's only a hundred miles more.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p313

[Biggles]

A simmering situation with the leftist government in Caracas led by the staunchly pro-Castro strongman Hugo Chavez is unpredictable at the moment, and I'm apprehensive about riding through an area known for its support of the rebel movement in Colombia. There are rumours of impending violent civil war. I won't rest until I'm riding safely back in Panama again.
CBS News's 48 Hours television documentary has just aired, and it included my web site address, so I've spent the last eight hours reading and attempting to answer as many emails as possible until my eyes give out from staring at a screen so long. The emails number well into the thousands, with an even split between the U.S. and Canada. The documentary's producer told me the program will show again later, with a sequel. I'm astonished at the number of people taking time to write profoundly inspirational words of encouragement- and intend to answer them all. At last count the number rooting me on is nearing 15,000. I save and file each message.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p325

[Biggles]

The drizzle finally subsides long enough to witness the renowned but elusive Amazon sunset as a pale indigo sky is soon ringed by huge billowing clouds. My favourite star in the universe sets creamy puffs ablaze into flaming orange with cotton-candy trails of flaring gases erupting outward from the depths of hollow canyons burning somewhere in the heavens. If I had to envision the first moment life sparked on earth it would be one exactly like this. The cosmos joins in this fiery, 
roaring silence while the heavens make love in the shadow of the earth.
Teakwood decks brim with spellbound voyeurs standing shoulder to shoulder in solemn reverence to the commanding solar array beyond. Each mumbles tribute to their God for a gift of such majesty. Children stop playing, babies cease crying, and lovers grow closer as all are equally awed by this mesmerizing otherworldly scene.
Gradually daylight fades into black velvet night as the finale of cosmic orgasm subsides. Suddenly the overhead sky pops with diamonds cast magically across the void- precious sparkling jewels from Far And Away, yet near enough to caress like raindrops on the tips of my outstretched fingers.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p332

[Biggles]

While making preparations for the departure to Panama, I am sad to realize that the most significant experience of my lifetime is ending. It isn't the amount of time I spent in South America. It's the intensity of that time, from enduring the continuous onslaught of some of the worst weather conditions this planet could conjure up, to surviving whatever the darker side of humanity could thunder down upon me. Through it all, there have always been people and places to make the journey worthwhile.
While seeking the pulse of mankind, I encountered spirit-tingling extremes tempered only by the blind justice of Mother Earth. I came to experience life as South Americans do, and in times of despair, often recalled the saying: "Be careful what you wish for".
In life's bleakest moments we should search for silver linings, now more than ever. The time I spent in the vengeful hands of a terrorist organization was like holding my finger in a light socket for five weeks. That brain-frazzling experience taught me as much about myself as well as the world around me. There is a lesson in everything- often the greater the pain, the greater the lesson. The hell my tormentors inflicted upon me can only be answered by one of two attitudes: vile hatred and desire for revenge, or patience and understanding for those born into the misery of poverty and exploitation. Once again, I have learned that living well is the best revenge. Yet while I am free, the rebels are still prisoners of their own misfortune and misguided deeds in the mountains of Colombia.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p333-4

[Biggles]

At times, at the peak of frustration that travellers in strange lands so often endure, just when I thought I couldn't stand anymore, it was the sparkling eyes of a laughing, soft-haired child, the kindness of an ageing Indian woman, or the stunning splendour of the Andes that rocked my spirit and tugged me back eagerly into the wholesome embrace of a land of many faces. When I needed a friend most, one always appeared. There had invariably been someone or something to restore the fire of passion for this continent of such intriguing mysteries and sullen tragedies. My body and soul bear the fingerprints, bruises, and caresses of this magical kingdom, and although I will soon be on a plane out, I know my heart will never leave.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p335

[Biggles]

Complications arose quickly in Manaus as the political situation in Venezuela deteriorated and, according to local reports, was headed for civil war. Several warnings from the FBI via email convinced me to fly out of Brazil directly into Panama. Problems of lengthy red-tape delays and a 2,700 dollar cost to ship a broken-down, 3,000 dollar bike didn't make sense. With a tremendous amount or clever footwork by Whitney Parsons from the Aspen Silver Company, my limping KLR was transformed into a bright yellow BMW F650GS in Panama City.
Even better, Brad flew in on time with his motorcycle so the two of us could ride back to California together. Although we had communicated only by email for the last seven months, we were finally ready. When we met in the Panama City airport, I squeezed him so hard I nearly broke his neck. He is the reinforcement I needed. 
The cavalry arrived just in time.
Two Wheels Through Terror  Glen Heggstad  p339

[Biggles]

"Sons Of Thunder" is a selection of a few pages from some of the editor, Neil Bradford's favourite writers.

D. H. Lawrence's relationship with his motorcycles was intense and the machine was the exhilarating means of escape from the constrictions of the army camp:
When my mood gets too hot and I find myself wandering beyond control I pull out my motor-bike and hurl it top speed through these unfit roads for hour after hour.
This feeling of release and exhilaration is one shared by all who have reached for the crash helmet, swept up the keys and opened the front door. The environment, climate and character of the road are all absorbed by the rider who makes corresponding physical adjustments to deal with the demands of every journey, whatever the length. This sensation is unique to the motorcyclist.
Sons Of Thunder p14  Neil Bradford