Thanks for the share on Google+ +Keith Williams.
Showing posts with label classic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label classic. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 01, 2014
Saturday, February 01, 2014
What Do You Think Of These Blogs? Be Honest And Respectful!
With the launch of the #WoMoCo Blog I thought it might be a nice idea to take a look at other Motorcycling Blogs that are available to feed our addiction to Motorcycling. The first batch up for review are those that responded to my post on +Google+ and Twitter showing that they will respond if you ask them to. Here’s the original post on #WoMoCo Calling All Motorcycle Bloggers and on Twitter -
And last but not least there is our blog that you're reading now. Let us know what you think but most of all enjoy!
Calling All Motorcycle Bloggers https://t.co/evRoqU2vmP
— #WoMoCo (@WoMoCo_org) January 30, 2014
Those who have responded, and therefore get special mention, are:+EXPERIMENTAL GHOST who said, "I’m a bloke who was born last century in the western suburbs of Sydney, Australia. The topic of choice for my blog is motorcycling, but I may drift off into WTF?-land at times. Visit me at Experimental Ghost, Cheers."
+George Ferreira who wrote, "I'm George, I ride the best bike on the planet :-) Yamaha Super Tenere and I have a blog covering my trips at Riding The USA. Thank you."
+Jacqui Kennedy - "Riding a Postie Bike around Australia Postie Notes."
 |
| Jacquis Postie Bike |
+Wiggysan Wiggysan wrote, "My blog: Wiggysan Says. I really don't use it much apart from having live video streams of the #EWC Endurance World Championship races. The last link was the Le Mans 24hr in September.Due my work with MotoPod and @MotoRaceReports @MotoRaceFeed on Twitter I get a steady number of hits when there is a race on. The Suzuka 8 Hour Race blog Welcome To 2013 Suzuka 8 Hour had an average of 1000 views for the last 3 hours. I was also doing live commentary on my personal Twitter account."
+Dan Michael said, "I run a couple, one focussed solely on my passion for large throbbing v-twins at Ducati Blog.com.au and the other is a more general motorcycle blog with another mate who loves his Harley - Daily Bikers.
Great to hear you have one coming Lawrence!"
+Rania Madanat who is a motorcycling legend on the Social Networks and beyond has a blog called The Chronicles Of Rania and is the creator of the Women Motorcycle Enthusiasts Community over on +Google+. Her contribution was to point us to her great collection of Motorcycling Blogs on Scoop.it.
+SpiritStrike.com posted, "I created an adventure blog that quickly turned into a motorcycle blog with ride reports and gear reviews. Check it out at Spirit Strike.com."
+John Nelson is one of the moderators on #womoco and has a blog called A Royal Enfield Bulleteer in Spain. He said, "Here are roads I've taken, tapas, Spanish wines, food, bikes and bikers I've had the pleasure of meeting along the way." Go on over and take a look.
+Stefan Kowalewski said, "My blog is simply my views and thoughts around motorcycling and my motorcycle trips..." Anarchy In The Triangle.
And last but not least there is our blog that you're reading now. Let us know what you think but most of all enjoy!
Sunday, December 09, 2012
Bikers In Google Plus Communities
I've just set up the World Motorcycle Community (#womoco) over on Google+ and the discussions, photos and ideas are building up. Come on over and take a look. Things are looking good and we have reached 81 members in just over 24 hours. Welcome to everyone who has joined. From a quick look it appears that we have members from around the world and the countries so far are: Germany - Peru - Thailand - France - Canada - Russia - USA - Denmark - Spain - UK - Switzerland - India - Pakistan - Austria - Czech Republic - Brazil. Posts have appeared in German, French, Russian, English ....
It's open and there for you to use.
The Moderators are:
Eric Kindley – Touring
Karl Hargreaves – Photos
Rainer Diabl – KTM
Lol Duffy - Everything else until we get you to be a moderator.
World Motorcycle Community I'm sure if you come over you will enjoy it.
Monday, October 04, 2010
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
New Year Resolution
Say after me, “I promise myself I will read one of these great Blogs once a month to keep my motors revving.”
Have a great New Year.
- http://wrenchmonkees.blogspot.com
- http://vintagedirtbikes.blogspot.com
- http://300kmj.blogspot.com
- http://ladyridesalot.blogspot.com
- http://www.pittedchrome.com
- http://poorcirculation.blogspot.com
- http://garethowens.blogspot.com
- http://carlaking.typepad.com/weblog
- http://news.motorbiker.org/blogs.nsf
- http://www.motomatters.com
- http://www.helmethairblog.com
- http://40on2.blogspot.com
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
1st Ibiza Scooter Vintage Tour - 14 and 15 March 2009
Contact www.VoyenMoto.com for details in English.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
30-10-08 Indian Motorcycles & Bar - Elda
Indian Motorcycles Of Spain SL
P.I.C.A. C/ Alemania, 104
03600 Elda (Alicante)
Tel: 605 60 70 80
Visita la web: http://www.indianspain.com
mi e-mail: jose@indianspain.com
Grand Opening Night 8pm 30 October 2008.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Official La Foia Motorcyle Week T-Shirts
We have a few T-shirts available for La Foia Motorcycle Week. You can pick up yours for just 2 € plus postage.
Contact TnT. Make it quick though as we have a stall at next weekends Feria de San Isidro in Castalla.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Win a lovingly-restored 650cc Triton
This competition closes on 01 June 2008
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
I love the style of this picture but who's the rider?
Monday, March 17, 2008
The Other Isle of Mann Motorcycle Race - Manx GP 16 to 29 August 2008
Believe it or not there are other motorcycle races held on the Isle of Mann and the Manx GP is to be held from 16 to 29 August 2008. The website, http://www.iommgp.com , hasn't got much information on this years event yet.
Hetton-le-Hole's Keith Pringle is aiming firmly for glory at this year's Manx Grand Prix where the 32-year old will make his Mountain Course debut.
Supergran's half century in racing
Sheelagh Neal rode in the first race in October 1957. It was a sprint at Witchford in Cambridgeshire and she was the passenger in a Scott Flyer sidecar piloted by her father Ossie.She was 14 years old. Sheelagh celebrated her 64th birthday in June and she is still racing. In fact she has not missed a single season since that debut. She and husband David White will be among those in action at the VJMC’s Festival of 1000 Bikes at Mallory on 14 and 15 July. Between them they own a stable of road race, hill climb and sprint machines, some of which were raced by Sheelagh’s father before her. Pride of the collection is a works Scott outfit campaigned in the very first sidecar TT in 1923. Sheelagh’s father bought it from the factory the following year and used it in his job as a plumber. How much is it worth now? Don’t ask. The picture shows Sheelagh with husband and the outfit in the garden of her Cambridgeshire home.
Motorcycle Monthly
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Classic Racing Revival - Denia, Spain - 31 May to 1st June 2008
- FESTIVAL INTERNACIONAL DE LA MOTO HISTORICA 2008
- XVI VOLTA TURÍSTICA A LA MARINA ALTA AMB MOTOS ANTIGUES CALPE 2008
- XVI CLASSIC RACING REVIVAL DENIA 2008
31 MAYO - 1 JUNIO 2008
Fantastic Classic Racing and road bikes by the beautiful seaside in Denia organised by the Classic Motor Club of Denia.
Click here for the web.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Feria San Isidro - Castalla - 16 to 18 May 2008
The Feria San Isidro is being held in Castalla from 16 to 18 May 2008 and MotoBlogCycle, Tour and Track SL, Moto's Days and Moto Club La Foia (Castalla) will be organising a whole street of events over the three days.
If you want to exhibit at the Feria San Isidro e-mail me at: lol@tourandtrack.com even if it's not directly related to motorcycling. If you are in a motorcycle club get in touch to reserve your places for the Moto Almuerza.
Our plans so far include:
El Feria San Isidro esta en Castalla de 16 a 18 del mayo 2008 y MotoBlogCycle, Tour and Track SL, Moto Daysa y el Moto Club La Foia (Castalla) será los organizadores de una calle entera de eventos durante los tres días.
Si usted quiere exhibir en la Feria San Isidro mándeme electrónicamente a: lol@tourandtrack.com aun cuando no se relaciona directamente al motorcycling. Si usted está en un club de la motos poner en contacto para reservar sus entradas para el Moto Almuerza.
Nuestros planes incluyen hasta ahora:
If you want to exhibit at the Feria San Isidro e-mail me at: lol@tourandtrack.com even if it's not directly related to motorcycling. If you are in a motorcycle club get in touch to reserve your places for the Moto Almuerza.
Our plans so far include:
- Moto Almuerza (Bikers Breakfast) Sunday 18th May
- New and Used Motorcycle Sales
- Motorcycle Clothing Sales
- Classic Motorcycle Exhibition
- Classic Cars Exhibition
- Tuning Cars Exhibition
- DJ's and Live Music
- Trial bike stunt display
- and much more.
El Feria San Isidro esta en Castalla de 16 a 18 del mayo 2008 y MotoBlogCycle, Tour and Track SL, Moto Daysa y el Moto Club La Foia (Castalla) será los organizadores de una calle entera de eventos durante los tres días.
Si usted quiere exhibir en la Feria San Isidro mándeme electrónicamente a: lol@tourandtrack.com aun cuando no se relaciona directamente al motorcycling. Si usted está en un club de la motos poner en contacto para reservar sus entradas para el Moto Almuerza.
Nuestros planes incluyen hasta ahora:
- Moto Almuerza domingo 18 mayo
- Venta de Motos Nuevo y Usado
- Venta de Ropa de Motos
- La Exhibición de la Motocicleta clásica
- La Exhibición de los Automóviles clásica
- La Exhibición de los Automóviles 'Tuning'
- DJ y la Música en Vivo
- Display Stunt Trial
- y mucho más.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Lawrence of Arabia - The Mint - Motorcycling
The Mint by TE Lawrence - PART III - 16: THE ROAD
The extravagance in which my surplus emotion expressed itself lay on the road. So long as roads were tarred blue and straight; not hedged; and empty and dry, so long I was rich. Nightly I'd run up from the hangar, upon the last stroke of work, spurring my tired feet to be nimble. The very movement refreshed them, after the day-long restraint of service. In five minutes my bed would be down, ready for the night: in four more I was in breeches and puttees, pulling on my gauntlets as I walked over to my bike, which lived in a garage-hut, opposite. Its tyres never wanted air, its engine had a habit of starting at second kick: a good habit, for only by frantic plunges upon the starting pedal could my puny weight force the engine over the seven atmospheres of its compression.
Boanerges' first glad roar at being alive again nightly jarred the huts of Cadet College into life. 'There he goes, the noisy bugger,' someone would say enviously in every flight. It is part of an airman's profession to be knowing with engines: and a thoroughbred engine is our undying satisfaction. The camp wore the virtue of my Brough like a flower in its cap. Tonight Tug and Dusty came to the step of our hut to see me off. 'Running down to Smoke, perhaps?' jeered Dusty; hitting at my regular game of London and back for tea on fine Wednesday afternoons.
Boa is a top-gear machine, as sweet in that as most single-cylinders in middle. I chug lordlily past the guard-room and through the speed limit at no more than sixteen. Round the bend, past the farm, and the way straightens. Now for it. The engine's final development is fifty-two horse-power. A miracle that all this docile strength waits behind one tiny lever for the pleasure of my hand.
Another bend: and I have the honour of one of England' straightest and fastest roads. The burble of my exhaust unwound like a long cord behind me. Soon my speed snapped it, and I heard only the cry of the wind which my battering head split and fended aside. The cry rose with my speed to a shriek: while the air's coldness streamed like two jets of iced water into my dissolving eyes. I screwed them to slits, and focused my sight two hundred yards ahead of me on the empty mosaic of the tar's gravelled undulations.
Like arrows the tiny flies pricked my cheeks: and sometimes a heavier body, some house-fly or beetle, would crash into face or lips like a spent bullet. A glance at the speedometer: seventy-eight. Boanerges is warming up. I pull the throttle right open, on the top of the slope, and we swoop flying across the dip, and up-down up-down the switchback beyond: the weighty machine launching itself like a projectile with a whirr of wheels into the air at the take-off of each rise, to land lurchingly with such a snatch of the driving chain as jerks my spine like a rictus.
Once we so fled across the evening light, Bristol Fighter, from Whitewash Villas, our neighbour aerodrome, was banking sharply round. I checked speed an instant to wave: and the slip-stream of my impetus snapped my arm and elbow astern, like a raised flail. The pilot pointed down the road towards Lincoln. I sat hard in the saddle, folded back my ears and went away after him, like a dog after a hare. Quickly we drew abreast, as the impulse of his dive to my level exhausted itself.
with the yellow sun on my left, when a huge shadow roared just overhead. A
The next mile of road was rough. I braced my feet into the rests, thrust with my arms, and clenched my knees on the tank till its rubber grips goggled under my thighs. Over the first pot-hole Boanerges screamed in surprise, its mud-guard bottoming with a yawp upon the tyre. Through the plunges of the next ten seconds I clung on, wedging my gloved hand in the throttle lever so that no bump should close it and spoil our speed. Then the bicycle wrenched sideways into three long ruts: it swayed dizzily, wagging its tail for thirty awful yards. Out came the clutch, the engine raced freely: Boa checked and straightened his head with a shake, as a Brough should.
The bad ground was passed and on the new road our flight became birdlike. My head was blown out with air so that my ears had failed and we seemed to whirl soundlessly between the sun-gilt stubble fields. I dared, on a rise, to slow imperceptibly and glance sideways into the sky. There the Bif was, two hundred yards and more back. Play with the fellow? Why not? I slowed to ninety: signalled with my hand for him to overtake. Slowed ten more: sat up. Over he rattled. His passenger, a helmeted and goggled grin, hung out of the cock-pit to pass me the 'Up yer' Raf randy greeting.
They were hoping I was a flash in the pan, giving them best. Open went my throttle again. Boa crept level, fifty feet below: held them: sailed ahead into the clean and lonely country. An approaching car pulled nearly into its ditch at the sight of our race. The Bif was zooming among the trees and telegraph poles, with my scurrying spot only eighty yards ahead. I gained though, gained steadily: was perhaps five miles an hour the faster. Down went my left hand to give the engine two extra dollops of oil, for fear that something was running hot: but an overhead Jap twin, super-tuned like this one, would carry on to the moon and back, unfaltering.
We drew near the settlement. A long mile before the first houses I closed down and coasted to the cross-roads by the hospital. Bif caught up, banked, climbed and turned for home, waving to me as long as he was in sight. Fourteen miles from camp, we are, here: and fifteen minutes since I left Tug and Dusty at the hut door.
I let in the clutch again, and eased Boanerges down the hill along the tram-lines through the dirty streets and up-hill to the aloof cathedral, where it stood in frigid perfection above the cowering close. No message of mercy in Lincoln. Our God is a jealous God: and man's very best offering will fall disdainfully short of worthiness, in the sight of Saint Hugh and his angels.
Remigius, earthy old Remigius, looks with more charity on and Boanerges. I stabled the steel magnificence of strength and speed at his west door and went in: to find the organist practising something slow and rhythmical, like a multiplication table in notes on the organ. The fretted, unsatisfying and unsatisfied lace-work of choir screen and spandrels drank in the main sound. Its surplus spilled thoughtfully into my ears.
By then my belly had forgotten its lunch, my eyes smarted and streamed. Out again, to sluice my head under the White Hart's yard-pump. A cup of real chocolate and a muffin at the teashop: and Boa and I took the Newark road for the last hour of daylight. He ambles at forty-five and when roaring his utmost, surpasses the hundred. A skittish motor-bike with a touch of blood in it is better than all the riding animals on earth, because of its logical extension of our faculties, and the hint, the provocation, to excess conferred by its honeyed untiring smoothness. Because Boa loves me, he gives me five more miles of speed than a stranger would get from him.
At Nottingham I added sausages from my wholesaler to the bacon which I'd bought at Lincoln: bacon so nicely sliced that each rasher meant a penny. The solid pannier-bags behind the saddle took all this and at my next stop a (farm) took also a felt-hammocked box of fifteen eggs. Home by Sleaford, our squalid, purse-proud, local village. Its butcher had six penn'orth of dripping ready for me. For months have I been making my evening round a marketing, twice a week, riding a hundred miles for the joy of it and picking up the best food cheapest, over half the country side.
Thanks to telawrence.net. Lawrence took this journey while based at an RAF training camp under a false name 'J. H. Ross'.
The extravagance in which my surplus emotion expressed itself lay on the road. So long as roads were tarred blue and straight; not hedged; and empty and dry, so long I was rich. Nightly I'd run up from the hangar, upon the last stroke of work, spurring my tired feet to be nimble. The very movement refreshed them, after the day-long restraint of service. In five minutes my bed would be down, ready for the night: in four more I was in breeches and puttees, pulling on my gauntlets as I walked over to my bike, which lived in a garage-hut, opposite. Its tyres never wanted air, its engine had a habit of starting at second kick: a good habit, for only by frantic plunges upon the starting pedal could my puny weight force the engine over the seven atmospheres of its compression.
Boanerges' first glad roar at being alive again nightly jarred the huts of Cadet College into life. 'There he goes, the noisy bugger,' someone would say enviously in every flight. It is part of an airman's profession to be knowing with engines: and a thoroughbred engine is our undying satisfaction. The camp wore the virtue of my Brough like a flower in its cap. Tonight Tug and Dusty came to the step of our hut to see me off. 'Running down to Smoke, perhaps?' jeered Dusty; hitting at my regular game of London and back for tea on fine Wednesday afternoons.
Boa is a top-gear machine, as sweet in that as most single-cylinders in middle. I chug lordlily past the guard-room and through the speed limit at no more than sixteen. Round the bend, past the farm, and the way straightens. Now for it. The engine's final development is fifty-two horse-power. A miracle that all this docile strength waits behind one tiny lever for the pleasure of my hand.
Another bend: and I have the honour of one of England' straightest and fastest roads. The burble of my exhaust unwound like a long cord behind me. Soon my speed snapped it, and I heard only the cry of the wind which my battering head split and fended aside. The cry rose with my speed to a shriek: while the air's coldness streamed like two jets of iced water into my dissolving eyes. I screwed them to slits, and focused my sight two hundred yards ahead of me on the empty mosaic of the tar's gravelled undulations.
Like arrows the tiny flies pricked my cheeks: and sometimes a heavier body, some house-fly or beetle, would crash into face or lips like a spent bullet. A glance at the speedometer: seventy-eight. Boanerges is warming up. I pull the throttle right open, on the top of the slope, and we swoop flying across the dip, and up-down up-down the switchback beyond: the weighty machine launching itself like a projectile with a whirr of wheels into the air at the take-off of each rise, to land lurchingly with such a snatch of the driving chain as jerks my spine like a rictus.
Once we so fled across the evening light, Bristol Fighter, from Whitewash Villas, our neighbour aerodrome, was banking sharply round. I checked speed an instant to wave: and the slip-stream of my impetus snapped my arm and elbow astern, like a raised flail. The pilot pointed down the road towards Lincoln. I sat hard in the saddle, folded back my ears and went away after him, like a dog after a hare. Quickly we drew abreast, as the impulse of his dive to my level exhausted itself.
The next mile of road was rough. I braced my feet into the rests, thrust with my arms, and clenched my knees on the tank till its rubber grips goggled under my thighs. Over the first pot-hole Boanerges screamed in surprise, its mud-guard bottoming with a yawp upon the tyre. Through the plunges of the next ten seconds I clung on, wedging my gloved hand in the throttle lever so that no bump should close it and spoil our speed. Then the bicycle wrenched sideways into three long ruts: it swayed dizzily, wagging its tail for thirty awful yards. Out came the clutch, the engine raced freely: Boa checked and straightened his head with a shake, as a Brough should.
The bad ground was passed and on the new road our flight became birdlike. My head was blown out with air so that my ears had failed and we seemed to whirl soundlessly between the sun-gilt stubble fields. I dared, on a rise, to slow imperceptibly and glance sideways into the sky. There the Bif was, two hundred yards and more back. Play with the fellow? Why not? I slowed to ninety: signalled with my hand for him to overtake. Slowed ten more: sat up. Over he rattled. His passenger, a helmeted and goggled grin, hung out of the cock-pit to pass me the 'Up yer' Raf randy greeting.
They were hoping I was a flash in the pan, giving them best. Open went my throttle again. Boa crept level, fifty feet below: held them: sailed ahead into the clean and lonely country. An approaching car pulled nearly into its ditch at the sight of our race. The Bif was zooming among the trees and telegraph poles, with my scurrying spot only eighty yards ahead. I gained though, gained steadily: was perhaps five miles an hour the faster. Down went my left hand to give the engine two extra dollops of oil, for fear that something was running hot: but an overhead Jap twin, super-tuned like this one, would carry on to the moon and back, unfaltering.
We drew near the settlement. A long mile before the first houses I closed down and coasted to the cross-roads by the hospital. Bif caught up, banked, climbed and turned for home, waving to me as long as he was in sight. Fourteen miles from camp, we are, here: and fifteen minutes since I left Tug and Dusty at the hut door.
I let in the clutch again, and eased Boanerges down the hill along the tram-lines through the dirty streets and up-hill to the aloof cathedral, where it stood in frigid perfection above the cowering close. No message of mercy in Lincoln. Our God is a jealous God: and man's very best offering will fall disdainfully short of worthiness, in the sight of Saint Hugh and his angels.
Remigius, earthy old Remigius, looks with more charity on and Boanerges. I stabled the steel magnificence of strength and speed at his west door and went in: to find the organist practising something slow and rhythmical, like a multiplication table in notes on the organ. The fretted, unsatisfying and unsatisfied lace-work of choir screen and spandrels drank in the main sound. Its surplus spilled thoughtfully into my ears.
By then my belly had forgotten its lunch, my eyes smarted and streamed. Out again, to sluice my head under the White Hart's yard-pump. A cup of real chocolate and a muffin at the teashop: and Boa and I took the Newark road for the last hour of daylight. He ambles at forty-five and when roaring his utmost, surpasses the hundred. A skittish motor-bike with a touch of blood in it is better than all the riding animals on earth, because of its logical extension of our faculties, and the hint, the provocation, to excess conferred by its honeyed untiring smoothness. Because Boa loves me, he gives me five more miles of speed than a stranger would get from him.
At Nottingham I added sausages from my wholesaler to the bacon which I'd bought at Lincoln: bacon so nicely sliced that each rasher meant a penny. The solid pannier-bags behind the saddle took all this and at my next stop a (farm) took also a felt-hammocked box of fifteen eggs. Home by Sleaford, our squalid, purse-proud, local village. Its butcher had six penn'orth of dripping ready for me. For months have I been making my evening round a marketing, twice a week, riding a hundred miles for the joy of it and picking up the best food cheapest, over half the country side.
Thanks to telawrence.net. Lawrence took this journey while based at an RAF training camp under a false name 'J. H. Ross'.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Steve McQueen's Indian
According to Bloomberg News a 1940 Indian Scout motorcycle once owned by Steve McQueen will be auctioned at Bonhams on May 3, 2008 during the California auction "Legend of the Motorcycle: International Concours d'Elegance," and may fetch as much as $80,000.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
VI Mercadillo Vehículo Clásico Ciudad de Alicante
Here are some photos that Will Kemp took at the VI Mercadillo Vehículo Clásico Ciudad de Alicante. Take note Steve - he had his camera with him.
Click on the photo to see more photos.
Aqui tienes algunas fotos de la VI Mercadillo Vehículo Clásico Ciudad de Alicante. Clic en el foto para mas.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)