Motorcycle Touring Quotes

They stay like this, in silence, both aware that they have created something together. Defiance. A pushing back of a darkness that no one has ever pushed at before. A wonderful, criminal liberty to love that which has been so viciously called unlovable.

There is a heavy price to pay for writing a bad book.

It’s amazing how quickly having someone telling you what you’re seeing replaces you actually seeing what you’re seeing.

Only a mediocre man is always at his best,

Spiritual yearnings are natural to many people, and may give them solace or hope, but extremists of any stripe are not content with faith as armor; they must forge it into a sword.

If I told you that everything about you had been just made up by someone, that all of your thoughts, all of your memories, even the things you chose to say had been invented and that they weren’t real, that you weren’t real, would you believe me? I don’t think so.

Idaho is empty. He is an emptiness. Like the space you leave behind when you get out of a chair. It’s like after a loud noise, when all you hear is the sound of yourself listening. What is there is only was. That’s it. Idaho is was.

It's strange to sleep. Sleep is a mysterious thing even in the simplest of people. When you're sleepy, you seem to be getting sick, losing energy, losing clear thought, lying down out of weakness. Then you succumb to the weakness and what happens next resembles death. And then you dream. You abide in a world whose rules are hidden even from you - you who create it.

Maybe I went a bit too far, but that’s what people want now. There’s an expectation that children be treated poorly in their literature. Everyone wants to see children treated badly. So that … well, so that when they triumph over evil we all feel lifted up. It’s inspirational.

It’s my job really, to help you, my reader, in accepting things as real that aren’t. Most books try to get you to accept things that, at the very least, could be real – and that’s difficult enough, goodness knows – but here, in this book, nothing seems to be even trying to be real. Except, I would say, me. I’m here, I’m real. And to be honest, I’ve never been here before. I don’t know where I am, I don’t know what I’m doing. In some ways, I’m afraid this is the most real story I’ve ever written.

Today I am revealing the exciting new book by Author Maggie Carpenter. Stay tuned, because it will be on here soon!

I liked the way the boats looked, but I didn’t do anything about it. After a blowup with the feculent Times bloater—lying there on his waterbed playing the paper comb and drinking black rum—I flew up to Houston, Texas— don’t ask me why—and bought a touring bike. A bicycle, not a motorcycle. And I pedaled it to Los Angeles. The most terrible trip in the world. I mean Apsley Cherry-Garrard with Scott at the pole didn’t have a clue. I endured sandstorms, terrifying and lethal heat, thirst, freezing winds, trucks that tried to kill me, mechanical breakdowns, a Blue Norther, torrential downpours and floods, wolves, ranchers in single-engine planes dropping flour bombs. And Quoyle, the only thing that kept me going through all this was the thought of a little boat, a silent, sweet sailboat slipping through the cool water. It grew on me. I swore if I ever got off that fucking bicycle seat which was, by that time, welded into the crack of me arse, if ever I got pried off the thing I’d take to the sea and never leave her.

When someone asks, "What do you do?” don't start with your occupation or family status. Instead, tell them about the "real you" with a spin. You might say, "Back home I'm run a coffee shop, but on this trip, I'm getting in touch with the part of me who wished she'd studied archeology.

One of the top reasons women don’t want to travel solo is the prospect of eating alone in public. Take heart: no one cares, and if they do, why do you care what they think? You’ll never see those people again. Some of the most memorable meals of my travels have been in the company of strangers—often locals, including waitresses.

It was at night,” I say. “What was?” “What happened. The car wreck. We were driving along the Storm King Highway.” “Where’s that?” “Oh, it’s one of the most scenic drives in the whole state,” I say, somewhat sarcastically. “Route 218. The road that connects West Point and Cornwall up in the Highlands on the west side of the Hudson River. It’s narrow and curvy and hangs off the cliffs on the side of Storm King Mountain. An extremely twisty two-lane road. With a lookout point and a picturesque stone wall to stop you from tumbling off into the river. Motorcycle guys love Route 218.” We stop moving forward and pause under a streetlamp. “But if you ask me, they shouldn’t let trucks use that road.” Cool Girl looks at me. “Go on, Jamie,” she says gently. And so I do. “Like I said, it was night. And it was raining. We’d gone to West Point to take the tour, have a picnic. It was a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky until the tour was over, and then it started pouring. Guess we stayed too late. Me, my mom, my dad.” Now I bite back the tears. “My little sister. Jenny. You would’ve liked Jenny. She was always happy. Always laughing. “We were on a curve. All of a sudden, this truck comes around the side of the cliff. It’s halfway in our lane and fishtailing on account of the slick road. My dad slams on the brakes. Swerves right. We smash into a stone fence and bounce off it like we’re playing wall ball. The hood of our car slides under the truck, right in front of its rear tires—tires that are smoking and screaming and trying to stop spinning.” I see it all again. In slow motion. The detail never goes away. “They all died,” I finally say. “My mother, my father, my little sister. I was the lucky one. I was the only one who survived.

On a break from the tour, I went south to Bali, a place the choreographer Toni Basil, whom Eno and I had met during the Bush Of Ghosts sessions, had recommended as being transporting and all about performance. I rented a small motorcycle and headed up into the hills, away from the beach resort. I soon discovered that if one saw offerings of flowers and fruit being brought to a village temple compound in the afternoon, one could be pretty certain that some sort of ritual performance would follow there at night. Sure enough, night after night I would catch dances accompanied by gamelan orchestras and shadow-puppet excerpts from the Hindu Ramayana--epic and sometimes ritual performances that blended religious and theatrical elements. (A gamelan is a small orchestra made up mainly of tuned metallic gongs and xylophone-like instruments--the interplay between the parts is beautiful and intricate.) In these latter events some participants would often fall into a trance, but even in trance there were prescribed procedures. It wasn't all thrashing chaos, as a Westerner might expect, but a deeper kind of dance. As In Japanese theater, the performers often wore masks and extreme makeup; their movements, too, were stylized and "unnatural." It began to sink in that this kind of "presentational" theater has more in common with certain kinds of pop-music performance that traditional Western theater did. I was struck by other peripheral aspects of these performances. The audiences, mostly local villagers of all ages, weren't paying attention half the time. People would wander in and out, go get a snack from a cart or leave to smoke a bidi cigarette, and then return to watch some more. This was more like the behavior of audiences in music clubs than in Western theaters, where they were expected to sit quietly and only leave or converse once the show was over. The Balinese "shows" were completely integrated into people's daily lives, or so it seemed to me. There was no attempt to formally separate the ritual and the show from the audience. Everything seemed to flow into everything else. The food, the music, and the dance were all just another part of daily activity. I remembered a story about John Cage, who, when in Japan, asked someone what their religion was. The reply was that they didn't have a strict religion--they danced. Japanese do, of course, have Buddhist and Shinto rituals for weddings, funerals, and marriages, but a weekly thing like going to church or temple doesn't exist. The "religion" is so integrated into the culture that it appears in daily gestures and routines, unsegregated for ordinary life. I was beginning to see that theatricality wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It was part of life in much of the world, and not necessarily phony either.

The joy of riding a motorcycle is out of this world. The thrill of riding in the hills and mountains is opiate addiction.

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every 60 miles of interstate, add one hour; for every 50 miles of state highway, add another hour; and add an hour for every 40 miles of back roads and another for every 20 miles of city streets.

She had become reconciled to the idea of an eternal shadow; she discovered that, far from being a threat, her bodyguards were much wiser sounding boards than many of the gentleman courtiers who fluttered around her. Police officers like Sergeant Allan Peters and Inspector Graham Smith became avuncular father figures, defusing tricky situations and deflating overweening subjects alike with a joke or a crisp command. They also brought her mothering instincts to the fore. She remembered their birthdays, sent notes of apology to their wives when they had to accompany her on an overseas tours and ensured that they were “fed and watered” when she went out with them from Kensington Palace. When Graham Smith contracted cancer, she invited him and his wife on holiday to Necker in the Caribbean and also on a Mediterranean cruise on board the yacht owned by Greek tycoon, John Latsis. Such is her affection for this popular police officer that she arranged a dinner in his honour after he had recovered which was attended by her family. If she is dining with friends at San Lorenzo, her favourite restaurant, her current detective, Inspector Ken Wharfe will often join her table at the end of the meal and regale the assembled throng with his jokes. Perhaps she reserves her fondest memories for Sergeant Barry Mannakee who became her bodyguard at a time when she felt lost and alone in the royal world. He sensed her bewilderment and became a shoulder for her to lean on and sometimes to cry on during this painful period. The affectionate bond that built up between them did not go unnoticed either by Prince Charles nor Mannakee’s colleagues. Shortly before the wedding of the Duke and Duchess of York in July 1986 he was transferred to other duties, much to Diana’s dismay. In the following spring he was tragically killed in a motorcycle accident.

Contrary to what the media tell us, I can certify that there are very few rapists, ax murderers, and meth lab motels out there on the open roads. Of course, they exist—and even one is too many—but ask yourself: if something terrible had just happened in your hometown, why would your "local" news be feeding you stories about a tragedy fifteen states away? 
Crime is down overall, folks. Breathe.

If you tell yourself that you need more riding experience, more mechanical prowess, more tools, a better bike, and try to cover every single contingency you might face before setting out for a weekend on the bike by yourself, you'll likely never take a solo trip.

I believe we must each to follow our instincts and preferences on personal safety. Speaking for myself, I believe an ounce of caution is worth a pound of gunpowder.

Sometimes you stay in a budget motel/cabin/hotel to save money, sometimes they’re the only thing available. If you find yourself in a room with questionable bedding and towels with nowhere else to go, fear not! Whether I pack my camping gear or not, I always travel with a bamboo sleeping sack (sometimes called a “sleeping bag liner”). It packs up to the size of a Chipotle burrito and protects you from scratchy sheets (among other hazards). Bamboo is one of the most comfortable fibers on the market, and is hypoallergenic, antimicrobial and antibacterial.

When touring by motorcycle, or navigating this road we call life, one must always be flexible, open to alternatives and willing to act quickly to get the most out of the experience.

The joy of riding a motorcycle is out of this world. The thrill of riding in the hills and mountains is an opiatic addiction.

Theresa Wallach wrote Easy Motorcycle Riding (1970, Oaktree: ISBN 0706122623)

How a Motorcycle GPS Tracker Can Make Riding Safer and Protect Your Bike Riding a motorcycle is exciting and gives you a sense of freedom. But bike theft is a big problem, and keeping your motorcycle safe is important. A GPS tracker can help you protect your bike and make riding more enjoyable. Let’s see how it works and why it’s a must-have for every rider. What Is a Motorcycle GPS Tracker? A motorcycle GPS tracker is a small device that helps you track your bike’s location using GPS technology. It connects to your phone or computer, so you can always see where your bike is, no matter where you are. How It Helps Prevent Theft 1. Real-Time Tracking If someone steals your bike, a GPS tracker lets you see its location instantly. This makes it easier for you and the police to recover your motorcycle quickly. 2. Instant Alerts Many GPS trackers have special security features: Motion Sensors: If someone moves your bike unexpectedly, you get an alert. Geofencing: You can set a safe area for your bike. If it leaves this zone, you’ll get a notification. These alerts act as an early warning system, helping you stop theft before it happens. 3. Scares Away Thieves Thieves are less likely to steal a bike if they know it has a GPS tracker. It makes their job riskier, so they often avoid such bikes. Other Benefits of a GPS Tracker 1. Saves You Money on Insurance Some insurance companies give discounts if your bike has a GPS tracker. This is because it lowers the risk of theft, making your bike safer to insure. 2. Gives You Peace of Mind You don’t have to constantly worry about your bike when it’s parked. Whether you’re at work, traveling, or stopping for coffee, you’ll know your bike is safe. 3. Improves Your Riding Experience A GPS tracker isn’t just for security. Many trackers have extra features like: Route History: Save and review your rides. Maintenance Alerts: Get reminders for oil changes or battery checks. Trip Sharing: Share your live location with family or friends for safety. How to Choose the Right GPS Tracker When buying a GPS tracker, look for these key features: ✅ Easy to Install: Pick a tracker that’s simple to set up, even if you’re not tech-savvy. ✅ Long Battery Life: A good battery ensures continuous protection. ✅ Instant Alerts: The tracker should send real-time notifications. ✅ Compact and Hidden: A small tracker is harder for thieves to find and remove. Why You Should Get One A motorcycle GPS tracker does more than just prevent theft. It helps you ride without stress, saves you money, and improves your overall experience. Whether you have a sports bike, cruiser, or touring motorcycle, a GPS tracker is a smart investment. Conclusion Adding a GPS tracker to your motorcycle makes riding safer and more enjoyable. It helps keep your bike secure, gives you useful riding data, and provides peace of mind. With affordable and easy-to-use options available, now is the perfect time to get one for your bike

Even if you don’t respect the opinion, respect the person who holds it.

You can choose a ready guide, in some celestial voice / If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice / You can choose from phantom fears, and kindness that can kill / I will choose a path that’s clear—I will choose free will”),

PLEASE DON’T PRAY IN OUR SCHOOLS, AND I PROMISE NOT TO SPREAD KNOWLEDGE IN YOUR CHURCH.

The only thing I owe the public is a good performance.