After weeks of sitting around with a variant of the flu from hell - which I still can’t seem to shake even with the drugs & meds - I finally had enough of feeling trapped in a box. Whether its a bedroom, a living room or a Doctor’s office, at some point four walls feel like four walls.
So last Saturday I bounced up to LA for a few days of riding with the old man. Obviously I’ve been slacking a bit when it comes to writing about the ride. That’s partially because it wasn’t the greatest trek I’ve ever taken and yet also equal parts slugging through work before the holiday and still feeling fairly nasty truth be told. In the end time sort of escaped as it tends to do when what you’re looking forward to is an antibiotic.

However the act of getting on the bike - even if the ride wasn’t spectacular - on both Saturday and Sunday (post coming soon) was a direct reminder that no matter how badly I’m feeling or how crazy life is, when I’m regularly out riding the world simply feels like a much, much happier place.

Perhaps it’s the release. Or maybe it’s the escape. Who knows, maybe it’s simply the danger that surrounds you while riding that enlivens us. I don’t honestly know, but afterwards things felt a hell of a lot better, even if I was still hacking up green crap en mass.

The surprise of the day however wasn’t feeling better about life post ride - I more or less expected that after having been in this position time and again - hell it was the whole reason I came up to LA to ride in the first place - rather the astonishment of the day was climbing back on the 999 after months of exclusively riding the 1098 and suddenly rediscovering an old battle tested friend.

Perhaps for the first time in my life it dawned on me why other riders continue to keep, maintain and ride older bikes. There was something romantic about climbing aboard a bike that has given me so much enjoyment over the years. Taken me on so many treks through various California canyon roads. Images of places I’ve been on these two wheels kept coming up to the surface and it felt like I had picked up the phone, called an old friend who I hadn’t spoken to in eons and continued a conversation exactly where we left off years ago. Granted the 9 isn’t decades older then the 10 technologically - as opposed to someone who say owns a 1098 and a Vintage Triumph from their youth for example - but I imagine the feelings that the 9 recalled were quite similar. So, there I stood at the top of Stunt Road, gazing off into the distance and imagining myself when I’m gray and old, dutifully explaining to my future son or daughter, that, yes, this was in fact the bike of my youth. This was the bike that took a hobby and transformed it into a passion. The motorcycle that first stirred my soul in a meaningful way. The machine that caught me in its cross hairs and never let go. And perhaps more importantly the only sportbike I’ve ever owned that seemed over-protective and parental. As if it would never let you do anything to purposely hurt yourself.

For all the debating about whether or not the 999 is visually appealing, what often times gets lost in the banter is the fact that the platform itself was simply a heck of a sportbike. Both back in the day and even right now. Especially if you’ve got one of those perky engines that can be found in an ‘S’ or ‘R’ or late run (’05 and ‘06) base models. The sensations, the vibrations, the echoes through time, they all come together and combine for one hell of a motorcycle. Clearly the 1098 is a superior machine - more power, lighter, faster, more agile, a trunk for god sakes! - yet through out the day I could shake the feeling that there’s something truly unique and uncommon about what the 999 offers its riders. In the middle of a ride, when you’re standing at the top of a hill, it’s a feeling that can sometimes blow right past you in the wind. A sensation that often times you can only vaguely touch, but if and when you taste it, it’s the best substance ever created on Earth.

Fire damage in Malibu

More photos in the gallery…