The first fast left hander of the day is chasing me down when the last ramblin’ ambling’ motorist finally pulls over and submits to the free will of an open road course come to life on public streets. After miles of motor-monotony the bike barks. The loud, menacing gravel-filled growl suddenly omnipresent among the chirping birds and roaming wildlife. As if the bike knows that this is its last, best chance to break free and finally hit the open asphalt unimpeded before civilization roars its ugly head once more.

Quickly, I grasp the throttle. Whirl it backwards with a caffeine kick. The 1098 perks up. Jumps as it jolts. Like a thirteen year-old in search of their first copy of Playboy after the mailman has turned the corner. Suddenly the bike squeals. Heat flutters. I can feel my breath squarely lodge itself in the middle of my throat. Almost instantly I’m thrown back into the tail section. Thunk. The 10 fires forward. Flares its nostrils. Swigs its brew. Breaths fire. Exhales with a damn near blasphemous pent-up aggression. The release that’s so swift and so fluid that I can’t help but smirk at my luck. How can this be real? How is this possible?

I shake my head and try not to chuckle as the near indestructible physical tenets of the world seemingly unhinge from reality. Somewhere in-between the tires ever stretching reach for just a touch more traction and the rapid revolutions going on inside of the engine case, it’s almost as if I see myself standing in awe, amazed that I’m riding such a remarkable machine inside such a perfect moment in time.

Blipping the throttle before the entrance to the next corner, I taste just the tiniest bit of back pressure on the clutch lever before there’s a solid snap from the gears as they engage. Carrying the front brake into the bend, the bike loads up - a coil compressed to the point of no return - before it mechanically, and quite magically, launches into its next downright delicious phase - and then carves the abyss.

To call the last three days anything less then remarkable would be a dire understatement. For the third straight day I’ve managed to squeeze in a ride - after spending months off of a bike for a variety of reasons it seems nearly unthinkable that one could return with such flourish of activity - yet here I am, no longer easing back into the ride, but rather viciously attacking it.

For the third straight day I’m riding a different Ducati. Each bike having displayed it’s own unique personality and characters, yet also seeming somehow connected in a greater way - you know that mass consumed version of karma only its tinged with motoroil; The ST3 acting like a mellowed surfer past its prime but still harboring illusions of greatness, The 999 aging gracefully as it comes to terms with its mortality, and now the 1098S, the young turk on the scene that’s intent on showcasing it’s technical superiority but also prone to acts of sheer madness as it reaches out for parental acceptance.

Ripping the throttle back, the 10 stands up coming out of the left handed oasis. Quickly the lines of the road merge with the ‘lines’ in my head and suddenly I’m dropping down a gear. Then another. Soon the bike bends. Brings me closer to concrete and that ever elusive sensation of ‘living’. Tucked in the fairing, I thank my lucky stars again — for the opportunity, the experience, the machines… The moment. Perhaps it’s age or experience or the intrusion of the real world, but this sort of ‘instant connection’ and ‘wow effect’ doesn’t seem to come along nearly that often anymore. Again, I smirk and smile. Try to hide the giddiness and selfishly keep the feeling to myself.

Quickly the left turns right. Then left again. Then back right. The conclusion to a long succession of free-flowing corners that somehow have ceased being single points of entry and instead have coalesced into one visceral experience that while uniquely a moment from today seems also utterly connected to the last three days. As if all three experiences are shades of the same color, separated only by time and tuning.

As I come out of the last curve and re-enter reality, I find myself instinctively dialing it down as I let the canyon chasers behind me take the lead. Carving the corners above and beyond what some would deem safe is great fun, acting like I’ve never tasted speed on straight aways riddled with blind driveways and grade schools is not.

In the more mellow moments that follow, I find myself pondering the connection that these three bikes share and I’ve got to wonder, why am I so strongly drawn to these bikes and this brand?

From a logical point of view - and I’ll be the first to admit this is a well worn argument - but there are certainly far faster and less expensive machines out there which are equally as competent. Machines that continue to have less maintenance costs associated with their ownership, less headaches, and less heartaches. Yet for all their power-computing they somehow don’t quite compute with me. That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy them - on the Twist The Throttle shoot, one of the bikes that I thought was an absolute downright blast was the Gixxer 600. Light, flickable, tiny, nearly indestructible. All in all great, great fun — so why isn’t that machine sitting in my garage instead of the 1098S or the 999?

Some might suggest it’s because these machines maintain a certain air of exclusivity — this of course is just a fancy way of suggesting that folks who ride these machines are snobs to some extent. Certainly I understand the rational behind the point, but I neither consider myself a moto-snob nor see the validity in that argument when you crunch the numbers. Ducati doesn’t produce batches of three or four hundred machines, like some other Italian brands, they produce forty to fifty thousand machines a year spread across difference genres. Obviously this pails in comparison to the Japanese brands, which produce millions of units, but to look at a Ducati and think, ‘gee this is a rare and exclusive machine’ is a bit of a stretch in my book. Excluding the Desmosedici, for obvious reasons, these are not ‘rare’ machines but rather ‘less produced’ machines. So I’m not sure it’s fair to say that they’re ‘exclusive’ but rather that they squarely fit in the ‘less frequent seen’ category.

One could submit it’s the design of the machines; the Italian curves, the blatant flare, and the blindingly bright red or yellow paint. But that’s a completely subjective point of view and one that’s fraught with far less scientific certainty then actual fact - though clearly there’s something about how these bikes ‘look’ that draws my eye. I happen to find these machines beautiful but others may not. Certainly the ST3 is no ‘looker’ - at least not in my book - yet I own one and ride it because I believe it does a specific task better then almost all other bikes in its category.

Yet the more I roll the question over in my head the more lacking I find any attempt at dissecting performance, looks or production numbers. For me these are all external window dressings - the cool images that draw you into the shop, but not the reason you decided to pull out your wallet. As with many things the real draw, or hook, is what’s on the inside. The magic between the body work. The part of the bike that you either feel or don’t. Some call it ’soul’, I certainly have before, but I’m quite not sure that’s accurate in all reality. These are inanimate machines after all. They aren’t going to heaven or hell. They don’t remember things. They don’t have morals or values. Instead the part of these bikes and this brand keep me coming back is the embodied sense of ‘romance’. The connection to a slice of history, to the lore, to a nearly irresistible urge to dance where you don’t belong and the reality that emotion trumps all. They are magical machines who’s truest virtue is that they have a nearly-unshakable ability to affect how I perceive my place and time in the world and the power to heighten the sense of possibility, wonder and passion.

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