From the Library

[Biggles]

I hit the switch to insure that my heated handgrips were turned to the highest setting, then plugged in my electric vest.  I turned the bike around and continued south.  I've learned that electric heat can stave off discomfort when you're wet, provided you get settled into a position and don't shift around.  You're still wet, but at least you're being warmed by moisture that's been heated by the electrics.  But if you shift your body around at all and disturb the "cling" that's sticking your wet clothes to your body, you'll suffer an immediate chill until you've settled down again.
The same goes for gloves.  As long as you maintain a constant pressure and position on the handlebars, the heated grips will keep your hands warm and comfortable, even when you're wet.  But remove your hands from the grips to adjust something, and they'll be chilled for a while.
Against The Clock  Ron Ayers p 224

[Biggles]

After a few miles, the shoulder of the road turned white, where the hail hadn't yet melted.  A little further, the road, too, turned white and I concentrated on keeping my tires in the black section of the road where the tires of other vehicles had cleared the ice.  I had never before seen such vivid evidence of a hailstorm. 
I was fortunate to have stopped when I did, rather than to have continued into what apparently was much more severe weather than I had experienced.  As I cautiously negotiated my way through the slick, hail-strewn highway, I thought about the incredible good fortune enjoyed in my ten-year riding career.  I wondered if God doesn't have a soft spot in his heart for motorcyclists.
Against The Clock  Ron Ayers p 224-5

[Biggles]

Entering a small valley west of Hwy 97, I recall that midday sun had changed the shadows of the trees lining the road.  A few minutes later I would be cresting the hill ahead.  I recall, too, there was a slight colour shift as if someone turned the intensity knob on the surrounding scenery.  Then it happened, an experience that would alter forever my perception the symbiosis of man, machine, and life in general.
As if in a dream, I hovered briefly high above the Beemer looking directly down on the rider- me! There was no feeling of fear or disorientation, in fact, the unusual part of the episode was that it felt calming and natural.  Ahead, over the rise, I could see from my vantage point above the bike that a logging truck had overturned, scattering its load along the road.  It hadn't come to a rest yet; the truck was on its right side, sliding, while disgorging logs in all directions.   
Then I was back on the bike, ascending the grade and approaching the crest.
Immediately, I slowed and shifted down to 4th, 3rd, 2nd in rapid succession.  I crested the hill and still had to brake to avoid a log that was crosswise in the middle of my lane.  There was no path around the obstacles, the shoulder was blocked, and both lanes were impassable.  The driver of the truck was pulling himself out of the cab- the accident had happened a moment before I arrived.  The driver had minor injuries and was concerned about getting flares out to warn approaching drivers, which we did immediately.  He marvelled that I avoided hitting the logs.  I was still sorting it out.
All manner of conjecture and explanations have been offered.  ESP, clairvoyance, good vibrations, a figment a fatigued mind- I reject none of these out of hand, they may all be part of it.  I only know what occurred and I can add that similar things have happened since, although not as dramatic.  And, they have occurred under similar circumstances.
The motorcycle is probably just another door amongst ways to experience the other side.  Yet in this scenario it was me, a beloved machine, and a blissful ride that opened my perception to wider possibilities and lead me to write these lines:
Questions, so many questions
And in their answering
The awesome suggestions
Of more and better questions.
Against The Clock  Ron Ayers p 225-6

[Biggles]

As I crossed the border, entered Wyoming, and began climb toward Teton Pass, I was overcome with an extraordinary sense of happiness and serenity.  I welcomed the chilly mountain air and the solitude the ride provided.  I celebrated each twist and turn in the highway as I shifted my weight and altered pressure on the handlebars.  It was just after midnight and the PIAA driving lights had been blazing brightly for a half-hour, illuminating the mountain road and mitigating the dangers of riding such a road at high speed at night.  I increased my speed and leaned into the sharp curves, riding more aggressively than at any time since approaching Alaska three weeks earlier.
As my speed and altitude rose, so too, did my spirits. I opened the throttle even more, clearly challenged now by the twists and turns as I was propelled toward the top of the mountain.  I wanted to race to the summit as quickly as I could, then stop to smell the roses.  I had been rushing since leaving Edmonton.  I wanted to indulge in private, quiet thoughts, totally undisturbed high in these majestic mountains.  I wanted to reflect on how my abundant treasure of experiences had been multiplied by the events of the last several weeks.  As the motorcycle catapulted me toward the peak, there were signs warning that stopping is forbidden.  At the summit, there's an area for trucks to stop to test their brakes before descending the steep downgrade ahead.  I glanced up and was astounded at the brightness and clarity of the stars.  I pulled to the side of the road, into the brake test area.  I didn't, want this opportunity to look at the stars right then and there.
I removed my gloves and helmet and looked at the heavens.  The sky never looked brighter or more beautiful. The magnificent motionless Milky Way flowed silently toward the southern sky like a pearly, opalescent river.  Scorpio was in full view, with Antares, the "Fourth of July Star", twinkling red at the heart of the constellation, the most prominent star in the southern sky.
Against The Clock  Ron Ayers p 229-230

[Biggles]

I'm very fortunate that Barbara has this attitude.  I've asked her to summarize it.

I would be devastated if anything ever happened to Ron, but this doesn't preclude me from respecting his right to decide for himself what kind of risks he wants to take, or what level of adventure he wants in his life.  If it would make me happier if he gave up riding, but would diminish his happiness, on what basis could I decide that my happiness is more important than his?  Also, I want him to be the person he is.  My favourite quote sums this up: "Never destroy any aspect of personality, for what you think is the wild branch may the heart of the tree".
I worry a lot and I pray a lot when Ron is on a long ride, but I also believe in fate.  As human beings, we give ourselves too much credit for being able to control things.  Ron acknowledges that being on a motorcycle is more dangerous than being at home in an easy chair, but if something bad is going to happen, it can happen even if you are doing something completely routine and safe. What is meant to be, will be.
On the positive side, I've been a beneficiary of Ron's sport.  I've met some of the most interesting, original, and colourful characters of my life.  Ron has made some very good friends who have demonstrated they would do anything for him.  I wouldn't trade this for anything.
Against The Clock  Ron Ayers p 243

[Biggles]

"Over the years we have slowed down because it's not just about the riding," Lisa says who, teamed with Simon, has ridden 460,000km on the trip so far, breaking the record which previously set at 162,000km.  It's the stopping and meeting - we've had such wonderful experiences when we least expected them.  Like waking up in the morning on a Mongolian mountain and being distracted by a sound, only to realise it's some old Mongolian riding bare back on a pony.
"So you offer him some tea and he squats down, wearing the fur of the Mongol empire.  But it's black tea and he doesn't like it, and spits it out (laughs).
The nomadic lifestyle of the two may strike you as extreme and by all accounts it is.  They live off the smell of an oily rag, joining the dots financially while joining the dots on an atlas.  Over the years they have learned to benefit in various ways from what they are doing.
Free Wheeling Magazine #1. p34

[Biggles]

Simon and Lisa are a resourceful pair, but this story about finding tyres in the most unlikely of places is a ripper.
"We came through Mongolia, Kazakhstan, back into Central Russia, Kurdistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Iran and by the time we got to Islamabad over the Silk Road we'd spent the last month wondering what we are going to do about tyres, Simon says. "The white on each front and rear tyre was coming through, and there was nobody, anywhere, that could give us tyres.  We were screwed.
"We got on the internet forums, asking anyone out there for help, and amazingly we got a post saying, "this may be of no use to you, but we were in Islamabad and we changed our tyres.  We took the old ones off that were in a pretty bad way, and where we were camped there was a rubbish tip next door, so we threw them over the fence.  They should be there.
"So he gave us the GPS point from where he was camped, we found it, worked out where the tyres would have been thrown, and located them.  We had new tyres; they were the right size, a bit sun damaged, but better than what we had.  That got us all the way through Pakistan and India.  The tyres were covered in shit and slime, and the stench was just terrible, but you do what you have to do.  The first new set of tyres since was when we turned up in Australia." 
Free Wheeling Magazine #1. p36

[Biggles]

The first things Roger looked over were my receipts and he compared them to what I'd entered on my gas-log.  On the third receipt he said that I had entered an eight on my log, whereas I should have entered a zero.  I broke out in a cold sweat as I assured him that the number he was looking at on the computer generated receipt was an eight and not a zero with a bar through the center.  To my absolute freaking horror Roger then  pulled  out a magnifying glass.   Not a little pocket magnifying glass, but a large round glass with a large black handle.  The IBR folk take scoring seriously.  The rules for scoring have been explained again and again to the riders.  No matter what happens, the rider must not get upset or be disrespectful to the scoring staff.  The staff volunteers their time and they are tasked with scoring black and white basis.   The bonus meets all requirements exactly or it is denied. Being rude to a scorer is grounds for disqualification from the rally.  I began to seriously wonder if it would be considered disrespectful if I became violently ill.
Roger held the receipt up to the light as he looked at it with the magnifying glass like Sherlock Holmes studying a fragment of bone and said "No, look at this eight here and this zero over here and you can see that there is a slight angle to the zero cross bar but no angle at all on the crossbar on the eight."  I looked through the magnifying glass and he was right.  By a few ten-thousandths of an inch there was a difference.  It was definitely a zero when studied on the subatomic level and one hundred and twenty-five points disappeared in a mist of cheap dot-matrix ink.
Hopeless Class  Joel Rappoport p 197

[Biggles]

When he got to 60th place and read my name he added that I had finished with over 523,000 miles on the R60 and there was a standing ovation that lasted until I got back to my seat.
This reaction to my finish from this group of hard-riders stunned me.  I shook Bob's hand and Mike Kneebone's hand as I received my plaque and license plate-back which states "Iron Butt Rally 11 Days 11,000 miles".
I had officially covered 10,554 miles in the eleven days and had done it on a motorcycle that was a third of a century old and a half-million miles worn.  My final score was 81,106 points.  I was also realizing that this rally had been fun.  Other than the glitches with the side-stand and saddlebag I had a good time.  Sure, I was relentlessly weary at times, but in 2007 there were several times each day that I wondered why I was doing what I was doing, and that sense of despair never happened during this rally.  Not once!
Instead of cursing the rain or the traffic or the clock or the heat or the distance, I had looked at these things as challenges and I was digging the ride. It was fun.  I certainly wasn't as good at figuring out the bonus puzzle as the fifty-nine riders who finished ahead of me, but I did remarkably better than I had in 2007.   
I was a happy camper!
Hopeless Class  Joel Rappoport p 201

[Walshy]

Hi Biggles, any chance of a new book mate? This one's getting a bit repetitive. 

[Biggles]

OK- here's the last one from that book:
At 5:30 a.m. we left the hotel parking lot and stopped at a gas station a few block away.  The station was closed but the pumps were powered up and we filled up at different islands.  After I put the nozzle back on the pump I realized that the printer on the pump was out of paper and I wasn't going to get a receipt.  I started fussing loudly about the damned receipt and having to take a picture and document the station.  I was irate and cussing like a sailor as in a split second I had tripped from happy-go-lucky to pissed-off.
Then, from the other gas island I heard Bill yell "The rally is over. It's over. You - don't - need - a - receipt."
He was laughing so hard he could barely get the words out.  He was right of course.   But, after years of training, setting a regular routine for fuelling, and just ending the IBR where a receipt can make or break you, it is truly hard to return to the everyday.   I grinned at Bill, climbed on the R60, and we headed east.
Hopeless Class  Joel Rappoport p 203-4

[Biggles]

It also brought back memories of my fifth trip to Alaska in 1992, which was the 50th anniversary year of the Alaska Highway.  In spite of its being paved for its entire length, I rode my 1986 Honda Gold Wing on more than 2,000 miles of gravel roads to get to Anchorage and back while purposely avoiding as much of the main highway as I could, due to the heavy RV traffic that was expected to be using it that year - and also to satisfy a passion for exploring some of the most remote areas.  I carried extra gas in Prestone bottles on the back seat of the Gold Wing through the longest gaps in gas availability.  I met my objective of avoiding the heavy RV traffic though, in that I saw practically no vehicles at all for days, and I was in my glory, riding all by myself in the far reaches of the Canadian wilderness, where I saw bear, bison, caribou, fox, lynx, and many other animals in their natural habitat.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 18-19

[Biggles]

I was finally ready to leave on a four-week, 11,000 mile trip to Alaska with a dirt bike, a patched-up pair of rain boots, no saddlebags and a windshield that wouldn't keep the weather off of me.  But I had a lot of confidence in the bike, and I was anxious to get underway on what I figured would be a great ride.
Needless to say, without the saddlebags I brought a lot less gear than usual and I packed exceptionally light; and I was well aware before leaving that it would be a rough trip for my 79-year-old body.  But I called Jim and told him I was ready to go.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 23

[Biggles]

I had stopped in the middle of the scarcely-travelled gravel road for a nature break.  We hadn't seen another vehicle or sign of civilization for at least an hour, and we left Flin Flon before any breakfast places were open.  Bud naturally asked, "Where are we stopping for breakfast?"
I said, "I was thinking of right here," as I reached in the trunk of the Gold Wing for a tin of sardines that I was carrying.  Bud, who always looked forward to and treasured his sunny-side-up eggs with several strips of crisp lean bacon and a nice hot cup of coffee in the morning, said with an attitude, "You've got to be kidding!" refused to partake of the sardines and dug somewhat begrudgingly into his own bag for some beef jerky while Jake and I shared a can of the fish, and the three of us stood there having breakfast in the middle of the road in a light drizzle with the temperature in the mid 40s [F].  It's certainly not the classiest of breakfast places, but I think it worked out well enough under the circumstances.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 29-30

[Biggles]

A few words at this point about my eyesight that had been getting progressively worse over the past few years: I was often unable to read road signs unless the sun was somewhere behind me and shining on the sign.  The same applied to my instruments like the odometer that I needed for following my route sheet; and the bike's clock, both of which use pale LED displays.  I couldn't read the route sheet on my tank bag either unless I came to a complete stop first, even though I used a 14-size font with bold lettering.  My eyes are on the borderline for keeping my driver's license that I can only get with a signature from my eye doctor - and she sometimes shudders when I tell her about some of my motorcycling experiences; but maybe she thinks I'm exaggerating to spice up the story!  I could rarely see the Canadian route markings during this trip, which are considerably smaller and less bold than most of those in the US. I can also rarely see motel and/or restaurant signs unless they're within less than 100 feet and I'm moving slowly.  I usually had no problem with the "Golden Arches" though, which I suppose is one of the reasons they chose that particular symbol.  Whenever the light is subdued, as it often gets on overcast days, I have difficulty seeing cars coming from the opposite direction for any great distance - especially when it's raining and they're coming toward me without headlights, which also makes it a lot tougher to pass on two-lane roads.  I almost never execute the bold passes anymore for which I had become known a few years back when my eyesight and reflexes were a lot better.
Keep Going!  Piet Boonstra p 37-38