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Announcement: "Twist The Throttle" Sportbike Documentary premieres at Discovery Turbo!
“The Honda Myth: The Genius and His Wake” - Go Read It!
Published May 10th, 2008 in Reviews. 0 Comments
A few weekends back I was kicking tires and telling lies inside the paddock during the AMA races at Fontana when the topic of Honda Motor Corp’s rapid historical ascent to the top spot in worldwide manufacturing came up in conversation. Even though I’ve clearly been hooked by the uniquely articulated passion of the Italian motorcycle industry, I’m not naive enough to ignore the tremendous historical contributions and implications that the Japanese motorcycle industry, and the Honda Motor Corp. in specific, has offered to motorcycling in general. In relatively short order, a mere twenty to thirty years post World War II, Honda went from a bit player in Japan to a dominant force worldwide. That’s an amazing amount of growth and a tremendous story to say the least.
My fascination with the brand’s history undoubtedly hit a high point during the Twist The Throttle shoot, when we visited one of the Honda factories in Japan and spent time with some of their folks inside their Tokyo headquarters. The way their “associates” (what Honda call its employees) spoke about the brand seemed remarkably different then the rest of the companies we visited. They were equally as passionate, but in a much more concrete way - almost as if the presence of Soichiro Honda still existed.
The tangible nature of the old man’s impact is one of the key differences that separates Honda from the other brands, partially I suspect because unlike the founders of Suzuki or Kawasaki for example, both of which started in the late eighteen-hundreds and in completely different business, Soichiro is still part of the company’s relatively ‘modern’ history. In the grand scheme of things, he really hasn’t been gone all that long. Therefore the fact that his drive and ambition still strongly echo probably should be all that surprising to the general motorcycle fan.
As I recounted my respect for what I’d seen and for what Soichiro accomplished, one of the folks I highly respect in the moto-landscape suggested that if I really was curious about how Honda got its start, then I ought to pick up a copy of “The Honda Myth: The Genius and His Wake” by Masaaki Sato (a former writer for the Nikkei paper in Japan, which is effectively their equivalent of the Wall Street Journal)… More After the jump… Continue reading ‘“The Honda Myth: The Genius and His Wake” - Go Read It!’
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The bike is running at a wicked pace through a pristine slice of California Wine Country, which sits on the edge of a desert that’s exploding with change, when all the pieces start to finally connect again. Suddenly. Effortlessly. Easily. It all makes sense, as if that much desired and somewhat foreign ‘see no evil, do no evil’ reality has once again been reborn.
What an incredible difference just a few days can make…
Gunning the engine, there’s a wail of interaction, an everlasting echo running through the canyon walls, and a touch of excitement as the bike downshifts and I begin a symbiotic dance through the turns. Bits of breaking meet a touch of front-end dive and a long, low, lasting tilt. It’s a much-needed change, especially after a few rides that bordered on the dysfunctional, or at least the emotionally downtrodden.
By the time the road begins to truly tighten and constrict the very civilization I’m escaping, everything feels ideal – and nothing it seems is going to be able to upset either the bike or myself today. Absolutely nothing… What a wondrous feeling… Continue reading ‘The Puzzle Comes Together’
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[Photo by Rick Clemson]
The sun is well past its prime and I’m feeling unbelievably angry — angry at the motorcycle, angry at the mountain, angry at myself, even angry at the new CRG levers…
Because I waited to long to get on the bike and just go…
I let the day slip past me under the false pretenses of a cloud-covered disguise and a morning filled with wasted time. Now halfway through the ride, my penance seems to be a road that’s permeated by an apprehensive collection of near constant tension.
It’s the kind of strain I try to avoid by going for a ride in the first place – but today it lurks under the asphalt like a hunter stalking its prey. Holding low, hiding out, just waiting to see your weaknesses. Waiting for that one single mistake when it capitalize and take charge for the foreseeable future.
And I can feel it bearing down… With each flick of the front end…
The strain of its eyes. The heat from its breath. The emotional turmoil it creates within. It’s the kind of foreboding thought-process that somehow ensnares you - traps you in a self-fulfilling circular prophecy written in your own continual failure.
Worst of all, you witness at each bend in the road; within a missed mark or an overtly loose line or that one stone that somehow stand tall right at the apex… And right now I find myself feeling this amazingly powerful sense of internal rage – the kind of raw, bitter, unrelenting anger that I haven’t felt in ages – because I can’t shake this feeling, I can’t just enjoy the ride, and perhaps most importantly because I – and I alone - created it in the first place…
I decided far to late in the day to go for a ride when I clearly lacked the mental space to enjoy it, and now I’m paying the price, one corner at a time.
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Earlier this week MCN, which is one of my favorite moto-mags, ran a bit about Twist The Throttle! I haven’t seen a copy of the article yet, but because the gang at MCN is so web literate, they asked us to cut a new promotional trailer for the series… Enjoy 
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It’s been a rock’n few weeks for riding — With the weather turning, the skies clearing (relatively speaking) and a bit more free time then usual, I’ve some how managed to rack up just over a 1,000 miles thus far this month. While that’s just a drop in the bucket for the high mileage crowd, for me it’s historically quite good. Also probably explains why I’ve felt rather relaxed - even on days when the weather went to hell and the bike got tossed about, because there was always ‘tomorrow’ or the ‘next ride’… There’s simply something quite comforting about knowing that you’re actively - and perhaps excessively - engaging in the sport of riding and doing it with a regular consistency… Of course from my perspective, the best part is that there’s still thirteen days left on the calendar So a really good month might become a really great one rather quickly…
As some of you might have noticed, while I’ve been racking up the miles, they’ve been almost exclusively on the ST3. There’s a good reason for that - The 1098S had it’s first real mechanical mishap since I got it last year. Air managed to seep into the clutch line and while I’m mechanically inclined, it seemed like a better use of time to let the boys at Pro Italia deal with it while I got some much needed riding in. I suppose that’s one the strange contradictions of owning multiple bikes, if it’s a beautiful day and one of the bikes is down for whatever reason, I’m much more apt to get out and ride the other one then fret over what’s wrong with the bike in question… And while the 1098S was in the shop, I had the PI boys install some new bling that MotorMilt (aka the old man) had picked up for me over the holidays; a pair of brilliantly gold ’shorty’ CRG levers. While I totally dig the ‘look’ thus far I’m not sure if I’m sold on them or not - perhaps it’s just that I’ve gotten used to the standard Ducati lever set and they feel ‘comfortable’ to me. Time will tell I guess… I figure I’ve got thirteen days to see how they get going
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Sliding over the saddle, I duck to the inside. Bask in the sunshine and feel the harmony of the bike, the road and the reason come together. The tires grab the chunky asphalt and tilt to the match the moment. It’s fast and swift and marvelous.
All the ingredients of perfection.
Twisting my neck, I stare down the edge of a peripheral vision. Try to connect with what’s remotely perceptible. Watch the yellow lines comfortably contort around the side of the mountain before they disappear behind the next jutting collection of rocks and weeds. An L-Twin revolution later and I’m aiming for the apex as the bike begins to hit its marks… When I feel violence descend…
A ferociously evil, nasty gust of wind rushes down the face of the mountain. With an instant and unrelenting velocity that’s impossible to ignore or avoid.
The bike stands straight up. With deathly immediacy. The tires get tossed. Wickedly. The moment turns awkward and uncontrollable. A sense of helplessness drowns out the whirl of the engine and any remnants of joy. I feel my heart rate skyrocket while it jackhammers away at my chest. Then there’s an instant sensation of dread. A moment of panic. And a half a second later, a day which seemed destined for the divine suddenly becomes nothing but chaos as the bike simply floats three-feet towards the edge of the outside of the corner… All by itself.
Straight away I feather the brakes. Try to remain calm. Try to regain a sense of composure. And then I look up… At oblivion… And watch the last vestiges of my confidence swirl away into a rising spiral of ether in a completely unbeknownst manor. I’m alleviated of any illusions that I’m the one that’s in charge.
The sand kicks up. The rocks on the side of the road jingle. Debris soars as I continue to veer off course. The brightly shinning guardrail radiating with a sense of destiny – and beyond that lies mortal disaster. Hundreds and hundreds of feet of falling.
Quickly I force myself to snap out of it - or at least try to - and ignore the target-fixation that’s crimping my mind. Squinting at the apex while trying to look through the dust, I find myself thinking, “You’ve got to do something – Now!”
It’s an immediate and omnipresent thought. Instinctually I start pushing on the inside handlebars — and praying. To whom I have no idea, but as the bike begins to battle the atmospheric pressure it seems like a damn good idea. At a moment like this, what’s there to lose anyway?
Of course this theological indecision is nothing new, even the Greeks couldn’t quite figure out who ruled the wind. At various points in their mythological history they believed that one of seven different deities controlled the flow of air. And the confusion didn’t stop there - Most scholars believe that Aeolus was the most famous of the wind gods and there were merely three different variants of him throughout the ages. Apparently humanity has always held a certain kind of indecisiveness when it comes to convection currents. Continue reading ‘An Angry Mountain That Needs Some Respect’
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Darks clouds hang overhead with a clinical like mortality that seems to last forever. It’s a void of color floating with soulless conviction and it somehow seems capable of penetrating even the most hopeful thoughts and feelings. And there’s no escape. No relief. No sunshine to save the day. Nothing but doom and gloom and uneasiness to shadow your every action. The kind of internal turmoil, which got me on the bike in the first place.
Consciously I try to ignore the apprehension and quell the internal shuffling of the deck as I charge up the face of the mountain. But the hills, which are normally inviting, docile creatures, seem shallower and more confined. They spread their brash pessimism over the open road. Covering the correct ‘lines’ with doubt and confusion while leading you astray. They gnaw away at your sense of conviction. Hunting down that elusive sense of release and relaxation bit by bit. Instead offering nothing but a platter full of antagonism.
When the backend steps out for the third time, it’s clear that the dark, dangerous, forbidding clouds are signaling their dominance over the day at hand. The more you push, the more they tighten their grip, until eventually you come to realize that no matter what you do, the fate of the ride rests in their hands. They are the ones that are in control.
And yet there’s an odd harmony to the day.
Once you make the jump and stand back, it becomes obvious that while it’s not an optimal day for a ride, you’re still directly connected to the surroundings. You’re feeling their emotions, capturing their glances, chuckling at their misfortune and still availing yourself of a sensory experience. It’s not the affair you’d hoped for or even the one you planned, but it’s still real and truthful and uncompromised nonetheless. A slice of life that’s far from perfection but still contains the tenants of breaking away from the ‘norm’ and perhaps on a day like today, that’s just good enough to live with, because let’s face it, you really don’t have a choice. It’s up to the clouds.
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I’ve been dancing and dodging with butterflies all afternoon when I finally come face to face with a one-hundred-and-eighty degree mind-bender of a corner. The kind of curve that shakes the numbers straight off of a civil engineer’s calculator. Makes you as a rider do a double take. Because the arc seems to go on forever. And in the split-second before the bike enters full attack mode and starts to dive for the apex, I find myself thinking that this just might be a touch to much for today’s pace…
But before the thought can take a revolution ’round the carousel and work its way down the synaptic pathways to my limbs, the bike hikes ahead, seemingly unaware of the consequences for an ill-fated assault. Quickly I start modulating the front brake, trying my damnedest to sheer off some speed. I drop the bike down a gear. The tach rockets. The bike churns. Continues on. The L-Twin howling with a ferocious sense of anticipation. The sound running straight up the mountain’s wall before dissipating into the dark, gray skies that are hanging as close as your girlfriend’s breath the morning after… And then something strange happens, admits the dire sense to get the hell out of dodge, I find myself ignoring the inclination to duck out the door… Then the bike matches the heartbeats and almost instantly the clouds part and within their greyness I finally see a bit of hope spread its wings as the light pours on to the proceedings with a flicker of luck.
[Photo by Rick Clemson]
Several corners later, I’m taking a break and lighting up another drag as I listen to the sound of silence that’s rushing through the mountain’s crevasses when it dawns on me that this has been quite an unexpected adventure. Historically I’ve always found gray colored days hard to ride. They have a cold personality and they’re rife with uneasiness. A negative tension huddles close and whispers in your ear almost always at the most inappropriate moments. The whole deal feels well past solemn and often portends to a downtrodden riding experience - at least for me - and yet today, unlike so many previous journeys through the mist, the greyness was a mere prelude to surprise.
After Friday’s magical ride, I woke up this morning feeling a certain sense of excitement and oddly enough it was because of a road sign. While flying around the desert two days ago, I happened to notice a rogue road on the way back home. Like many before me, it was a sign I’ve glanced at from the corner of my eye a hundred times before but never actually seen. A metal post teetering on the edge of a forgotten glimpse. One that’s never made much of a lasting impression nor seemed remotely interesting. A name that never held much value from a word that seemed so foreign that to think it might be of interest seemed doubtful at best. And yet here we are, today, where for whatever reason the very sound of the word illuminates the mind and launches the imagination in a hundred different directions. Inspiring a whole new train of thought, as you quizzically check and recheck your mental image. You picture the sign, then the beginning of the road, and then finally the hill top beyond and wonder, as if for the very first time, ‘what lies over that ridge?’ And like our forefathers before us, with our curiosity peeked, the gauntlet lays itself out before our very eyes and the question is no longer if we will traverse the landscape, but when. Continue reading ‘Grey Skies, Great Ride’
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The helmet visor has been faux painted with enough insect innards to keep an entomologist busy for weeks. The leather jacket desperately need an extra long deep-tissue massage session. And the bike… ahhhh, the beauty of the bike… It looks, and smells, worse then a survivalist student after six weeks in the outback without running water… Yet all of that brings a smirk and a smile to my face… Because I was there. I saw it. I savored it.
Looking at the screen while pondering the next words to choose, there’s a residual sense of ‘peace’ that’s so blatant, and so calming, and so carefree right now that it’s scary just how relaxing it feels. Every ride ought to end this way. Shivering somewhere between the reward for an I-can’t-believe-I-just-experienced-that mecca moment and the long, slow burn of a lengthy workout that leaves you feeling completely spent but smiling.
Glancing at the clock, it’s somewhat stunning, perhaps even startling, just how fast the hours can pass when you’re enjoying jockeying in the saddle amongst the grandeur of a vibrantly living, breathing and blooming desert.
I have to admit that I had no concept of how fantastical this part of the world could be during this time of the year. Twelve months ago we were running around the globe shooting Twist The Throttle and I completely missed the spring season in the Southern part of Southern California. Yet after today’s ride it’s clear to me, that was a scheduling mistake to the nth degree.
Because I missed out on a masterpiece of living artwork.
There is something surreal and yet quite riveting about blasting through an endlessly scenic sketch where the landscape looks as if someone has painted directly onto nature itself. From the kaleidoscope of flowers that are roaring to life to the brilliant depth in the greenery, there’s a remarkable image at work here - a picture that captures so much of California - and it’s begging to be seen, asking to be cherished, and perhaps wondering if you’ll remember it because of its limited shelf-life.
In a month or two around this part of the world it’ll be a hundred degrees outside and what looks like it’s living today will surely perish - at least visually. Yet this feeling, this moment of imagery needs to remain. I have to remember it. Because it’s so remarkably luminous, so immense, and so meaningful in all its glory that to forget it would be to lose something truly special. A part of the greatness of California.
More Picts after the jump… Continue reading ‘Unwound’
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