MOTO GUZZI BREVA: PUTTING ONE’S MONEY WHERE ONE’S MOUTH IS

First Ride on the Guzzi B-1100

“IF YOU TALK ABOUT IT ENOUGH, pretty soon you’re going to have to do something about it or shut up.” Those, or, at least that sentiment would be echoed by many friends and loved ones since the bug to obtain a “roadster” style bike bit a while back. A roadster is sometimes called a “standard” or a “naked” motorcycle, having no fairing to deflect wind, bugs, ice crystals and whatever else the road might afford. Some folks will put a windshield on a naked bike to modify airflow and to protect from such detritus matter.

I’d been smitten with the Ducati GT 1000 since I rode a Ducati with a similar engine up the coast from the Golden Gate to Jenner a year or so back. The bike handled the two-lanes of Highway 1 with both vigor and grace. Its exhaust system bore a musical roar that seemed both symphonic and powerful. I enjoyed the ride.

Thus, the GT 1000, with a more mature seating position - a little less cramped in the legs - seemed like a nice supplement to my heroic BMW Adventure model. But just as I got the courage and figured I could part with the cash, Ducati discontinued this popular model (why?) and used ones were not coming on the market.

My next affliction was attached to the traditionally styled Triumph Bonneville T-100. Reminiscent of Triumph's flagship of the 1960s, when a model came out with a cream over chocolate paint livery, it was all I could do to not write a check and mail it off to England. One of my riding partners, Sam, has a similar model. Under him, it tackles roads in a nice rhythmic manner with its motor providing a soft staccato background. Hard to imagine a better way to spend an afternoon.

I went to the local Triumph dealer and sitting on the floor was a Moto Guzzi Breva with just less than 10,000 miles on it. The asking ticket would be far less than either the Duc or the Bonne and the thing looked brand new. I’d driven a similar model a month before and was impressed by Guzzi’s ability to build character and personality into something that was simply a collection of metals, plastics and rubber. It sounded Italian, like an aria. It handled as well as my BMW, but its bucketed seating made the ride seem more intimate. Somehow.

THERE ARE NOW TWO EUROPEAN MOTORCYCLES sitting in my garage right now: the Beemer and the Goose. Yesterday’s first ride on the Breva took me on area roads I know well roads but that seemed different as I huddled over the pulsing V-shaped twin. The wind whispered past my helmet and air-conditioned the ventilated summer jacket I wore this day. Having come to me with fresh Metzler tires, the machine seemed to invite sweeping curves, and had I been more fluent in Italian, I would have understood her pleas that I not take I-80 home from up the hill. As I raced down the interstate, I could tell that such doings were not this machine’s forte. But then, they’re not mine either. Good fit.

Night fell. I took out the garbage and detoured past the black beauty to sit on her for a spell. I also did so between innings. And before retiring for the evening.

IT IS HARD TO EXPLAIN - but also unnecessary (bordering on the ridiculous - because "Who cares?") -  to explain why having two or three or a collection of motorcycles is something people do. Each bike, like each person we meet, has its own personality and character. They all go down the road on two wheels, but they all do so with nuanced differences that justify (make that “rationalize”) the urge to have another one sitting there.

I can’t wait for my next multi-day tour on the BMW. But I know that, while out of town, I’ll be looking forward to a quick sprint through the foothills on the Guzzi when I return.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

FOLSOM LAKE STATE RECREATION AREA (THE BACK WAY)

SALMON FALLS AND RATTLESNAKE BAR ROADS

Unseasonable rain is not uncommon this time of year.

Me, attempting to make small talk 

with seat mate Jennifer Lopez 

on a flight from Sacramento to LAX

May 2004

I’M ON RATTLESNAKE BAR ROAD approaching a southeastern arm of Folsom Lake and outside of the pleasant temperature, the pavement tunneling under a canopy of blue oaks, a perfect cloudscape, and the breeze rushing past my helmet, I wonder if there really is a Rattlesnake Bar. And if there is, suppose I went in there parched but didn’t know what to order? Would the rattlesnake bartender grin and then hiss, “Pick your poison?”

BUT I DIGRESS. Today’s mission would be two-fold. Job one: to put a few more miles on the GSA prior to my 18,000-mile service scheduled for tomorrow. Job two: after cleaning it and stripping away some of the touring accoutrements, see if my BMW’s sporting characteristics would steer me away from test riding both a Triumph Bonneville, a traditional British two-wheeler, and...

...a Moto Guzzi Breva, a sophisticated Italian beauty with lines that invite all kinds of passion. Both of these candidates offer traditional, old world, back when we wuz kids, wind-in-the-face riding and both currently sit on the showroom floor of A&S Power Sports where my beloved BMW regularly receives its physical.

After its bath, I lowered the GSA’s windscreen to deflect airflow on to me instead of over me. I removed the ponderous looking Jesse luggage and stood back. These modifications changed the world-circling nature of the big adventure touring bike, but not into some sort of a sport tourer. No, without these appendages, the do-anything machine looked a bit ungainly, rather like a big, red preying mantis on two wheels. But proof of the pudding is in the ride, so I set off for one of the Sacramento area’s riding Meccas: Salmon Falls Road east of Folsom.


SALMON FALLS ROAD starts in the bedroom community of El Dorado Hills and twists eastward past Folsom Lake joining state route 49 just north of Lotus. Its pavement is nicely maintained, sweeping curves well engineered and, with the crest of each hill, views enticing. This is a road sport bike riders like to blast through testing the limits of their equipment - particularly their tires - and their own mettle. On any Saturday, bikes with exotic exhaust systems scream by, sounding so much like angry wasps. A series of one, two, three crosses affixed to a rather stout guardrail suggest that not all the wasps survive. I make my pace leisurely.

Although the second of June when average temperatures range in the low 90s and rainfall is measured in wisps, a horrendous storm had blown through yesterday. Today, fair-weather clouds drift across an azure sky looking like a piece of Hallmark stationery one might select for use on a holiday letter or party announcement. The thermometer stretched to reach 70. Deer, who normally would be much higher in the hills, literally hang out in the roadway. I hope aggressive sport bike riders would remain aware.


ACHIEVING ROUTE 49, the “other end” of Rattlesnake Bar Road beaconed. Rattlesnake Bar Road used to connect the Newcastle area of Placer County with the Pilot Hill area of El Dorado. The construction of Folsom Dam inundated the old road. Now, it lays like two ends of an untied shoelace providing boat ramp access to the reservoir. While I frequent the Placer County side, I’d never tackled the nine miles in El Dorado.

On a really good day, one discovers a new road, and I had. Rattlesnake Bar is narrow and windy. The pavement does not receive regular maintenance. In many places, traffic, if there is any, needs to slow in order to safely pass. Oaks drape their stiff arms over the roadway in some sections. Brooks trace the edges here and there. Occasionally, the road tops a little hill offering stunning springtime views over the lake, across the valley, past the Sutter Buttes and off to the distant Coast Range. The hillsides are dotted with an odd mix of dwellings. Interspersed among old-time ranches replete with hay barns, fenced pastures and no trespassing signs are Tuscan style mansions with sweeping lawns and covered RV storage.

The full Folsom Lake makes a nice stopping point for note taking and the ten-dollar fare is reasonable given the financial straits our park system finds itself in.


I’D LOWERED THE WINDSCREEN on the GSA to experiment with where I might be hit by the blast when at speed. I thought that, perhaps, if the wind wasn’t directed at my helmet, and if my aging ears weren’t further deafened by the roar, I might avoid choosing between the Bonneville and the Breva as a second bike for simple Sunday tiddling. My little experiment involved riding at speeds up to 65 miles per hour as well as standing on the pegs to assess the wind-rush if I knew it was hitting my chest rather than the head. It is two hours later and my ears are still ringing.

Tomorrow while I wait, I’ll ride.


RESOURCES:

A&S Power Sports is one of the premier BMW dealers in the nation.  In the past two years they have added Ducati and Vespa.  Quite recently, they rounded out their Euro collection by obtaining the franchise for Triumph Motorcycles.  Genial.  Knowledgeable.  Dedicated.  Well-staffed.  Their tag-line suggests "It's about the ride."  Indeed it is.  They may be contacted at www.aspowersports.com

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

MORE ABOUT THAT “OTHER WOMAN” – RIDING THE ‘08 MOTO GUZZI BREVA

I TOOK A TEST RIDE on the 2008 Moto Guzzi Breva Sport today. The good folks at Elk Grove Powersports were kind enough to lead me on a nice spin through rural aspects of the valley out near the delta. I was very much taken by the 1200’s performance - not nasty fast but gracefully smooth; its styling - very Italiano: everything flows, everything tastes visually as only the Italians make things taste; and its solid fit and finish - it feels like a tank and floats like a feather all at the same time.


ALL THAT SENSORY STUFF said I did not jump today. There are too many pros and cons to weigh, however, the pros are very compelling. So like all good former manager/administrator/leaders, I made a list of plusses and minuses. Here goes:

+ It is an absolutely beautiful machine. It reminded me at first, of my 2000 BMW R1100R, the first bike I purchased when I reentered motorcycling about ten years back. It also recalls the “flying brick” era K1200RS BMW that a riding buddy nearly purchased. Both the Breva and the "K" are visually stunning in black with beautiful lines. Even the mirrors are hot looking.

+ The Breva’s excellent fit, finish and build quality are complemented by a gorgeous instrument cluster – retro, yet modern – and over-informative at the touch of a button.
+ The bike produces a wonderful exhaust note. I’m thinking “Tosca.”
- Seating - almost immediately, I thought, "Well nuts! The pegs are too close to the seat," but...
+ …after riding it just a bit, I realized there's something about the way the seat is positioned that doesn't pinch my hips – my old R1100 had this problem – prompting me to have to dismount and walk it off for several minutes in order to reconcentrate on the route.
- My legs are accordioned quite a bit more than on the GS but...
+ …my weight seems distributed more evenly between my butt and my shoulders, so I got the impression my rear end might not wear out as quickly because of this curious distribution of my weight.
+ The “bikini” faring is sexy and understated. There is no wind buffeting against my helmet, just a continual whoosh. I really liked this, reminded me of riding the KLR where the wind was part of the symphony.
- My nearest dealer is 40 miles away and the local dealer franchise has changed three times in the last eight years proving to be a bit of a moving target.
- Current dealer only has limited number of 2010-11 bikes in stock.
- Guzzi imported very few 2010 units. Rumor suggests they may be building only V-7s and Grissos this year according to another buyer on the floor. However, the Guzzi web site shows both Stelvio (big-bore dual sport) and Norge (long distance touring) models in their 2011 line up.
- I hold concern about the longevity of the marque, however, since its acquisition by Piaggio, that company’s appreciation for the Guzzi heritage should stand it in good stead for many years to come.
- Finally, there are much better things to do with eight thousand – make that nine thousand (with taxes and fees) American dollars, but…
+ …I can't think of what they might be right now.

AFTER THE TEST DRIVE, I took the 110-mile long way home on the GS, up through the foothills toward Georgetown in El Dorado County, stopping a couple of places along the way. This was an effort to rationalize NOT buying the thing. I came away thinking that the maximum usage of the Guzzi would be the 150-mile picnic ride through the foothills or up the coast if ever we were to locate in that direction. The bike would be absolutely perfect for such duty. It would be NOT nearly as good as the GSs for the Gold Country – Monterey Coast tour undertaken a couple of weeks back. At least not with my long inseam.

This machine is something I do not need, but boy, oh, boy, it is like driving a Maseratti with a base price of entry below 8 grand. Pinch me. I am strongly considering a purchase. I have told the sales manager I will call her on Thursday with a yes or no.

THE “OTHER WOMAN” – PART III OR THE ACT OF RATIONALIZATION AS APPLIED TO THE BREVA SPORT

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”

Dad quoting John Keats to Mom – seldom with any success

“Don’t knock rationalization. Where would we be without it? I don’t know anyone who can get through the day without two or three juicy rationalizations. They’re more important than sex… Ever gone a week without a rationalization?”

Geoff Goldbloom portraying Michael, 

a “People Magazine” stringer, 

in Lawrence Kasdan’s classic 

“The Big Chill”

THERE’S A 2008 MOTO GUZZI BREVA SPORT – brand new – sitting at the Guzzi dealer in Elk Grove, California. (Note – all salespeople of this fabled Italian marque are taught to somehow place a ‘t’ sound in the word Guzzi – making it “GOOT-see” not “GOOZ-ee.” This practice make us lookie-loos feel like neophytes if we let it.) Moto Guzzi has been building motorcycles on the shores of Lake Como in Mandello del Lario, Northern Italy, since 1921. (BMW started in ’22.) Guzzi uses a drive shaft to connect a transverse mounted 90-degree “v” twin engine in a frame. Two wheels are applied and somehow they come up with more than the sum of the parts. Italians do this a lot.

Piaggio SpA

The Breva in question has a rich coat of paint so finely polished that one feels as if something’s going to come away wet if one touches it. The 2008 being the last of the three- or four-year run of the Breva model, the Guzzi factory adorned the front in with a this-year-only bikini fairing said to push a bit of the wind away from the rider’s body, but leaving enough to remind the rider he or she is riding. It sports a broadening white stripe and flying eagle badge harkening back to the original logo of decades past. Moto-journalists commented that at first, the Breva Sport appears to be a rolling piece of art. Guzzi aficionado Danillo Gurovich (his blog: “As the Dude Abides”) says that this bike could be the mount for “the most interesting man in the world” of Dos Equis fame. Having ridden one for an extended test, he tells us “Guzzis are the ‘Saabs of Motorcycles.’ Always respected for conservative yet stout engineering, comfortable and quirky.” Clement Salvadori (Rider Magazine, January 2008) commented that all the factory need do is let the riding public know this bike is out there.

Well it was out there. Its four valve engine has given way to an eight valve engine set in a redesign now known as the Griso – a hot bike in and of itself. Like the last of any run of anything, either they sell out right away at retail and appreciate, or they sit for a while as the price lowers itself to some market-driven floor. That’s what has happened to the Breva. Now three years old but still brand new, the dealer is pushing this model at a five thousand five hundred dollar discount ($5500.00) off of retail. The beast could be mine for a mere eight grand!


THAT’S WHERE THE RATIONALIZATION ENTERS. Readers know that my BMW R1200GS Adventure is considered by many both in and out of the moto-press as the best motorcycle on the planet. It is a comfortable tourer, a competent sporting machine and it does not shy away from gravel roads or the trackless reaches of the most remote places on earth. I like mine a lot. It is as reliable as a Swiss watch, as loyal as a pound puppy and the service I’ve received from my local BMW store has always been top notch, if a bit pricy at times. But many suggest that BMW service is pricy no matter where you go. Something about the excellence of German engineering and the similar excellence one might expect when service is rendered. So, no complaints, just realization about the price of admission. Still, the Guzzi costs less to maintain – or so I’ve read. That would be rationalization number 1.

mbike.com

Number two might be how the folks from Mandello del Lario blended simple function with timeless form. The lines of the Breva seem to flow over the air-cooled engine as if designed by the wind for the wind. The little fairing leads the eye up and over a sculpted tank, dipping into a seat that the press proclaims as most comfortable and an “all-dayer.” Finally there is a luggage rack feathered into the line rather than bolted on. BMW accomplished something similar with their 1996-2001 R1100R roadster, one of which I owned when I reentered motorcycling about ten years ago. Both are bikes one can simply sit next to and look at. I’ve personally wasted hours. From the front, the Guzzi’s V-twin is physically more compact than the engine in the German marque. It gives the impression of being muscular and svelte all at the same time. Like me.

Third might come the riding experience. The GSA does everything very, very well, including protecting the rider from the wind. The Breva won’t address a forest service road and it clearly won’t keep all the wind away, but among the essences of motorcycling is the freedom associated with the wind in one’s face. Think James Dean, Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper. Think Egan and McQueen. Think “On Any Sunday.”

I have talked myself into reserving a test ride on this, the last of the Breva breed. My bank account will be very pleased if the bike hurtles and lurches like a piece of space junk about to incinerate upon re-entry into the atmosphere. My heart tells me that the press is probably right about this functional piece of art. My head is struggling with whether or not to bring along the checkbook.

***

RESOURCES:

As the Dude Abides

Dan Gurovich maintains an excellent blog called “As the Dude Abides” focusing, in part, on the Guzzi marque. His is an insightful resource for those considering a Goose.  Danilo took this portrait of the 1200 Sport during his week-long extended test.  His work may be accessed at: http://danilogurovich.wordpress.com/

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

REVISITING THE “OTHER WOMAN”

THE LAST TWO WEEKS OF DECEMBER, riders enter the icy basement of the touring season. Days are short. Temperatures dip below freezing and sometimes stay there. The motorcycle is mothballed into a dark crevice of the garage, oil drained, tank topped, battery on slow charge. Draped over the revered chrome and paint is a blanket or two – protection from the elements of the darkened shop. Atop the blanket are misplaced tools, waiting to be rehung or recabineted, or a derelict shop rag. Indeed, the mighty motorcycle, singular pride of the owner, has been demoted to little more that a storage shelf.

During these days, and about through the end of February, riders stay inside by the fire with a cup of coffee or a dram of something stronger. They pour over maps and guidebooks. Motorcycle periodicals are read forward, backward and forward again. Local dealers are visited by folks knowing it’s safe to look, even to touch, but unsafe to test ride in icy conditions. Polite salespeople make conversation resigned that this is the season of low commission.

(c) Ducati SpA - USA

I HAD YET TO “CUT THINGS OFF” or “make things right” with the “other woman.” A shipping blanket covers my GSA and, while I think longingly of the open road on that great machine, I still can’t avoid thinking of the little Ducati, her fluid lines and accommodating – even inviting - pillion and how responsive and lithe she might feel in a series of twisting switchbacks or running free along a high straightaway in the forested high country. In idle times, I am serenaded by the throaty report of her Termi exhausts and recall how the Italians understand form, function, color and sound and how these elements always seem to add up to something exotic and sensual. Something out of reach to the likes of me.

Removing a shop rag and a couple of end wrenches from the blanketed BMW, I shake myself into sensibleness and realize I must end it. I must make it down to the Ducati dealer, confront the little GT1000 and tell her that it is never to be.

Driving to the dealer, I expect the 2008 to be off in a corner, a dark place out of the traffic pattern for the dealer. Last time I was down there, I really had to look for her.

“Ducati builds motorcycles for a different market,” the salesman had said. “The retro style on this bike may be what you and I want, but apparently, the Ducatisti are looking for something else.”

“Too bad for them,” I tell him.

“I can make you a deal,” he says.

(c) Ducati SpA - USA

Ducati has discontinued the so-called sport-classic line. The last of the 2009s were marketed as 2010s and most dealers aren’t ordering up examples for show rooms. Now, on the cusp of another new year, the inventory has dwindled and few – very few – new ones are left on dealer floors anywhere. Still, I expect the silver and gray ’08 to be off in a cold corner, much like my BMW at home, waiting for someone to introduce her to one of those byways in the spring.

It won’t be me, however. I’m cutting her off. I’m not going to straddle her broad, comfortable seat, or twist her eager throttle. I’m not going to pull her clutch and shift through her five or six gears. I’m not going to sit there and imagine the songs her exhausts might sing. I’m just going to tell the salesman that she and I need some time. Alone.


I OPEN THE DOOR to the dealership and am immediately recognized. Without rising from the sales desk to shake my hand, I am told, “She’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yep, gone.” Now the salesman rises. “Last week.”

I want to walk over to the dark corner of the show room just to make sure.

“Trust me.”

I stop. “How much?”

“You really want to know?”

“No.”

“Just under eighty-five hundred.”

“That, that bitch.”

“Wh- what?”

“She sold for two grand less than retail?”  I am incredulous.

He shakes his head: “Three grand.”

I slump into the chrome-legged customer chair at the sales desk, and hang my head, muttering.

After a time, the salesman says, rather pointedly, “You gonna buy something today?”


NORMALLY, despondency is cured by a couple of hours riding some back road. But today, the outside temperature is 38. A covering of tule fog tells me that 38 is all it will get to be. I sit in the cab of my pickup wondering about what might have been. Condensation fogs the windows. It takes nearly five minutes for the glass to clear and during that time I determine I’ll take the long way home.

Traveling east on Auburn Boulevard, I pass the usual businesses – the muffler shop, the pancake house, the topless “gentleman’s” club, the Triumph dealer.

The Triumph dealer!

I wheel in.

(c) TriumphUK

In the window - looking like an earthy, late-sixties counter-culture lass, one dressed in well-worn khaki and flannel, rugged, yet steeped in a mellowness perhaps the result of several cannabis-fueled summer evenings singing by a roaring Humboldt County beach campfire – an old-looking new Bonneville. The T-100 model. Nineteen inch front wheel. Pea-shooter pipes. Tank, a luscious cream over chocolate with hand-painted coach lines.

With both feet lightly planted on the showroom floor, I lift the bike off her sidestand, pull in the clutch and twist the throttle. I wonder what she’ll sing to me on the road.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

THE “OTHER WOMAN”

“It was great fun, but it was just one of those things.”

- Cole Porter

I COVET MY NEIGHBOR’S Ducati. But not just his. Damned near any Ducati. The other day, somewhere along highway 49 between Downieville and Sierra City, as I was going up the hill, a couple of Ducatis were coming down. One, a red GT 1000, had the after-market Termignoni exhaust creating a bike that not only looks intoxicating but sounds sensual. I coveted it.

For a few moments, my suddenly lunky R1200GSA was transformed into a lithe Italian exotic, one with which I imagined myself dancing. The bends in the road were merely steps in a grand waltz composed off-handedly by Puccini, perhaps as he took a break from writing Tosca. The steel tank, cold and smooth, the work of Bartolini, sculpted from pure Carraran marble. And the sound? Lyric poetry. An endless loop of Sophia Loren whispering the works of Eugenio Montale inside my helmet. I traced the clear waters of the north Yuba with its spangles of sunlight glinting and reflecting off this confluence of art and engineering and song. Dancing. Singing. No longer on 49, I’d gone to another place. The Dolomites? Maybe heaven.


THERE’S A BRAND NEW TWO-YEAR-OLD GT 1000 sitting at a local Ducati showroom. Gray with a silver stripe applied as only the Italians can. It’s been there for some time. I make excuses to run errands down that way, simply to drop in, see if it’s still on the floor – perversely hoping that it's not – and settle on its broad sculpted seat. I lean forward and place both hands on the grips, twisting the throttle, pulling the clutch. Instantly, I am riding the Stelvio Pass with its 48 hairpins to the top of the Alps.

The salesman approaches: “I’m Bob.”

“I’m Dave.”

“I thought so.”

He sees my quizzical look.

“Yeah, I knew it because this bike’s been calling your name ever since I unlocked this morning.”

“Ahh,” I muse aloud. “The covetation is mutual, I suppose.”

“Huh?”


THERE’S A POINT on Highway 49 east of the scenic overlook of the Sierra Valley where a primitive road breaks off and courses north and west through broken granite and past twisted pines into the heart of the Lakes Basin. I adjust the big Beemer’s pre-load and rumble over rocks and through ruts imagining myself the first to have experienced the crystalline Sierra Buttes sprouting up over the ridge beyond. I find myself back in reality, surrounded by incomparable beauty atop a machine that can do “Ducati” – and do this.

Thus, my face is slapped. I wince and shake my head.

I vow that I will never again visit that showroom and straddle that temptress, never again run my hands across her cool and shapely tank, never picture her in my darkened garage waiting eagerly to take me for another ride of my life. Never again wonder “what if?”

Never again covet.


FIRST, HOWEVER, I must go to the dealer and tell the gray GT that we’re through. It’s the honorable thing.

© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press

State Route 1 - Marin and Sonoma Counties

STATE ROUTE 1 – MARIN AND SONOMA COUNTIES




[February 2009] THE MISSION WAS SIMPLE. Transport Jessica’s 1000 cc Ducati Monster from the repair shop in San Rafael, forty-eight miles to her home in Healdsburg where she would put the thing up for sale. Seems the S2R race bike was too formidable as a first bike for a fledgling rider. One flop and seventeen hundred dollars in repairs later and Jessica was done with it. So as a favor to my daughter, at 10:30 AM on a Saturday, at Hattar’s Ducati of Marin just off the 101, I thumbed the starter and blipped the throttle. A reflexive and grin broke across my face. I knew was that this mission would something a little more than simply driving 48 miles north on the 101, if I made it so.

The forecast called for rain. I had packed my rain suit just for such an eventuality. However, in Marin, the sky was only slightly overcast with the temperature kissing the underside of 60.

Unlike the mellow response of the 1150 BMW, the Ducati rumbles and seethes and so wants to sprint wherever it is pointed. The on-ramp from Francisco Boulevard West to US 101 was the first indication. I found myself not blending into the traffic flow: rather I was knifing into it. The silver-gray S2R transformed me into one of those crotch-rocket riders folks decry and I simply shake my head at.

The first exit was mine and it took me to Sir Francis Drake Boulevard – the route from the cocktail suburbs of the 101 corridor to the bucolic pasturelands of west Marin. Those verdant fields within the morning fog-line of the California coast. In this short stretch, the environment transformed from diesel exhaust and impatient drivers of Mercedes, Infinitis and Acuras jockeying to be first at the light – to the sweet stench of cow manure, alder and redwood fireplace smoke and to folks on motorcycles waving joyously at the completion of what, for me, would be an adventure up the coast.

Especially the Ducatista. (Rhymes with “Sandinista.”)

Once out of the Saturday go-to-Whole-Foods traffic, the stop and go, and getting use to the clatter and pull of an abominable clutch, I could think for a moment about the Ducatista. In fact, this afternoon, I could be one. I’d already ridden like one. I could think like one – cavalier. I could suck in my belly and dress like one. I could wave like one. On-coming Ducati riders never raise their left hand to wave when passing. They simply drop it from the handlebar and open their palm – giving a rocket-fueled “low five” as they whiz by.

And best of all, I could park with them!

ROUTE 1 FROM OLEMA divides the pastureland of the Olema Creek drainage. Cattle grow fat on one side of the road. Sheep shear the grass on the other. Farm homes built in the early twentieth century dot large tracts of green rangeland and highway one rises over small hills and sweeps around others. Traffic is thin and only bunches up behind the occasional motor home, which should, by law, be banned from all such roads.

At a relaxed fifty-five miles per hour, the Duc whispers a sultry tone. Lulled, just a bit, I begin thinking about the ergos of the machine. This is considered a standard. A naked bike. There is no wind protection and the seating is upright. While the fairing on my BMW directs the wind right at my helmet, riding the Duc, the wind is constant but the noise is subdued. And unlike the Beemer, the Monster is not built for folks with a 34-inch inseam. The bike is designed for a normal length person – a rider the size of Jessica. My long legs are coiled between a short seat and high pegs, but they are not crying to uncoil. The reach to the handlebar is just right and business at either end easy to conduct – save for the clutch pull. The throttle likes to be blipped but does not like driving at idle in trafficked situations. The front brake is massive but I must remember that it is neither anti-lock nor is it linked to the rear. The switchgear is amazing simple: thumb left to indicate left; thumb right to indicate right; and simply push the thing to cancel. BMW should have figured this out. The silver-gray tank has a bold black racing stripe painted to the right of center and while by another law, in my mind, every Ducati should be painted red, the color on this one works well.

Two Multi-Stradii (Latin – plural of ‘strada’) and a “ten-nine-eight” pass giving the perfunctory low-five salute. I reciprocate. I belong.

I belong because in a few miles I enter the community of Point Reyes Station. It is noon and my Jack-in-the-Box breakfast has worn off. On the left is the Point Reyes Station Café and out front, three Multi-Stradii, a 900i Monster, a Tri-Colore and an older BMW R1100 GS. Even had I been on my RT, I probably could have parked here, but on the little Duc, I knew that I must. I switched off the ignition and swung my leg over the seat. Immediately, I caught the gaze of other riders and sucked in my belly. I fumbled to figure out where to hang the helmet on the bike and just as immediately, blew my cover.

“Clam Chowder and a Coke,” I requested upon entering the café.

“Clam chowder. That’s what folks come to the coast for,” replied the waitress.

“Actually,” I didn’t say, “I came to the coast to wring out this Ducati S2R before it was sold out of the family.” I just ate my soup, tipped nicely and left.


FOR SOME REASON, the route north along Tomales Bay is posted at 35 miles per hour. The road is relatively straight and the adjacent bay affords nice sight lines. One could go faster.

Apparently not the one driving the seventeen-year-old Corolla in front of me. Apparently, this person thought the speed limit sign was quoted as saying “31.” The line was double yellow. I didn’t have the registration for this bike. I didn’t want to do something untoward. Yet, after four or five excruciating miles, there was a straight stretch that I assumed the 96 horsepower L twin might make short work of.

Out I pulled. I cracked the throttle with great purpose. I’d never done a wheelie before. Always thought they were a dangerous act promulgated by riders with reptilian size brains. I’m sure, however, that the driver of the Corolla thought I was just another moron on a motorcycle more interested in speed than in enjoying God’s handiwork along the California coast.

About the time the front wheel touched down, huge raindrops began to spatter the face shield of my helmet. My rain suit was strapped to the back. Now, I would either need to pull over and let Mr. Slo-Mo pass me in his antique Toyota, or ride a good distance getting a good soaking, until I could hop off, toss on the rain suit and get back out on the highway before the offending (or offended) driver overtook me. I opted for the latter and throttled down from my unintended 78 to a more reasonable 10 over.


IN ALL OF MY ADVENTURES on the BMW, I don’t think I’d ever visited this lower section of Highway 1. Once into Bodega Bay, however, the route was familiar. The ride just different. While the Beemer takes the curves and twists of the coastal roads with ease, the Duc charges and dives into them. The Beemer’s aristocratic approach is calm and controlled. The Duc’s breathless.

After 90 minutes in the saddle, I am now developing a one-ness with this machine. Everything works well. Its reflexes are athletic and exciting. It sticks nicely to the road and it inspires my confidence to plunge into turn after turn with enthusiasm.
I’ve decided that I’ll always have a BMW, but I’d most certainly consider a Ducati as a second bike.

At Bodega, I use the cell phone to check in with Jessica and her mom. “No, I won’t be joining you for lunch…”

“Bodega Bay…” I ho-hum, feigning terribly-sorry-I’m-going-to-miss-lunch-with-you.

“Probably Jenner.” I ho-hum some more.

“A couple of more hours, perhaps…” Ho-hum.

“Oh, it rides okay, I guess…” Ho-hum.

“Yes, I’m having fun, I suppose…” HO-hum.

“No. No. Don’t wait for me…” Sigh.

“Probably about 4:00. Maybe before…”

I take a moment to call my riding buddy who lives in Washington State. “Unless you are kissing the prettiest girl in the world at this very moment, I’m having a hell of a lot more fun than you are,” I suggest, adding: “Ha ha!”

“Do tell,” he replies.

THE BLUFFS BETWEEN BODEGA and the mouth of the Russian River are those typical of the Northern California Coast. They are steep, rugged and while scenic, quite foreboding. It is said that the eastward expansion of the Russian empire was halted because the Washington-Oregon-California coastline rarely afforded safe harbor.  The Russians did build a community. Fort Ross. North several kilometers from the mouth of the river. John Sutter, arguably king of the Central Valley some eighty miles to the east, did business with them. But the Russians never ventured inland, never gaining foothold in the golden state. The riches with which they found satisfaction came in the form of sea otter pelts. A persistent and cold coastal fog, it seems, masked other openings to the inland and the Russian foray into North America was easily halted by the Spanish-later-Mexican-later-Californio dominance of the region.

The ride along these bluffs carries one back to those untamed days. Thoughts of weeks or months at sea. Longing for landfall. Then seeing angry waves chewing at these rocky cliffs. Knowing there is no place to moor. No getting off. How long and discouraging the trip back to Alaska would be.

I didn’t turn inland at Jenner and didn’t follow the Russian River to Healdsburg. Instead, I wanted to let this little Ducati gobble up just a bit more coastline. Climbing out of the river course on the north side of the Russian River, California State Route 1 corkscrews like those roads one might imagine grace the Dolomites of Central Italy. The bike loves everything about this section except for the Buicks that are driven by people who have confused their sedans with a motor home.

Half way to the top of the hill is a secondary road. Meyers Grade. “Narrow Road. Sharp Curves. Next 9 Miles.” Don’t bother asking me twice.

Meyers Grade courses northward while Highway 1 veers to the north-northwest following the coastline. No big sedans or motor homes here. The pavement is broken and patched with splotches of asphalt. The little bike jumps and chatters over them and I can feel my fillings begin to loosen in my teeth.

Atop the ridge is a narrower and windier road breaks off to the east. It is an adventure waiting to be experienced. Every new road is. Foolishly, I think this. Because, if it’s paved, then somebody’s been there before, right? So what can be the adventure? But I suspend disbelief and turn eastward. I love roads not taken by others.

Called Fort Ross Road, it descends into nameless stream courses and canyons. I wouldn’t engage in the following, however, if I were to engage in the following, a sunny spot on a hill side in one of these nameless stream courses would be the ideal place to do it, I’m sure. Moderate climate. Ample moisture. Filtered sunlight. Seclusion. A number of perfect spots for tiny, independent pharmaceutical plantations, I would suspect. Wonder if anyone’s ever thought of doing that in these parts. I mean, they do moonshine in the hollows of Appalachia, banjo music begins to strum inside my brain, why not dope here?

I drive in and out of curves and past innumerable side roads that lead to houses and hovels and wonder about the people who live in rural Sonoma County. What do they do? Where do their kids attend school? How close is the nearest store? Or bakery. Are they on the grid or off?

Cazadero, a mile or two further on, offers an answer to the school question. And the bakery question.


IN SHORT ORDER, I find myself back on a major highway, swinging through Guerneville and making a left onto Westside Road. This will take me to Healdsburg past the site of the place where Jessica took her spill on her new (to her) and very able machine. This one.

I fill up at a station about a half-mile from my daughter’s house and think: The Ducati is sweet: far too much bike for my dear little kid to handle, but an intoxicating blend of Italian styling, sensual whispers and incredible road manners. Wish I had room in my garage.



© 2009
Church of the Open Road Press