Democratic Republic of Congo
On our first morning in the Democratic Republic of Congo, we woke early, hoping to slip out from the custody of our host, the village policeman, without further fanfare.
As we wheeled the bikes out of his office in the dark he appeared dressed for the day and eager for a tip for his troubles. It was hard to know if the few dollars we gave him constituted a bribe or a donation.
While we were grateful for a secure place to sleep, we were especially grateful to be back on the road.
It’s Saturday morning 05.00 AM.
I’m at work and the sun rising makes me dream about a long ride. I already spoke with my good friend Leo about the chance to ride to Salt Lake City but I wasn’t 100% sure about that. Continue reading “Salt Lake City – visiting Leo”
Nope, this is not one of those sites with porn things, this it’s a website with and about motorcycles and adventure. Continue reading “First time with a virgin !”
The nut slipped from my fingers and fell. The little bastard went right into the pocket near the starter motor, a deep nook where small things easily hide. It was not a terribly important nut, just one from a battery terminal, and posed no threat to the motorcycle as it sat quietly. But once the bike was barreling down the road at 70 mph, that nut could make its way into the open primary and damage a pulley or even explode the belt. To make matters worse, it was aluminum, so the magic wand with a little magnet on the end for removing steel bits from tight places was worthless. Continue reading “The Nut Doesn’t Fall Far”
His name is Paul. That is how much he wants you to know about his identity. Back in the day, he was a public figure and yes, he has quite a story.
But what is he doing now? Well that’s something we couldn’t keep for ourselves.
Motorcycles are a polarizing form of transportation. Broach the subject and you will find people fall into two groups. On one side are the folks who think they are loud and dangerous, ridden by dirt-bag miscreants who eyeball women. On the other are those who lecture how the vehicle offers ultimate freedom, complete with the self-bolstering undercurrent of a social outsider. But like most matters in life, the truth is an alloy of these viewpoints. And the real beauty of a motorcycle comes from the random and at times dangerous events that occur along the way. This is the stuff that makes stories and legends for years to come, told and retold with steadily growing warpage of the facts.
“Hold on,” Gilby said. “Let me grab the sheets.”
“Don’t rush,” I told him as he limped from his family’s guest room.
It had been one year since Gilby’s motorcycle accident. His left leg was broken when a man driving a pickup pulled in front of him, and Gilby, unable to stop his bike in time, hit the side of the truck. The man fled, and Gilby was left with a shattered tibia.