SELECTING A CYCLE

 

“Don’t trust everything you read on the Internet.”

- Abraham Lincoln

Returning to my old office of employ, my former secretary said, “My son is thinking of getting back into motorcycling.”  I cringed a bit.  “He doesn’t quite know what he wants, but I told him to log into the Church of the Open Road and see what’s there.”  I cringed some more.  (See Lincoln’s quote, above.)

Most everybody’s initial foray into the sport of two-wheeled travel is a shot in the dark.  So many makes and models to choose from!  What to own?  My first bike was a 90cc Honda.  It was great for putting around town and knocking out some forest service roads up in the hills, but getting to those dirt roads was a bit more problematic.  As I raced up (and I do mean “up”) state highway 32 toward Forest Ranch at 27 miles per hour, even at seventeen years of age, I knew the bike wasn’t intended for the demands I was asking. 

My daughter’s experience is similar yet different.  Her soon-to-be husband had come home on a Triumph Bonneville Black – one of the Hinckley models.  Daughter went for a spin on the back and wondered why we hadn’t told her what a blast motorcycle riding could be.  She took the course, got her license and some gear and went shopping.  She fell in love with what would become her first – and only – bike: a 2007 Ducati Monster S2R.  No amount of counsel could convince her that something a bit more mild would be a better selection for the new rider.  One first-day spill and the thing was sold.

My secretary told me that her son’s first bike was one of those lean over motorcycles and this time he was looking for something he could sit up straight on.  He’ll have a fire-related job up in the mountains this summer and would like something to commute on.

I immediately thought of the KLR 650 I’d owned a while back.  The thing could clip along at highway speeds.  For sight seeing on back roads and forest service routes, the thing was terrific.  But, the handling wasn’t too precise and the brakes were anything but state of the art.  Still the upright-ness is good as long as her son’s inseam isn’t as short as my brother-in-law’s.  He’d straddled the Kawi once and could barely reach the garage floor using the tips of his toes. 

I reverted to son-in-law’s Bonneville Black, recently sold.  There’s a bike with some solid engineering, a moderate sit-up position, and cool retro looks - especially the McQueen signature Scrambler derivative.  Downsides might include the weight and the fact that in the mountains or far northern California, it might be tough to find a nearby dealership.

My two current rides are a BMW 1200 GSA – probably too big and undoubtedly too expensive for an I-wanna-save-money-on-my-commute livery – and my beloved and thus-far rock solid Guzzi Breva – see issues with dealer networks.

There are a ton of great bikes to choose from now.  Honda, Yamaha, Kawasaki and Suzuki are all producing some mid-weight bikes that are reliable and economical.  They come in a range of styles and seating positions and dealers are always close by.  Triumph has some 800cc Adventure triples and BMW some 800 Adventure twins that set butterflies loose in my tummy.  A Ducati Monster would be fabulous on the paved mountain roads where I know the young man will be stationed.  Not so hot off the tarmac.

What counsel I would offer this young man? 

Substance over style:  Determine where you’re going to ride, why, and on what surfaces.  Cross out anything on the list that doesn’t match.  Those bikes you check off will be there when your riding circumstance changes – and it will.

Dealer network:  If he lacks the mechanical skills I lack, having someone within shoutin’ distance who can keep the thing in top condition will only lengthen the life of the machine and greatly increase the enjoyment of ownership.

Fit:  Sit on several making sure your feet can rest firmly on terra firma at full stop.  Ensure the relationship between the handlebars, seat and pegs don’t cramp your style.  (After an hour on my old R65, I routinely had to stop, get off, and reestablish blood flow to my butt and joints associated with my hips.)  After you’ve narrowed it down, insist on as lengthy a test ride as the dealer will allow.  Sitting on it in the showroom and operating it on the highway are two completely different arenas.  Both need to be experienced, with the fit on the road being, by far, more important.

Research:  Read reviews from multiple sources and be prepared to eliminate that favorite bike that the press just can’t seem to get its arms around.  Look also for user reviews.  (I just eliminated the BSA 441 Victor from my wish list because circa 1969 reviews I found on line made the thing – new – seemed like it falling in love with a beautiful woman who had no intention of loving you in return.)

Gear:  Get good gear and wear it all the time while riding.  (Click the Church’s ATGATT label at the bottom of this post to link to some thoughts.)

Training and skill:  This is the most important consideration of all.  If you haven’t been riding in a while, take the MSF safety course.  Again.  The stuff you forget or the stuff you’re rusty on will be the stuff that gets you hurt.

I know the area where my secretary’s son will be summering. I used to live up that way myself.  I know the bike I’d want to have if I were blessed with the opportunity to ride those ranges.  But I’m not going to share that thought here, because what I’d choose bears no relationship with some other rider’s needs.  I hope my secretary’s son finds the perfect bike for him and that it will bring him great pleasure and very little pain.  I also hope he looks further than the Church of the Open Road for advice.  (See the quote from Abe Lincoln at the top of this piece.)

© 2012

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