From the Library

[Biggles]

I went back to the bike, got on, and drove off slowly, looking into every yard for someone to ask.  As I was about to leave the north end of the town, I saw a diner with at least 15 to 20 pickup trucks parked outside.  The place was packed.  I parked the bike and went inside.  The loud din of voices that I met suddenly fell silent as everyone turned to look at me. 
I said, "Could anyone please tell me where I could find US Rte 36?" After a brief pause, I heard a gruff male voice say, "Up the road about 12 miles."
I said thanks, and I added: "Does everyone in this town go to lunch at the same time?  I couldn't find a soul anywhere."  I left while they were all laughing.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 136-7

[Biggles]

I said, "Could you tell me where I might find a gas station?"  He looked puzzled and answered that he didn't know but his dad or mom probably would. I asked if they were home.
"My mom's home," he said.
"Would you mind getting her please?"  He got off the mower and disappeared into the house.  Moments later an attractive young woman appeared, wearing shorts, a halter-top and sandals and I repeated the question.  She answered smiling, "We have a gas station right here."
"Really?  Could I possibly buy some? I'm about to run out."
She said, "Yes, of course.  Follow me," and she led me across the farmyard to a pump that was probably used for filling the farm vehicles.  I asked if it had a gauge and she said it probably does but the glass is much too cloudy to read.  I said I needed around five gallons and I asked if that would be OK.  She handed me the hose and turned on the power for the pump.  Gas began to flow into my tank as soon as I squeezed the handle, but seconds later she noticed that the hose was spewing gas at the other end, and she said, "Oh my goodness, we're getting more on the ground than in the tank," and she turned the pump off.  I looked into my tank and could see that I had already gotten almost a half-tank.
I said it would probably be enough to get me to a gas station.  I reached for my wallet and handed her a $20 bill.  She said, "I don't know what to charge. I don't know how much gas is going for nowadays, or how much we pay for it."  I answered that if the $20 isn't enough, I'd be happy to pay more.  "Oh no," she said, "I meant that I don't know how much change to give you."
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 192-3

[Biggles]

Please don't be concerned about change.  I'm very happy to get the gas and I would like for you to accept it."  I had no idea how much had spilled on the ground she might be in big trouble for using the gas pump with a broken hose and wasting so much.  She took it and offered her hand to shake hands and said, "My name is Ann."
I said, "Hi Ann. My name is Piet.  I'm very happy to meet you."  She saw my license plate and asked, "What in the world are you doing in this little farmyard in North Dakota?"  I told her a little about my trip and we chatted for several minutes.
Needless to say, it was another of the nicest encounters I had on the trip.  I thought after leaving that maybe I should keep wandering around this beautiful country meeting nice people like that along the way, and the thought crossed my mind - do I really have to go home?
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 193-4

[Biggles]

I was totally exhausted and I hurt all over, and that fatigue and pain stayed with me for almost two weeks afterwards.  My eyesight, which had been in poor shape for years, was never worse than it was on this trip.  But I'll say to anyone who might ask, "So why do you do it?"  One of the things that comes to mind is Winston Churchill's famous quote during World War II, at the height of the Battle for Britain, soon after a horrendous air raid blitz inflicted heavy damage on the city of London - he said, "Never, Never, Never give in." Herb Gunnison was much more blunt in his book "Seventy Years on a Motorcycle" when he said, "Don't ever let the bastards take it away from you."
I feel much the same about my long distance riding.  Giving up something I've loved doing for most of my life is like surrendering to life itself, which I have no intention of doing - if I can help it.  Travelling alone on the byways of this beautiful country is what I intend to continue doing for as long as I can get my leg over the machine; and for as long as I can still handle the pain - and for as long as my eyesight holds out enough to find my way out of the driveway.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 199-200

[Biggles]

I was up at 4 AM, packed, loaded and out for breakfast by 5:45.  It was cool when I left town with the morning sun glistening on the dew-covered alfalfa fields.  I love smells of early mornings in farm country, especially on a nice two-lane bike road with long vistas and sweeping curves.  The smell of honeysuckle was in air, intermingled with the sour smell of fermenting silage and other odours from the barnyards, and from the crops being exposed to the heat of the morning sun. was one of those mornings when it feels good to be alive - and riding a motorcycle.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 214

[Biggles]

My most serious problem of the day was when the early-morning sun blinded me so much I couldn't read any of the signs during rush hour traffic coming into Atlanta where I-20 meets the beltway. It was a challenge for my eyesight when all four lanes of traffic were running bumper-to-bumper at a steady 80 mph and I had to switch from I-20 to I-85 without having a clue where the split was, and I was unable to read any of the signs.  It actually went well though.  I relied on my faith to be in the right lane when the time came to dive out of the 80 mph stream of madness into the relatively sedate cloverleaf at the last split-second.
It's tough when you get old, but even tougher when you can't see!  Fortunately, I made some good guesses on which lane to be in and at what split-second to dive for the exit or entry ramps.  I learned a week later that well-known Iron Butt competitor Eddie James was killed on the same highway only a few days before I came through.  Some of the speeds they were travelling are scary, especially when you realize that many are kids still in high school; and others are older people, bordering on senility - all running bumper-to-bumper, four-abreast at 80 mph with the trucks.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 243-4

[Biggles]

The bike was hard starting with the temperature around 14°, and the front brake calipers were frozen, causing the brakes to drag.  The interstate didn't seem that bad, but when I got to the gas station, I couldn't turn the ignition switch off because the lock was frozen in the 'on' position and the key was frozen in the lock.   
My spare key was at the motel, making it impossible to gas up.  So I went back to my room and thawed the lock with a hot wet towel and got the key out, and I decided to deal with the problem in the morning.
The temperature Tuesday morning was 3°, with a wind chill of minus 12.  After walking to breakfast, I loaded the bike and got totally suited up before trying to start it.  I used a hot wet towel to thaw the lock enough to get the key in and turn it.  The starter barely turned over, and I was concerned it would run the battery down before it started.  For at least a full minute, it just popped once and failed to catch.  It took eight or ten tries before it finally started.  When it did, I left the motel wearing just about everything I had with me.  Thank goodness for the electric vest and gloves.  I wore my heavy woolen knee warmers under the riding suit.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 269-70

[Biggles]

The roads were a total mess.  It snowed all week and was still snowing on Saturday.  Places near my home got much as 30 inches in five days.  I probably could have gotten out Saturday, snow showers and all, but I wanted to spare the chain and engine cases from the salt brine - so I delayed it a day and left on Sunday.  My sons did a great job of shovelling and sanding the driveway to give me a safe exit to the street.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 275

[Biggles]

I came to a roadblock where six state troopers were inspecting vehicles, I pulled in and turned off the engine - I wasn't wearing my hearing aid and wanted to hear what was being said.  One big guy said, "Don't turn it off," as he walked around to the right side of the bike, while several others stood in a line on my left side. 
 I said as the big guy walked around the bike, "It's over on this side, at the top of the fork leg."  He said, "I already saw it.  Do you have a motorcycle license?"
I laughed and said, I sure do.  I've had one since they "grand-fathered" me in more than 50 years ago and I reached for my wallet.  He said, "I don't have to see it."
I said, "I'm out taking a ride to celebrate my 86th birthday" - which got a few smiles and at least one "Happy Birthday" as I restarted the bike and said, "Have a nice day," and I left.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 284-5

[Biggles]

There's another stretch of asphalt nearby that's stranger and perhaps even more fun to ride than the Rowena Curves: 3.6 miles, twenty-five curves, leading to absolutely nothing. Imagine building your own private road for the purpose of sport riding.  What would you build?  Well, you'd probably start with a hillside location that would provide lots of opportunities for elevation change and curves, but would be open enough to allow generous sight lines.  You'd make sure the asphalt was perfectly smooth and grippy, and you'd probably make each curve unique, designing a smorgasbord of hairpins, sweepers, increasing-radius, constant-radius and decreasing-radius turns.  And you wouldn't waste space on a straight.  Sport riding is about leaning, so the run would consist of turns, all the way. That perfectly describes the Maryhill Loops.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 25

[Biggles]

In an aerial view, the road looks like a very squiggly line drawn with a black marker on light brown paper.  The dry, treeless slope allows for sightlines through most of the tight curves, which is always a good thing, though it mattered less than ever as I rode onto the Loops knowing that absolutely no other traffic lay ahead.  I quickly dispensed with first gear and rolled into the series of curves in second, which would probably work for just about all of the road ahead.  Shifting above third just amounts to putting unnecessary wear and tear on the gearshift lever, so I concentrated on rolling on and off the throttle, taking advantage of the grip provided by this dry, unmarred asphalt that has been lying here, curing in the sun.
I scrubbed away the vestiges of chicken strips on my tires and soon, all too soon, I reached the gravel turnaround area at the top of the hill.  The brief, 3.6-mile length is absolutely the only thing detracting from this ride.  But when you can ride it again and again, as you can during the rally, even that isn't much of a drawback.  And better yet, because I happened to get there early, I got to ride it alone.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 29-30

[Biggles]

Lured by the sheer oddity of the event, I mail in my entry for Lake Erie Loop V.I have no illusions of earning any of those bragging rights, but I can at least finish, right?  In a lifetime of varied and sometimes misguided motorcycling, I've done a thousand-mile day, I've survived the infamous and since revised Turn 12 at Road Atlanta, I've been caught on the road by unexpected snowfall, and sideswiped by a car at 60 mph on the freeway at 2 a.m. yet lived to tell those and other tales.  I can surely survive the Loop.  The only problem is, I don't have a Loop-legal motorcycle.
Ah, but I know where I can get my hands on one.  Years ago, my father gave my mother a 1996 Suzuki GN125 as a fifty-ninth birthday present, knowing she wanted to get back into motorcycling and knowing she probably wouldn't spend the money on herself.  She's since bought other bikes, but always keep the GN125.  As her phone is ringing, it dawns on me that it is Mothers Day.  How am I going to phrase this?
"Hi Mom.  Say, I'd like to borrow your sentimental favourite motorcycle, flog it near redline for sixteen hours straight and possibly blow it to smoldering bits somewhere in Canada.  Oh, by the way.  Happy Mother s Day."
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 33-4

[Biggles]

By the time I've survived Detroit and crossed the state line into Ohio, night and my enthusiasm are falling rapidly.  On the fly, I reach out and try to adjust the aim of the Suzuki's little five-inch headlight, but the effort is futile, and I learn to live with the anaemic yellow smudge of light in the roadway ahead as I roll through the dark, deer-infested woods and fields of northern Ohio, butt burning, shoulders knotted and aching.  It's that time of evening when even the mental image of a sleeping bag in a tent on the hard ground hovers in the mind like a nirvana of feathery pillows and Loopers peer deep into the abyss of the soul and ask themselves the central questions of life, such as, "Does that valve clatter sound like its getting worse?" and "Why did I think this would be fun?" 
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 36-7

[Biggles]

For me, one of the rarest and most coveted feelings on any motorcycle ride is the luxury of free time.  Typically, especially at home, my rides and trips are accompanied by a small black cloud that only I can see, a nagging feeling deep in the background of my mind that I soon need to be somewhere else, that someone is waiting for me, or that dawdling means neglecting other duties.  That afternoon at El Tajin was the turnaround point in my trip.  I had no farther to go that day, my hotel room for the night was already secured (the same one as the previous night), and nobody was expecting me to be anywhere else.  That alone, that opportunity to relax on a grassy slope among ancient monuments after a 2,000-mile dash southward, was among the most savoured parts of my afternoon amidst the ruins.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 47

[Biggles]

I picked my way through the narrow city streets, trying not to lose the thread of the route leading toward Tamazunchale, trying not to lose the tires tenuous grip on the greasy wet pavement, until a young policeman halted all traffic at an intersection.  Sitting at the front of the line of stopped cars, I had a perfect view of a Christmas procession as locals on foot carried figures of saints to the church.  Plodding along in the drizzle, the procession was more mournful, or at least more respectful, than festive.  This is the difference that travel makes: On a trip back home, I'd be annoyed to be stopped because of a parade, fuming about where I needed to be.  Here, nearly two thousand miles from home, I was just pleased to have a front-row view.  That, for me at least, is the transforming magic of foreign surroundings.  The ordinary can become memorable, and even mundane tasks become learning experiences. An inconvenience becomes an opportunity to peer into other lives.
The Ride So Far  Lance Oliver p 48-9