Canyon Cometh
Engines wail. Roads bend. Seasons change. But the dirt, the dirt in the middle of the asphalt, that never seems to go anywhere…
Extending the kickstand, I kill the engine and slide off the saddle. Peer out over the reasonably clear San Fernando Valley. And it slowly crosses my mind that this isn’t just a ride — It’s an anniversary.
Of my very first motorcycle accident.
And I chuckle to myself.
Not because I’m fearless. I’m not. Because I can’t believe its been only a year. And yet I can.
Amazing how fast time flies… And amazing how conflicted one can feel at the same time.
On one hand the low-side that happened that day remains remarkably vivid in my mind. I can see it. I can feel it. I remember the sensations, the dread that crossed me while standing above a downed bike. The sense of mourning when the tow-truck arrived. The relief when the adrenaline subsided and I felt alright.
But I was lucky and I know it.
Without a doubt both how I ride and why I ride changed that day. A touch of gravel redefined my life. As much as I might try to hide it, that collection of small pebbles altered the paradigm through with I view riding on the street. What didn’t seem like it could happen to me, suddenly did. And I think that was a good thing in the end.
Yet on the other hand, today I felt so totally in control of the bike, so able to do what I wished, that the thought of crashing seemed nebulous at best. Matter of fact I don’t even know if it crossed my mind while I was actually riding. I roared through the canyons with pep and perk and zippiness that felt fantastic and probably was illegal. There were no dark clouds hanging here, just bright skies and open roads ahead. The image of disaster was elusive and ineffectual and almost meaningless.
Until I stopped that is… What an odd round trip of a year…
Flashing back a couple of months, I remember perusing some leather jackets in a local cycle shop, when a sales gal popped in out of nowhere, saw my scuffed up jacket, and rather matter of factly said, “Looks like you were due”.
And maybe I was… Maybe that’s just the cost of doing business when you ride. I don’t know.
4 Valve Victory in the Canyons
I see the corner coming — the deep bend, the strange camber, the way the road rolls against itself as it tilts right and climbs north. Part of me cringes. Feels out of sorts, as if today isn’t really my day. But the bike doesn’t flinch. It never backs down. It never echos my personal conundrum.
Instead it just settles down.
Then the tires grip. And the chain spins. And before I know it the little bit of lean angle that remains disappears as the throttle rips backwards with vengeance…
Instantly valves open, the heart flutters, and the engine revs… Wildly revs…
And for all the worry in the world, now there is nothing to do but hang on…
Effortlessly, the bike fires — forward — Imposes its own will on the asphalt. Claws its ways up the hill as it rips big, heady chunks of asphalt out of its way. The road surface has no choice but to let go. To surrender. To give in.
The push is incredible. The drive out of the turns sublime. The self-created forward momentum astounding.
Beneath me a battalion of horsepower is on the attack and I can feel its every move. The bike hunkering down, the revs increasing, the exhaust bellowing and by the time I reach the top of the lonely canyon wall, it’s clear that the roadway has been forced into a unique form of submission.
It hasn’t just been defeated, it’s been conquered.
In world where nothing seems secure, and so much suddenly seems fluid, I find myself smirking at the thought that for this one moment in time, on this one particular day, a 4-Valve L-Twin engine seems to have the power to defeat anything and everything in its path. Forward momentum never felt this good.
Pendulum of Confusion
F4 at the Rockstore
The engine is howling with anger as it sucks down air and explodes. Blows Up and instills its will. Rev by Rev, the road surface bears the brunt of this rage. For an instant it’s easy to imagine bits of tarmac being ripped right out of their cohesive molecular bonds and spit backwards, towards the remnants of the traffic behind me.
Asphalt Hell it seems is alive and well…
At five-grand I’m already doing seventy-five or more on the freeway and that’s not even a quarter of the way up the tach – I shutter to think what would happen if I really lit it up… Though the phrase ‘prison bitch’ comes to mind…
Slowly, or at least I think slowly, my hand instinctively rolls back the throttle anyway. Soaring speed like this is too much fun to ignore – to cathartic to miss – regardless of the consequences.
The sound of the engine goes up a notch. Becomes more intense. More sinful. More vicious. More maddening. Even with ear-plugs.
Quickly, I short-shift into the next gear in a sub-consciously ridiculous attempt to at least keep the speed limit in sight and the next thing I know, not only is the rest of the everyday world far, far behind me, but so too is the freeway itself.
It’s gone.
Vanished.
Behind four legendary MV Agusta exhaust pipes, which right now are bellowing out a purely wicked tune.
A moment later I come up to the first traffic light on the Pacific Coast Highway and am forced to stop. Cease dreaming and start seeing. Reality is back, in a big, big way.
It sucks.
More cars, more people, more dreams, more of the real-world once again. Lots of people on Bluetooth headsets chit-chatting away. I feel bored. My eyes search. Seek out something to focus on. Then they arrive at the clock in the dash.
It’s now an hour ahead.
Think to myself, ‘I ought to change that’, before stumbling through a series of vague Italian electronic solutions that make programming an ordinary VCR seem simple.
Its moments like this that make me question Italian Traction Control.
Seconds later the clock rolls back as the traffic rolls forward — It’s time to go again.
Finally.
Looking down the road, the light is harsh. The shadows starker and living more horizontal than I remember them before…
But then it’s been quite awhile since I was regularly riding.
Quite awhile indeed.
Can’t tell if I’m guilty about that or just plain angry with myself for letting it happen.
To many days have come and gone this riding season without a ride taking place. I’d say it wasn’t intentional, that it was a series of coincidences that in the end added up to form one horrific non-riding riding season, but then I’m not exactly sure that’s true either. I’m not really sure what is true right now. At least when it comes to riding and, well, more importantly work.
It seems once again, I’m living on the extreme edges, and perhaps for the first time in my life I find myself wondering if that’s a good thing or not anymore.
Somehow the journey seems harder right now than I think it should be. Harder to live with. Harder to justify. Harder to believe in. Harder to verbalize in a blog.
And yet it’s amazingly good right now too – On a personal front, it’s good in ways that it has never been before – Very, very good… The kind of goodness that makes you think you might actually be lucky enough to have finally found that missing piece to your life.
It is as if the pendulum of confusion has swung one-hundred and eighty degrees to the other side; Where there was once comfort from the profession and yet personal-side confusion, now there’s security in the joy the other parts of life and perplexity in the my working-world dream.
Why does that happen? How does that happen? What the hell is going on here? Is it impossible for life to be 100% good – does the journey we take always need some amount of uncertainty? Some amount of confusion?
I don’t know, but I’m starting to think so…
A beat later, the F4 roars back to life as the road opens up and I smirk with a diluted sort of self-confidence. The kind of confidence that I fear has been missing 9 to 5. There are lots of rocketships on the market right now and many I quite admire, but few that elicit this sort of emotional response. Something about the MV F4 is more evocative, more alive, and more vivid than any other machine I’ve ever known. Even when life seems to begin and end on the edges.
With a nearly full tank, a sunny, mellow temp’ed day and an open road, all that’s left is to decide where I want to go…
Private Canyon
Sweat is beading up. Bits of perspiration grow unchecked. First there’s one. Then two. Now, three. Until the moment comes when the collection of water hits its critical mass and the weight exceeds the liquid’s suction power.
A second later, I feel the momentum of the bead as it rolls down my back and the cool-yet-warm-yet-idyllically perfect SoCal wind buffets the side of my helmet and exposed parts of my neck and I have to smile.
It’s November and at last I’m riding again.
How perfect.
Cresting the canyon, I wring back the throttle as the bike launches forward. The gauges go up, the gears spin faster, the exhaust audibly rises and the road bends – oh, boy, does it bend…
Going back and forth left and right and up and down, in equal measure and in all directions, before it suddenly shouts out straight ahead. Slowing rising, as if the road is just biding its time… Just sneaking a peek at what comes next. Just letting you catch your breath. Never fully giving itself away, never quite letting you know its intentions. And then there’s a kink.
A little jut that shoots you straight out under the trees. The shadows overwhelming your senses… It’s just darkness and a prayer.
You gulp for air and wonder what might lie on the road surface – but just then the sunlight comes back. Casting its watchful eye on your adventure once again… Right before the road rolls over itself, and you gasp… The jarring 180º up-hill assault brings the tarmac back on to itself and as you gaze at it, you too return to earth.
A second later, the bike dives-in. Leans left. In your mind, you think about traction and forces, and science and force, and all kinds of madness… And in a heartbeat it’s over…. Before I know it I’m hanging above the coast and the canyon, peering out at an endless expanse of nothingness. Clouds that cover all and yet offer no definition between sky or ground or even horizon. It’s just one big bland colored canvas that’s wrapped around everything that I can see.
Yet even though it seems colorless there’s vibrancy.
And lots of it.
Hitting the stop sign, I pause for a second and tell myself — no, remind myself — I should breath.
My head feels like its spinning so fast, I’m shocked… Can’t remember the last time I felt this way…
My heart races… And I smile…
I’m alone – completely alone – And in my very own private canyon.
*****
Minutes later, the road barks. The 1098S vibrates with an urgency I haven’t felt in quite awhile – the windscreen shakes wildly, the seat wiggles up and down, there’s a beat to the moment. A sense of booming and bamming…
The engine hurls itself forward with such vigor that I almost feel powerless to stop it by myself. There’s a third-person video-game quality to it all. The ride surrounding my outlook on life so fully and in such a dedicated manor that there’s seemingly little left to do. I feel lost. Out of control. Out of touch.
However I’m there… I’m in the moment…
With each new kink in the asphalt, the road openly communicates. The handlebars scream instructions as the Tires dip and dive and avoid conflict-riddled patches. I feel engaged. I feel in touch. I feel in control.
The engine rumbles and howls and screams… Rapidly increasing and decreasing the bellowing exhaust notes, each flick of the wrist echoing through-out the canyons and right off of the rocky walls.
Coming up to the top of Saddlepeak Road, I my eyes fixate on the width and breath of the San Fernando Valley. It’s clearer than the Coastline, but not by much. I can see birds fluttering, other traffic, hikers, bicyclists… Yet all I can hear is the soundtrack of my own private canyon. The Rattle and Hum of the Individual Experience as it was meant to be had… Solitude in Speed… Gød how I have missed this…
Long Time to Look This Good
Back at it Again...
The bike is slipping into second gear as the sunshine flickers. Bright and dark rays shutter through the weeds. Spill onto the road. Laying out a pattern of texture that’s deep with shades of gray but very little black and white…
And then the torque starts to talk…
Big hits of power slam into the road. Punch the asphalt straight in the face as the bike gnarls, and snares, and grabs hold. Wringing the last bit of grip as the power envelops not only the moment, but my mind. And it’s evil and it’s vicious and it’s just down-right mean… After three or four hits I find myself thinking the poor road didn’t even do anything to deserve this sort of punishment… And yet it’s still getting knocked silly… Rip after rip…
The top of Stunt Road
Jumping forward, the bike blasts. Begins beating up the wind as well. Nothing it seems can stand in its way… And then you realize it’s time to buckle down. Fully focus. As in 100-percent pay-attention time… No room for wandering thoughts, idle memories or business decisions that lurk ahead… No, now there is no time for anything else but moto-satisfaction…
Breaking left, the road tries to sneak one past the machine… But it doesn’t are. Just flicks in. Dives for the centerline. Acts unfazed…. Subconsciously I lean inside… Slide off the mount and towards the ground… Think to myself it wasn’t that long ago I was fighting this situation… But that was months ago and even though it’s been awhile since I was on the bike, this somehow feels more secure than it has in quite awhile… Because the bike just holds its line… Hangs on in one extended moment of solidarity with the asphalt. As if suddenly they’re best friends again… And I think what a change a six-pack of months make…
They say that ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ but historically, for me anyway, that’s not always been case when it comes to bikes. The longer I’m off them, the more reasons I seem to find for putting off the first ride back. Chores, bills, parties, work, sleep, all those other things from regular life that tend to get in the way…
And it’s not because I love the machines any less, but rather, really, because the first ride back after a long lay off always seems to suck… It almost never fails that I find myself fighting something… The machine, the transmission, the road, the grip, the rusty feelings…
In truth, it’s not my favorite emotional ride…
And yet today none of that is true… The machine is matching the revs of my mind and doing exactly what I want, when I want it and it just seems easy… Remarkably easy…
Pulling off at a vista spot, the old man, pulls off his helmet and looks at me and then the machine…
“You look like you again,” he says with a smile… And I think, ‘I feel like me again’…
“It’s seems like it’s been a long time since I felt this good on a bike,” I respond and he nods…
It’s been months since I was last on the bike, thanks as usual to work - the traveling, the catching up on sleep, the deadlines, it’s the perfect cauldron for poor riding really… But somehow, for some reason, not today… How that’s remotely possible I don’t know, but I dig it… And I can’t wait to ride out the rest of Summer… Ah… It’s nice to be back…
Let’s Get Naked: A Ducati S2R 1000 Finds A Home
A Ducati S2R1000 Monster at Pro Italia
“Oh boy… Here we go again,” is in fact the first thought that comes to mind the minute I walk into Pro Italia and realize that, yes, I am in fact once again kicking tires…
Not idly mulling about mind you, but striding purposefully through the dealership with intent-to-kill and purchase kind of eyes… The kind of tire kicking that gets you trouble on the 1st, 15th or 30th of each month…
Should I be? Would I be? Can I be? Could I be? These days it’s just damn hard for me to answer those sorts of questions…
It seems that somewhere along the line my personal passion, career and lifestyle all organically merged into me and the result is this odd combination of confusion, excitement and down right blatant moto-lust…
Rolling through the showroom, I’m struck by the fact that it’s probably time to simply accept and acknowledge the fact that when it comes to things with combustion powered engines and two-wheels my normally logically sound life comes crashing down and grinds to a halt. In effect blows up, only to be rebuilt again with either two-valves or four.
What I think I know and what I know I should do, quickly become superseded by an irrational desire to do the foolish. And while I could probably create an elaborate fictional reality as a cover story and attempt to explain why the irrational is actually rational and therefore life always makes sense, well that’d just be a blatant lie that perpetuates some other version of me. What is probably best described as a holdover of my former self. Not that those stories didn’t roll through my head mind you, but rather because when all is said and done, it’s just easier to tell the truth, and more important be honest with yourself…
Simply put, I’ve come to the not so shocking conclusion that I am in fact a full fledged addict… Some folks pick pills or drugs or drinking as their poisons of choice… For me it’s motorcycles… Plain and simple… They are not just vehicles or modes of transportation, but rather magical creatures with destinies that are anything but predetermined… In my mind they are the ultimate unknowns. They take you places you simply can’t imagine until you’re actually there. They live, they breath, they act up, I believe that they are in fact alive. And they do it with passion. With pride. With purpose.
Rationally — oh, great there’s that word again — I suppose one could make the argument that motorcycles are a healthier lifestyle choice than any of the above mentioned addictions. But frankly I’m so sure about that anymore… I spend an exorbitant of time each day thinking about nothing but riding… Even when I can’t actually get out and do the ‘riding’… From the bits to the bolts to bikes to ride itself, it’s absolutely frightening the amount of time one can spend when they’re in love with an inanimate object. From the sport, to the skill-set, to the lifestyle and growing dream to see and ride everything that’s out there, I’m tired of fighting reality… My reality…
I used to fear it, to run from it, to nonchalantly put it down amongst friends to diffuse the accepted mainstream doctrine that bikes are bad, or evil, or deadly, or who knows what else, particularly with those who didn’t share the passion — with those who didn’t see it or understand it — But no more I say… It times to face up to what it is that makes me alive…
Maybe it’s a function of getting close to turning thirty-two this summer, I don’t know, but I feel a certain sense of urgency at work here… As if time is running through me like an hour-glass. I feel as if I’ve waited my entire life to get to this point, to enjoy the life I always wanted. I’ve spent countless hours counting down the days until I could make the ‘choices’ and bear the burdens of life and enjoy the benefits. And now it’s here. I can feel it. I can see it. I believe it. It’s almost as if I can touch it.
Yet I also feel this sense that there’s only so much of me left and it feels like I’ve got to stop fooling around here. It’s time to get serious, not about my career or my loved ones, or my Cable TV package, but rather it’s time to get serious about me. It’s time to stop wasting mental and emotional energy on the things in life that I don’t really care about.
Is that selfish? Is that conceded?
Probably.
But as they say, ‘you only live once’ and of all the things in life I fear the most, the idea of letting one of the best periods of life pass by as a passenger and not an active participant scares the living hell out of me. I’d rather end up broke and destitute but with a saddlebag full of experiences then rich, wealthy and devoid of meaning. Is that youthful ignorance coming to light? Could be. Maybe at forty with a kid in toe I’ll feel differently about it… But right now it not only seems age-appropriate but time-appropriate… It feels like what I should be doing not what I’m supposed to be doing.
So why a Monster? And an outdated one at that?
Well, several reasons really… For starters I’ve had this weird growing fascination with late 60’s and early 70’s vintage bikes lately. BSA’s, Triumph’s, Norton’s, CB750’s, Mach III’s… Probably a direct result of hanging around them during the Twist shoot… There’s something about how when they’re built-out they showcase a certain kind of purpose, and dare I say urgency…
So why not pick one of those up instead? Good question. Simple answer, while I think they look cool, I’ve got no desire to engage in drum brakes, early disc brakes, headshake or a myriad of other ‘early’ technological advances that seem utterly dated by today’s standards.
The Monster — and by Monster, I mean the original Monster penned by Miguel Galluzzi, not the current Streetfighter/Thing that’s badged Monster/Homologated “Am I Brutale clone or Street Triple knockoff or contemporary slice of moto-evolutionary pie” machine — is in its own way as classic of a machine as say a CB750, but relatively speaking modern, safe, sporty and well, sound… It evokes all the bits of the past that I find cool but in something I actually want and will ride.
Secondly, I love the fact that it’s a completely open canvas. The 999 streetbike turned trackbike experience has certainly opened my eyes to customization, in a way that it wasn’t before. The Monster is the perfect platform for that sort of transformation. People have been doing it for years and I’m greatly looking forward to trying a slice of that moto-pie. The possibilities are practically endless and parts are widely available from a variety of resources. Just hunting all the sources down is almost half the fun…
Third, the idea of picking up a true 2-valved air-cooled Ducati fascinates me because it’s a relatively simple engine that’s been around practically forever. In a perfect world it’s an ideal platform to wrench on myself - a skill I have yet to conquer completely but one I certainly want to experience. Ultimately will I? Have no idea. Time right now is a fluid, combustible medium that seems to move faster then I’d like it to, but just the idea that on an engine like this it’d be possible to give it a go intrigues me greatly. There’s something marvelous about its simplicity in my mind.
Finally, it’s a sporty ride just the way it comes from the factory - It’s not Superbike competent, but it’s street-bike competent, and post-crash I have a new found respect and, dare I say, point of view on what I’m looking for when I’m not out on the track. Something that moves well but doesn’t bring out the speed freak demons inside. Right now the idea of a mellower, more comfortable, sport machine sounds damn good… And so it begins… My own kind of Monster Madness…
Head Games in the Canyons
The MV Agusta F4 at the top of Stunt Road
It’s bright. Blindingly bright. So bright in fact that it feels like summer and not spring… Finally… Beneath me the F4 hums. It’s four high mounted organ pipes blasting out a unique overture that seems to scream for world domination — or at least make clear its desire for conquest… Each blip, each twist, each corner exit bring its soul to life… And makes me smile… As the engine continuously itself turns over, I can feel the machines’ unquenchable thirst, no strike that, need, for more… Speed… Lean… Roar… And it feels good… Really good…
But I know it wants more… That it needs more…
Only, I’m not sure I can take it.
The continuous effects from the post moto-crash hangover, which while slowly subsiding still ache… And there’s no Advil in sight. Yet as I shoot up the canyon’s hillside, there’s a determination that’s hanging in the air. A sense of reality that suddenly doesn’t seem quite so snake bitten. For the first time in awhile I feel like I can see the glory beginning to return. That I can feel ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ is, coming back.
Banging into the next bend the bike feels so damn planted. So secure. That without even thinking about it, I find myself sliding a little bit further off the saddle, sticking out my knee just a touch more and tentatively leaning into the turn one more degree at a time… ‘This is what it’s supposed to be like,’ I find myself thinking…
And then I see the thin layer of dirt hovering over the asphalt. A shot of trepidation shoots right through me. Instantly I tense up. Battle the bike. Fight the very thing I love…
But the bike never fails. Just holds its line. Stays calm. Says, ‘don’t worry about it, I’ve got you’… And a deep breath later, I try to ease up…
And so it goes, each corner a fluid interaction between where I want to be and where I am… Yet today there were more steps forward than backwards… Even if they happened only one step at a time…
Back in the Saddle, Part 2
MV Agusta F4 & Ducati ST3 in Malibu
It’s been a great day and it’s been a strange day all at the same time.
While I’d like to say that I’m over the effects of my crash, the reality is that it continues to hang over my head like a weight. It haunts me. It scares me. It continues to affect my riding…
While it was great to get up to the canyons and out on the road once more, I continue to find myself lacking the very confidence that I so desperately want to feel.
Each turn, each corner, each bend of the bike feels harder than it should. Almost destined for failure. It’s a feeling that I so, so wish would go away. Yet it doesn’t. Instead it continually permeates my mind. Perhaps that’s the prudent part hard at work. Perhaps this experience will ultimately make me a safer, better street rider…
In that respect I certainly feel as if my ’street riding’ is considerably safer at the moment then it used to be. I’m leaning less, I’m charging slower, and all in all I’m risking less. Yet it’s hard to get over the fact that what once felt easy, suddenly seems so difficult.
Yet I keep telling myself logically that this is all part of a ‘healing’ process, after all having your first crash is a bit of a traumatic event — I’m not suggesting it’s the most traumatic event ever known to a rider, but it was certainly more traumatic for me then perhaps I realized when it happened.
Taking stock, as of tonight, I find myself feeling as if I need to go backwards several steps before I can continue forward, much like the guy who slows down to get faster on the track. Because it’s not the bike or the road conditions or the weather, but rather it’s the stuff inside my head that’s holding me back — it’s the lack of confidence, the lack of trust, the inability to believe that currently is challenging my sense of security on the machine.
Group is stronger than an Individual
Unfortunately I’ve got to be a bit brief tonight as I have another bike review to tend to but it’s worth noting that today’s ride was one of the better five-hour sojourns that I’ve spent in the last several months. It’s remarkable how placid one can feel while ripping through the canyons even if it’s on a bike that you’re unaccustomed to riding. I couldn’t help but think that so often we as riders put far to much emphasis on the tangible, acting as if the actual bike that we’re riding makes all the difference in the world, when fundamentally what we ride is far less important then the actual journey we take. Today was a perfect example of this phenomenon. From the coast to the canyons and then back again, it was never about top speed or motolust, but rather the joy of feeling like you’re completely connected to the road. Not just in a physical sense but something deeper – something that lies beyond mere emotions and ultimately cuts right to the core of your soul. Flipping back and forth through the turns wasn’t about getting a knee down or making the fast lap, but rather simply experiencing what the landscape offers. I write about it all the time and sometimes feel like it’s almost preachy in a way, but I can’t help but acknowledge how special this stretch of land is on days like this. When you can get lost in your own backyard it’s a magical thing. To be teleported past the obvious and feel so vibrantly joined with everything that surrounds you isn’t mythical ideal, but rather a possible reality when you allow yourself to combine good riding skills, decent weather and a fantastic group of guys. It’s relatively remarkable combination and it’s worth nothing that for so long I’ve held off on this sort of adventure and yet now I find that this was perhaps my greatest error when it comes to riding. The group journey is far more enjoyable in just about every respect than a solo affair. To get out and transverse these twisting canyon beast as a group is far more enjoyable than doing it alone. It not only gives you a sense of pace and guidance but also allows for wonderful conversations at your various destinations. Ultimately motorcycling is no different than most athletic arenas; the team is far stronger than the individual.
Sunday Ride Picts
Once again I’m getting ready to head out of town for another motorcycle related shoot, but thankfully I was able to get a quick ride in Sunday morning. If I wasn’t running around trying pack right now - why do I always wait till the last minute to pack? - I’d write more… Here some picts from the ride.
Unrelaxed
Two straight days of riding has yet to unwind me. For some reason even though we’ve had perfect weather and perfect conditions, I just couldn’t let go and enjoy the rides. Maybe this was just one of those weekend when I shouldn’t have even bothered getting on the bike. Maybe I’d lost the race before it ever started. I don’t know.
Usually riding is my one salvation. The one place when I can let go of everything else and just lose myself in the moment - the corners, the curves, the speed, the focus… No today and clearly not yesterday. Every corner seemed to be filled with conflict that was most definitely coming from the outside - work, the real world, and all that other junk that goes with it. After today’s jaunt I’m simply at a loss. I feel like I’ve let a golden weekend slip through my fingers.
Implied Guilt
Wow, I’ve been waiting for a weekend like this for what seems like forever. With picture perfect weather and fantastic road conditions, I hit the canyons for some much needed R&R. Only as it turns out while everything seemed set up for a perfect day of riding - I wasn’t up to the task. For some reason even though I felt very proficient in my riding, I just could stop thinking about non-riding stuff. From time to time this happens to me, but rarely. Usually the second I get on the bike the rest of life just magically fades away. Not today as it turns out. So even though I was able to rack up another hundred and twenty plus miles on the ‘05, it all went by in a blur. By the time I got home I felt exhausted, but not chilled out.
The dubious highlight of my lack of focus occurred just past the intersection of Kanan-Dune and the PCH when I was on my way back home. I was rolling along in the fast lane, doing around 57 mph in a 50 mph zone at the head of a small wave of traffic. There were probably ten cars behind me and as the group of us passed Geoffrey’s (a rather overpriced restaurant with a beach view imho) I was so lost in my thoughts that I never even saw the cop sitting on his motorcycle in the shadows. Suddenly I hear the sirens and look in my rear view mirrors. Damn it. I’m nailed. So I carefully make my way over to the shoulder and pull off. Kill the bike, start to unstrap my helmet. When I look up and watch the copy pass by me and pull over one of those non-descriptive super miniaturized sub-compacts. Quickly I start looking around. This really can’t be happening. At this point I’m pretty sure that the cop is going to tell the sub-compact to head on their way and walk back to me so he can write me up. But then he starts pulling out his ticket book for the sub-compact. Not being one to argue I quickly get back on the road, feeling like by virtue of getting off on the shoulder I’ve implied that I knew I broke the speed limit. With Even though my wrist and lower back feel shot at this point, I knew that Latigo Canyon was coming up on my left. So I quickly turn off and get on the gas and get the hell out of dodge figuring that if that the cop was going to come after me he wouldn’t follow me up into the canyons.
The good news from this little escapade is that I ended up breaking 1,900 miles on the bike. So that’s pretty cool. Downside is that I was clearly not dialed in and that scares the shit out of me. I’m always harping about how much focus you need to ride and clearly today I didn’t have it. Worse I don’t even feel like the angst of the week ever got worked out. I feel just as ampped up right now as when I left and that sucks.
Here some picts from the Ride:
Misty Coastlines & Hot Canyons
Took MotorMilt’s ‘04 out for a spin today - he’s been laid up with a knee injury for the past few weeks and I figured it was probably a good idea to run his 9 for a bit just to get the juices flowing. For some reason I have this image in my mind that if you leave a Duc sitting for to long it’ll never kick over again and even though the bike has been sitting on a tender, I just don’t have the greatest confidence in the battery. So I was a definitely relieved when it fired right up this morning.
Riding someone else’s bike is an odd experience. Generally I don’t do it very often which is perhaps the reason I felt a bit strange while I was heading up the coast on MotorMilt’s ride. When he and I have switched bikes in the past, it’s been for brief periods of time and usually because one of us thinks something is out of whack with their bike. One of those ‘does this feel funny to you?’ moments.
Early Morning on Topanga Canyon
Today was an altogether different ride. I was on his bike all morning. Riding it for an extended amount of time for the first time.
I found myself thinking about him and how he’s not able to ride right now. I also was very conscious about being extra careful because the idea of dropping or screwing up your buddies bike somehow seems a great deal worse than fuck’n up your own bike. No idea why that is… Finally I was struck by the realization that even though I’ve been riding a bit more frequently by myself lately, that if I’m out on his bike that means I better get used to the idea of riding solo…
I guess over time I’ve just gotten comfortable with the idea that he’s always back there, riding right behind me. I suppose there’s an illusion of safety involved. Obviously logically when it comes to a potential accident there’s not much that he - or anyone else riding behind you - can do but watch. But emotionally it’s always nice to know he’s back there and today I guess I realized that if I was out on his bike that meant that he wasn’t out there with me nor going to be anytime soon.
On the flipside, riding his bike was a hoot. It’s amazing to me how different his ‘04 feels compared to my ‘05. I’m not talking looks here, but rather how two basically identical motorcycles can physically feel so different. When you go buy a new Honda, they all act and feel the same. Not so much with the Ducati’s as it turns out. I suspect this is because of the differences in how both bikes were set up. I’ve never own anything that required so much fine-tuning. It’s just amazing to me.
The final observation from the ride was temperature. MotorMilt’s got a Sergeant seat on his 999 and I have to say that while I don’t particularly like how I feel seated on it (he loves it fwiw), I found that the seat seriously cuts down on the amount of heat that you feel on your bum from the engine. Today was also one of those days when the difference in temperature between being in the canyons or by the coast was simply amazing. It was 84 degrees in the canyons with clear skies and no breeze while it was 60 degrees according to the temp gauge by the ocean with the kind of cloudy skies that make you think it’s still 5am when it’s noon already. I went from freezing to sweating to freezing in a matter of minutes in places. Amazing how so much can change in such a short period of time and distance.
Here some other picts from the ride…
A Malibu Loop in The Morning
Looking down I was at 8,500 RPMs and I’m doing 75 MPH coming down Mullhulland when it finally hit me, having a fully broken in engine is as close to pure bliss as you can get. Coming off of two back-to-back hetic work weeks, the sensation of being thrown back into the saddle and having so much new found power on hand was just simply awesome. There’s something magical about how these bigs act when they’re close to the redline. They scream. They kick. They act so frigg’n alive it’s unreal. From 8k all the way to the line they morph from mild-manor sportbike into entirely different beasts. The sound was intense. It’s loud. It’s racey. It sounds like a sportbike all of sudden. And that’s when you’re on and riding. I can’t imagine how much louder it must sound if you’re just watching it go by… Once you get used to the raised decibel levels then you notice the vibrations. This bike shakes. Not in a ‘oh shit parts are going start falling off sort of way”, but rather in that very visceral “there’s a lot of life under this hood” mentality.
I have to admit I felt pretty rusty - which kind of surprised me since just a couple of weeks ago I racked up around 1,000 miles over a ten day period - but perhaps it’s simply the laws of nature at work - out of sight, out of mind. I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that it feels like I ride the best and enjoy it the most when I’m riding consistently, weekend after weekend. So even though I was only able to get a short ride in - just being back on the bike was not only relaxing but also hopefully knocked a bit of the rust off for tomorrow…
Sunday’s Sport-Touring Sportbike Ride - Part 2
When I last left off it was around noon when MotorMilt and I left Los Olivos on Sunday’s Sport-Touring Sportbike Ride (Part 1).
We had stopped there for a few minutes to take a quick breather and rest the wrists from what already had become a rather lengthy morning ride for us. At this point we had already rolled up a good 150 to 175 miles and I sort of knew that we were beginning to enter that dangerous territory where we might be getting just a bit to far away for our own good. In many ways what had started out as a slightly longer than usual Sunday ride had more or less morphed into a single day’s adventure that would have felt right at home on one of our week long extending riding vacations. At some point we were simply going to have to turn around and head back…
Leaving Los Olivos I briefly flirted with the idea of just simply continuing North on The San Marcos Pass (Route 154) and getting back to the 101 Freeway heading South… But really what fun would that have been? Sometimes it seems to me that just as you physically and mentally have to push yourself on the track, you have to do the same thing with distance riding. You have to force yourself to break through those self-imposed walls inside your mind that say, ‘whoa… this is to far‘. Logically getting back on the 101 at this point probably would have been the smart choice, but emotionally I just simply couldn’t do it.
So instead of taking the easy way home, I forced MotorMilt to follow me as I took a sharp right hand turn just a few miles outside of Los Olivos and headed up Foxen Canyon Road.
As I had mentioned in part one of this utterly to long riding write up, the previous evening while playing around on the ‘net I had discovered the rather amazing Santa Barbara County based riding site, SBC Rides. The minute I found the site I knew I was either in serious trouble or complete bliss… Ten minutes on the site quickly turned into twenty, then thirty… Soon I was discovering whole new adventures. Sitting right before me on the computer monitor were a whole new collection of roads - most of which I’d never read about or seen on a map…
Of all the routes laid out on the site, the one that kept sticking in my mind was Foxen. The SBC Review was sounded remarkable…
Foxen Canyon Rd is yet another of my favorite rides in Santa Barbara County. It is 31.3 miles long, with a good portion of the ride on excellent road with light traffic. It also takes you through some fantastic scenery, right through the heart of wine country.
Having never really ventured to far off The San Marcos Pass, it seemed like it’d be a shame - if not a waste of the day - to be this close to riding it and not take advantage. So instead of doing the smart thing I pushed MotorMilt to go a little bit further and in retrospect it was the best decision of the day!
It only took a few miles to instantly realize that Foxen Canyon is just one of those super-fantastic California rides that everyone should experience at least once. Right off the bat it shoots you down between several extremely iconic SoCal meets Wild West looking farms before giving way to a series of sweepers that slowly rise you up and above the relatively open valley base. Before you know it civilization vanishes and if you’re like me, you don’t even realize until suddenly it’s all just gone. You’re quite literally surrounded by nothing… More ‘nothing’ exists here than I think I’ve ever felt in my entire life. It is simply an amazingly beautiful no-man’s land that forces you stand in awe of nature and the way I imagine California felt fifty or a hundred years ago. This is truly the land of Gene Autry, John Ford, and John Wayne. It takes little imagination to find yourself visualizing cattle rustlers out on the open range.
Somewhere along the route we stopped to take a breather and I was struck by the fact that the only noise I could hear was from the relatively mellow wind gusts that were intermittently floating across the valley. It was the riding equivalent of getting far enough away from the city lights to see all the stars that are out at night. With no noise, relatively no other traffic to speak of and a completely picturesque valley standing before my feet, I just could help but think how living in a concrete city completely warps your mind. Somehow when you drive everyday in LA you slowly begin to believe that the entire world has been paved over and yet nothing could be further from the truth. This valley is only around two hundred miles away from LA and it’s completely untapped… (Granted I’m sure it’s expensive as hell - but that’s another discussion 
).
When we got back on the bikes we were able to only get a couple more miles up the road before my gas light decided to come on. This was perhaps the first of two strategic mistakes that MotorMilt and I made over the course of the day. We had talked about filling up the tanks in Los Olivos but hadn’t, partially due to a bit of laziness I think and partially because when I’d done a rough milage count on the various maps I felt we’d be alright for the roughly thirty miles that Foxen supposed last. Yet here we were riding through what has to truly be God’s country with reserve fuel light now lit up and virtually impossible to miss. Perhaps it’s a bit of target fixation on my part, but few things make me as nervous as the reserve fuel light being on when I’m riding the Duc. To be fair it’s never let me down, I just don’t trust it and I guess I’ve just come to question certain aspects of Italian engineering. Do they go fast - yes. Do they perform well when you ride them for sport - absolutely. But are they built like a BMW - not at all.
After passing a half dozen wineries and dealing with some less than stellar pot-holed parts of the road we came to the intersection of Foxen Canyon and Palmer Road. I hung a left on to Palmer and headed West. This sent us back towards the 101 once again. I had originally planned to have us continue up Foxen until we entered the Eastern side of the city of Santa Maria and have us gas up there. Then I thought we’d head back down South on the 101 so that we could pick up Palmer Road and get back to Foxen for the return trip home. Now what had been planned as the flipside of the trip was becoming our safety value to fuel! Palmer as it turned out was another hoot of a road to ride - but surprisingly slightly different than Foxen even though they’re so close to each other.
Instead of feeling like the almost endless collection of sweepers that rise and fall in elevation on Foxen Canyon, Palmer seemed to hold longer straight aways and higher elevation changes when you hit the corners. It’s a pretty short ride, but in many ways it felt a great deal faster. At one point I looked down and I was doing eighty-five without even knowing it or even trying… Eventually Palmer intersected the 101 - which to my surprise was now a two-lane road. I guess it’s been awhile since I had been this far North and not on Interstate-5.
For some reason I had thought that the more country-road part of the 101 was above Santa Maria, not below it. As it turns out it starts in San Ynez and stays that way all the way until just before Santa Maria. In either case getting on to the 101, we headed North in search of fuel. Luckily it was only a few miles before I saw a tall Chevron sign off in the distance and we were save - so to speak. By the time we hit the station we’d ridden around 125 miles on one tank which is an all-time record for either MotorMilt or myself. So perhaps being that far out in the middle of no-man’s land taught us a bit more about the bikes…
After filling up three or four different people came up to us to ask about the bikes. I have to say it’s one of the unique things about the 999. Not everyone knows what they are, but for some reason they know they’re fast and they’re special. One guy came up to ask if he could take a cell phone picture of the bikes for his buddy. Now that’s a new one for me but hey what the hell… I guess the part that surprises me is not that people have reactions to them. I’m sure a lot of people have reactions - both good and bad - to motorcycles in general when they see them out on the road. But these are the first bikes I’ve ever owned or seen that illicit people to actively engage you in order to talk about them. One older couple came up to us and just wanted to know if they were loud. Another guy walked up and told us that he owned a Goldwing. A third guy just gave a thumbs up from his car. All within five minutes in the same gas station parking lot. Go figure.
Before we got back on the bikes Milt and I had a quick chat about our location. I could tell at this point that we were both starting to hit the lengthy ride wall. I would have had no qualms at this point had this been day 1 of a week long adventure and we were only a few miles away from our hotel for the night, but instead we were now several hundred miles away from home. Knowing all of this we started talking about how to get home. As I mentioned earlier I had sort of planned it out, but perhaps not as well as I should have. This was much more about getting up the coast than getting back down… Now as it turns out Santa Maria sits only a couple of miles away from Route 166 which you can take east to the Northern entrance of Route 33 as a way to get back down South to Ojai. Having ridden it a couple of times, it’s a pretty lengthy ride although usually traffic free and fairly wide open for higher speeds. All told it’s probably 100 to a 120 miles to get back to Ojai that way. Great ride, but just very lengthy. Taking the 101 South to Route 154 and then getting back on the 101 South in Santa Barbara again is a significantly shorter ride and at this point shorter seemed to sound better. I would say that this is where MotorMilt & I probably made our second strategic mistake of the day. We went for the shorter ride instead of thinking about how long we’d been on the bike and what they ment for traffic.
Heading down the 101 past Solvang ( where a very cool motorcycle museums resides ) we hit our first batch of traffic. This probably should have been a sign of things to come, but we ignored it and powered on towards Santa Barbara and Montecito. At this point the new found power of the broken in 999 was worthless and things were starting to get pretty hot under the seat. These bikes just aren’t designed for stop and go. Unless they’re rolling along at sixty or above they just don’t dig it. You can call it a racetrack oriented design or character or just plain hot when you’re stuck on a non-moving freeway. Eventually we navigated our way through Santa Barbara and decided to stop in Montecito for a late lunch.
After lunch is when everything went absolutely crazy. The 101 as it turns out was completely backed up heading out of Santa Barbara - then for brief stretches opened up - and the almost completely suddenly would shut back down to a crawl. By the time we got back to Ventura I thought the worst had to be behind us because from this point forward the 101 has 4 lanes, but as it turns out I was completely wrong. There was traffic everywhere. And it was the kind of late weekend traffic that seems bring out the nuttiness in people. Lane changes without looking. No turn signals. Late braking. I felt like I was stuck in a bad Drivers Ed video production. It almost felt like absolute chaos. So when we hit the PCH and found it to be relatively free of traffic around Point Magu, I was overjoyed. Finally I thought, ‘we can relax a bit’… Again, I was completely mistaken. Turns out in Malibu there was a pretty serious accident. Multiple ambulances and cars facing the wrong direction on the other side of the road. Big mess. Cars were backed up for miles. Luckily - if you can call it that - we must have hit the scene relatively soon after it happened because by the end of the day the PCH was apparently backed up all the way back the 101. That’s like 30 miles. ( I wasn’t there obviously, but this is what I heard fwiw)…
So by the time we got home I felt in many ways lucky to be alive. We had been out on the bikes for over 12 hours over the course of the day. That’s definitely an all-time record for MotorMilt and I. We had ridden somewhere around 340 miles - I think perhaps even a touch more. Again an all-time record for us. We had been out in no-man’s land, carving corners on curvy twisty roads, fighting rush hour traffic, and seeing so much of California. All in one day on the sportiest sportbikes either one of us has ever owned. It was just absolutely amazing.
Forgetting all the late afternoon chaos, I have to say that this was simply one of those wonderful rides that felt almost completely unreal. As if it just couldn’t possible have happened. It should have been to long and to far. Instead it was just right. If could have removed the traffic issues at the end of the day it would have be absolutely perfect, but even with them it was still an amazing adventure that just went on and on and on. Perhaps most remarkable was the fact that after getting out of the BMW sport-touring game I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get to experience that type of riding again while owning a 999 and yet I did. By the end of the day I felt rather beat physically, but emotional it was amazing. To get that far north and feel so much freedom was remarkable. I wish I could bottle that feeling and save it for the rest of the week. By the time the day wrapped up I felt like every issue, every worry, every part of life that I can’t control had vanished because of the sheer power of the ride and the amount of focus it takes to do it safely.
All told this has been one insanely amazing collection of rides for me lately. By my rough count I’ve put around 900 miles on the new Diva over just a ten day stretch. During which I’ve covered the greater LA basin from it’s far Northwestern corner all the way to it’s Eastern Mountain range and a whole bunch of canyons in between. I’ve had the chance to stop at some of the most amazing motorcycle hangouts I can think of - Newcomb’s, The Rockstore and The Cold Spring Tavern - and I’ve had a ton of time to get lost in such a wonderfully good way. And to think early last week I had no idea this was going to happen but in a fantastically organic way it just did and I feel so thankful for that… All I can say is just ‘WOW’….
Sunday’s Sport-Touring Sportbike Ride - Part 1
Sunday morning I woke up around 5:15 AM and I had never even set the alarm clock the night before. Even though it was still dark outside I just knew from the moment I got up that I felt immediately ready to hit the road. It was just one of those morning when you have no need for luxories like coffee or breakfast, you just want to get going. I’m sure this instant desire to get out and ride was in no small part due to a conversation that MotorMilt and I had the previous evening over dinner. Somehow we had both gotten it stuck in our minds that we not only wanted to ride the next morning, but we needed to ride. We needed some stress-free hours on the bike. Not just some fantastic loop through the canyons mind you, but something larger. Something with a little bit more adventure. Maybe even something with a little bit of that unknown wonder that only a road you’ve never traveled can provide.
So Saturday evening I spent a couple hours look at maps and surfing the web. I spent a good hour checking out the often referenced but never equaled Pashnit.com in the hopes of finding a new exciting place to visit. At some point Pashnit bounced me over to SBC-Rides, which it turns out changed my Sunday considerably by opening my eyes to a whole new assortment of roads and route through the Santa Barbara area… So to be honest I wasn’t shocked when I woke Sunday morning in a rush to ride. I already knew it was going to be a grand adventure sort of day… The only person who didn’t was Milt.
Less than an hour after waking up, both MotorMilt and I hit the beginning of the Pacific Coast Highway in Santa Monica. So at roughly 6:30 AM we were already a good fifteen to twenty miles up the coast. By then it was obvious that this was going to be a special day. There was no traffic at that hour. No signs of life actually. It was just blissful being alone on the road that early on a Sunday morning.
Around 7:00 AM we made our first stop of the day at the Starbucks in Malibu, just north of Zuma Beach. At that hour on a Sunday it’s a rather odd crowd that gathers there. Generally speaking a large portion of patrons look either completely hung over from the night before, still extremely wired or so out of it that they’re completely lost. In the first of a series of odd conversations during the course of the day, another rider who was on an Aprilla came up to us while we were sitting outside drinking our first cups of coffee and asked us if it would be alright for him to go look at our bikes in the parking lot. Not to be to sarcastic but when did you have to ask someone if you could do that?
A few minutes later we got back on the bikes and continued to head up the coast, taking the PCH all the way up past Point Magu Naval Base and through the two towering rock formations. At that point none of the early morning fog had burned off yet so even though the incredibly efficient Italian seat heaters had kicked in both MotorMilt & I were freezing our asses off. It’s amazing to me that after all this time riding up and down the coast neither one of us has seemed to grasped that we both much prefer riding when we’re too hot then when we’re too cold. And of course once again we had both forgotten either the top or bottom set of thermals. Go figure.
So when we hit the city of Ventura about half hour later we didn’t want to stop, we had to stop. Just to defrost. It was right around then that Milt first gazed over at me as I was toying around with a small photocopied section of a pocket map and asked where we were headed. In retrospect I suppose I could have been more forthcoming, but instead I just sort offered some off-handed nameless road above Ojai. I don’t know if MotorMilt was completely awake at that point or not, but this rather vague answer seemed good enough for him. So while I wasn’t really trying to lie, I also wasn’t sure that I wanted him to know just how far up the coast I was planning on taking us…
See. the previous evening while looking up roads on the internet I came to the unfortunate conclusion that after riding The Santa Monica Mountains almost exclusively for the past several years there just aren’t any local roads that we’ve have never ridden. All the close ones have been done repeatedly, weekend after weekend. Part of me smiled when I realized that, yet on the other hand there’s something magical about trying out a new road for the first time before you know whether or not you enjoy it. Perhaps it’s the most quintessential of motorcycle experiences when you’re coming up to a fresh corner and know nothing about where it leads. There’s some kind of freedom in that kind of moment when you don’t know where the road is going but you’ve already made the choice to head down it anyway… So with that in mind, this was the magical route for the days adventure…
The 12 Hour Sport-Touring Ride On A Sportbike Route
Approx: 340 miles and about 12 hoursTook the Pacific Coast Highway North to The 101 North at Oxnard From the 101 North shot up to the lower portion of Route 33 towards Ojai Popped up Route 150 and went around Lake Casitas From 150 took the Caltrans Detour to Route 192 North Took 192 from Carpinteria all the way around the backside of Santa Barbara, until we hit Route 154 Took Route 154 North towards Santa Maria Just outside of Los Olivos, took a right on to Foxen Canyon Road Took Foxen Canyon for roughly 25 miles before eventually taking a Left on Palmer Road Palmer eventually intersects the 101, Took that North to Santa Maria Turned around after gassing up in Santa Maria and took the 101 South Just outside of Los Olivos we picked up Route 154 South bound Took 154 all the way back to Santa Barbara Got on the 101 South and then the Pacific Coast Highway (Route 1) South back to The Westside of LA
After we leaving the city of Ventura, we shot up the 101 for a few miles before I motioned for MotorMilt to follow me off the freeway and on to the beginning of Route 33. Part of me had thought about simply taking Route 33 all the way above Ojai and into the foothills of the Central Valley, but seeing as how MotorMilt and I have done that on a number of occasions and I was jonesing for something new, I shook that thought off and simply used 33 to get us to Route 150.
As I’ve come to learn over the course of my riding adulthood roads that wrap themselves around bodies of water are almost always a blast and Route 150 doesn’t disappoint. Hugging the outskirts of Lake Casitas, 150 starts out relatively softly running you through what feels like the California countryside, but suddenly shoots straight up what feels like the one lone mountain that separates the Ojai Valley from Carpenteria. While not the tightest collection of turns, it’s one of those roads that has a tremendous amount of visibility through almost every corner which enables you to really set yourself up nicely at each entrance.
It was somewhere towards the middle of 150 that it occurred to me that the reason that I so greatly enjoy the Ojai Valley is because it truly reminds me of the East Bay of Northern California. For some reason the topography just strikes such a similar chord with me that every time I’m up that way I feel almost teleported back to my youth. Odd how such completely different areas can feel so connected.
Usually we’d take 150 straight into Carpenteria, but every since the winter rainy season the final few miles of 150 have been shut-down. What had been a nifty side road that connects 150 to Route 192 is now the only way to get back to the coast and into the Santa Barbara region. If you look at the map above you’ll notice that starting in Carpenteria the 1 and the 101 merge together and it stays that way until you’re fairly high above the city of Santa Barbara. Technically the city of Santa Barbara has roughly 90,000 residents, however because it’s Santa Barbara there’s a pretty decent sized workforce and the combined 1/101 is basically the only way in or out going either north or south. Having taken the combined 1/101 several times on a bike and in a car I had no real desire to spend my Sunday morning dealing with it’s high level of traffic, so instead MotorMilt and I continued on up Route 192. It was the first road of the day that neither one of us had ever been on and it turned out to be absolutely amazing…
Starting in Carpenteria, Route 192 works its way up and around the backside of Montecito and Santa Barbara for roughly thirty miles. It’s a sneaky set of roadway that snakes itself past amazing vistas, seriously impressive mega-mansions and small chunks of what feels like the ‘real Santa Barbara’ - not the tourist traps. Since it was early the traffic was still relatively light and that let us swing around corners probably a bit faster than you could once there was more residential traffic on the road. Had it been later and we had to dial it back it would have been an absolute shame. The road just carries you from start to finish with a gigantic smile on your face. How can it not? There are just so many wonderful corners that swing you up and down and side to side and then just as you think the road is drying up, it starts all over again and this swinging sensation repeats itself in such a timeless manor that once you reach the end of the road you feel almost cheated because it stopped to soon.
Somewhere towards the end of Route 192 was when I first realized that I just about to full break in my 999. 1,500 miles had come and gone in lightning quick fashion it seemed and as we started to make the switch from Route 192 to Route 154 - commonly referred to as the San Marcos Pass - it began to dawn on me that I could finally open the bike all the way up.
Rolling on the throttle for the first time my immediate reaction was WOW, this thing is truly a one-of-a-kind rocketship… With the throttle kicked open, the bike just fires forward, right around 7.5k the audible magic of a Ducati becomes entirely apparently to everyone around no matter how much insulation their cars or trucks have. The whole experience just dramatically changes. It’s almost like going from just a passenger on top of the bike to a visceral participant with the bike… Now, maybe it’s just that I’ve been away from a fully broken in bike for awhile now or maybe it was just the kind of day I was having, but the minute I slowly started opening the bike up it just took off. Like never before. More rocketship than I have ever known. Trying not to either kill myself or get a record breaking ticket this early in the morning, I quickly dialed it back before my next most instance reaction hit. ‘Wow, finally, time for another trackday’…. It took me a few minutes to come to grips with the fact that here I was loosing myself during an amazingly pleasurable sport-touring kind of day and yet I was already fantasizing about being somewhere else and getting out on a track again. Amazing how that can happen once you’re jazzed about something…
The San Marcos Pass as it turns out happens to be a pretty decent road to let the bike run itself out on… It’s another roughly thirty mile stretch, which connects the Northern edge of Santa Barbara with a town called Los Olivos yet its claim to fame is that it runs right over the top of the Santa Ynez Mountains. As roads go this one has a pretty interesting history. The route was first used by the Indians and later named for a monk named Fr. Marcos Amestoy who supervised the building of a mission dam, waterworks and filter house between 1804 and 1813. The road stayed in Spanish hands until a Col. John Fremont (as in Fremont, California) marched his troops over the pass in 1846. From that point forward the route became a legendary stagecoach location - including being used by the Wells Fargo Stagecoach Express. Originally the route took 8 hours to tranverse, but in the 1960’s a more mainstream freeway straightened out a great number of the curves and now the trip can take a mere half-hour. If you’re interested Santa Barbara Lifestyles has a more complete history available on their website.
MotorMilt and I had ridden the San Marcos Pass a couple of times before - all of which I believe were on Beemers. This trip was absolutely nothing like those previous adventures. First and foremost because we were just approaching somewhere around 11 AM and the local police enforcement hadn’t come out to spoil the near freeway like speeds that were going on. Secondly the sun was finally starting to break and suddenly I went from feeling pretty cold to almost instantly feeling flush with warmth and loose. Sliding in the saddle just magically felt easier and smoother. Finally because as we hit the summit of the pass, we were pretty close to the Cold Spring Tavern. The Tavern is one of those great almost hidden treasures of a resting stop. Founded in the 1860’s, the place has a rather checkered past - reportedly housing gamblers and unsavory types for quite sometime before turning into a rather upscale restaurant later in life. Nowadays it gives both The Rockstore and Newcomb’s Ranch a run for their money for top billing as best biker bar hangout for Southern California. I strongly encourage anyone who heads through the Santa Barbara region to find the time to stop and check the joint out. It’s really worth the stop.
After we had a quick bite at the Tavern, MotorMilt and I continued to head up North. At this point I think Milt was starting to get a bit suspicious about where we were headed exactly, but he went along with it anyway. That turned out to be a great thing because when we got off the bikes in Los Olivos and I had a chance to check my notes from the previous nights’ internet adventures, I made sure that we wouldn’t miss what in many ways was the road I had wanted to find from the outset of the morning, Foxen Canyon Road…. Part II Tomorrow…
update: To Read Part II, click here.
1 Year Later… The best rides
Sunday MotorMilt & I did a monster 340 mile loop, which took us from LA all the way up the coast to Oxnard, over the southern tip of the San Rafael Mountains, through Santa Barbara and Montecito, over the Southwestern edge of the Santa Ynez Mountains, through Los Olivos and eventually into winery laden backcountry roads of the Western Los Padres National Forest. It was a hell of a ride. Perhaps our first sport-touring experience on sportbikes… I’ve diligently been working on a write up and I had hoped to have it finished this evening, but the sheer breadth of the places, people, vistas and roads that we were able to experience have managed to slow the process down just a bit… A full ride entry is coming shortly…
A teaser from Foxen Canyon in the heart of Santa Barbara Wine Country
While on the ride and while working on the entry afterward, I’ve been spending quite a bit of time thinking about Twisting Asphalt. Really ever since I realized that I had been doing this for over a year now I’ve been struck by several things; the most important of which is how much fun its been. I’ve also been struck by the sheer volume of posts over the past year. Some are as fun to read now as the day I wrote them. Other however are less stellar. Subsequently I’ve decided to do some spring cleaning and delete some of the less noteworthy posts.
I’ve also upgraded my Wordpress blogging software which necessitated a small site redesign. That of course morphed from a small update into a complete site overhaul. According to the website logs the vast majority of readers use an RSS feed reader so I suspect few of them will notice the change.
For those of you who visit the actual site regularly things have moved around a bit. As you’ll notice I’ve relocated a number of items to a new menu underneath the header image. Hopefully this will make it easier to find the various parts of the blog. You’ll also notice that some of the post categories have changed. From what I can tell from the website logs it doesn’t appear that many people actually use the broken down categories in the blog sidebar – so I thought that perhaps there was a slightly better way to organize them hence the simplification of the various categories. I’ve also added a category called top rides as a way to highlight various rides and posts that I think are the most interesting or enjoyable.
During the past several days I spent sometime re-reading the blog and during that time I came up with a handful of what I consider to the best or more interesting riding posts over the course of the past year… I had started with the idea of a top ten best ride posts… Somehow that list got a bit longer…
May 20th, 2004:The Lost Coast Expedition of 2004
This was one of the first blog entries about riding that I ever wrote for Twisting Asphalt and whenever I think back about some of my more memorable rides, this particular adventure always rises to the top of the list. I guess 1,200 miles up the California coastline in just under week tends to stick in your mind for quite sometime.
May 27th, 2004:Sunride on a Thursday
It was during the great Lost Coast trip, after a particularly sporty and engaging day that I first brought up the idea of picking up a liter bike to MotorMilt. Never being the types to shy away from making decisions, it was only a week later that we dove into the world of the Ducatistia. This post was written early in the morning on the day we went to pick up our first pair of Ducs.
July 24th, 2004:The Duc Heads North : Route 33
Having a weekend to myself, I ventured up past Ojai, California and hit the magical Route 33 on my first decent length adventure on a Ducati Sportbike. 230 miles later I was physically beat up, but one hell of a happy camper. This post was also memorable as it was one of the first really good uses of my Canon SD-10 digital camera. Some really cool picts imho.
July 24th, 2004:Stolen Ducs - Update
On one of my darkest days the only place I could turn was the blog… This is a point by point chronicle of the first 8 hours after we came home to find that the bikes were missing.
September 18th, 2004:Ikes in The White House & All is well
After a month of screwing around with State Farm, MotorMilt and I were finally able to settle and get back into a pair of bikes. Along the way I came to realize that I had fallen in love with the Ducati sensibility. On this day I wrote;
My heart simply was no longer in the ‘S’ and it was time to move on. If this is starting to sound all together to similar to a relationship, I suspect that’s because for me that’s what riding and owning a motorcycle has become. In so many ways it has become part of me, my identity, my idle thoughts, my vacations, my relaxation, and my soul. Sometimes I think that might not be such a good thing, but then on days like today I’m reminded that maybe, just maybe, it’s okay profess your admiration to an inanimate object because the minute that I fired over the 999 for the first time the most amazing feeling took a hold of me.
September 25th, 2004:Early Morning Skies and Way Back Memories.
A week later I wrote one of my lengthiest posts which chronicled my evolution through different bikes and about my emotional guilt every time I handed over the keys from a previous bike.
November 26th, 2004:My Kind of Thanksgiving
When all of society is hanging out with their families, it’s amazing how empty the roads can be… This is one of my favorite posts and one of my favorite set of pictures of the yellow 999.
December 5th, 2004:What’s An Extra 1,000 RPMs Worth?
Some of my favorite canyon pictures… And one of my favorite opening to any post;
When I die, I want to be reincarnated as a 999.
Just give me an open road with lots of curves and no traffic and I promise I’ll be a happy camper. The 999 is just that damn special. That amazing, really… At various parts of our ride today I not only stood in awe of what this bike can do but felt simply amazed at the opportunity to ride it.
December 24th, 2004:A Magnificent Morning
Re-reading this post I’m amazing at how much I enjoyed reliving the ride once again… Some beautiful picts too.
December 26th, 2004:A Glorious Christmas Ride.
The following day, MotorMilt & I went on one of our longest rides up to this point on the Ducs and I got introduced to the amazing Route 23… A fantastic ride, a very enjoyable post (for me anyway) and unequivocally some of the best pictures I’ve ever taken.
March 12th, 2005:A Needed Unwinding
This was a very normal ride for MotorMilt & I… One that I hate to say had run together with so many others before I went back to re-read my previous entries… It was only then that I saw one of the better things I believe I’ve written in the blog;
While swinging around a rather decent sweeper on Encinal Canyon this morning about halfway through the ride I was struck by the thought that over the course of my life the word ‘relaxation’ has continued to evolve in its meaning. Almost to a point where sometimes I think it seems like an organic concept, not a definition in a book. Originally relaxing seemed like such a simple idea - have a day off, go do something you enjoy and feel refreshed afterward. Yet these days, as more and more of ‘the real world’ creeps its way into my personal time, I find it harder and harder to just lose myself and feel mellow when I’m not at work. Perhaps that’s just growing up, I don’t know. When MotorMilt and I were headed up the PCH this morning at the start of our ride I was having a bitch of a time finding a way to let go of all that other stuff… And of course its funny how a motorcycle picks up on your vibe, if you feel a little bit tense the bike suddenly feels that tension and begins to act out which in turn makes you feel even more tense then you were when you started. In many ways it becomes a stackable issue, one thing building on the last. Yet as we got further and further away from the city, the more I found a peaceful groove. By the time we hit the deli for breakfast even though the skies were still covered in a big gray mess of moody clouds, I felt pretty good… Thankfully that carried over to the ride home. I found the journey back an absolute blast. Had you asked me while MotorMilt and I were mounting up on the Ducs at the Agoura Deli in all honesty I probably wouldn’t have thought that a ride back on a cloudy day like today could be so rewarding. For that brief hour or so, everything just felt locked in. Not in a ‘zone’ sort of way, but rather in an at peace with life sort of way.
April 1st, 2005:Trackday : The Adventure Continues
Of course you knew that I’d put my first track day on a Ducati on the list, right? This is a mixed blessing type of blog entry, it was a hell of a day that I will treasure of quite sometime yet it was also the day that yellow 999 first sprung an oil leak. As you can see from the entry I really had no idea how problematic that would become…
May 11th, 2005:Dawn of A New Ducati
I thought about placing the blog entry from the day the yellow diva died next, but to be honest that still bums me out a great deal. So I thought I’d just skip ahead to the good part, getting a new duc! One of my favorite posts, hands down. Also some nice picts and one that I especially dig that MotorMilt took from the front seat of the truck while I was riding next to him on the freeway…
May 13h, 2005:Second Ride : A Santa Paula Loop
A great day of riding which was followed by one of my better posts. Some fun picts too. Oddly I really enjoy the picture of the CalTrans temporary stoplight. Don’t ask me why.
June 20th, 2005:A Day of Days (&Video!)
I have to say that this one is still fresh in my mind, so it’s relatively easy to pick as a great ride and decent entry… Memorable because it was my time out with the helmet camera and frankly because it was just one of those days that just felt endless in both beauty and enjoyment. The kind of day you really want to repeat again and again and again…
June 23th, 2005:A 1 Year Celebration : The Angeles Crest
I had to put this ride on the list. It was just to amazing not to bring back up. 260 miles of pure bliss on a motorcycle. It had roads I knew, roads I’d never been and scenic vistas that just took your breath away…
Illusion vs. Ego
This afternoon I was able to steal a few of hours and get a ride in during the late afternoon and early evening. Heading up the PCH, I was only a few miles into the ride when I started to notice what a difference a few hours can make. On a normal weekend ride I tend to hit the road by 8 am at the latest, but today was unusual because I had to work for a bit during the early morning and I didn’t get to hit the road until around 3 pm.
Immediately it was apparent that the level of traffic was seriously increased at this hour of the day. With more automotive traffic of course comes more people kicking it at the beach. And more beach goers means more cops. Police seemed to be around every corner on the way up the coast. Just about every fifteen to twenty miles it felt like someone was being pulled over on one side of the road or the other. With so many extra bodies hanging around the coast and the increased police attention, it seemed like a pretty good idea to get off the main north-south traffic route and up into the canyons.
So I hit Las Floras as quickly as possible and then shot up and over the mountains on Piuma. I was going at a pretty good clip until I hit Las Virgines on the other side of the hill. Suddenly people were popping out of all sorts of usually empty driveways and just generally making rather stupid driving decisions.
Hanging a left on Mullhulland, I just got this sense that today was not the day to push it - at least at this hour. There just seemed to be to much craziness for me. It was right around then that I noticed a blue blur in my left rear view mirror. Hitting the first right hand sweeper on Mullhulland I wasn’t quite sure if the bike behind me was going that fast or my mirror was just shaking a lot. So at first I didn’t pay much attention to it figuring that if the guy really wanted to go fast he’d pass me on the short straight away before the 180º left hand radius corner that basically begins the fun part of the Mullhulland Highway ( sometimes referred to as ‘The Playground’ ). Seemed like a logical enough thought process. Only the guy didn’t pass me, he just moved into a tailgating position.
At this point the straight away was getting shorter and I just didn’t feel like having him on my rear the whole way up to The Rockstore. So I waved him along and pulled over to the extreme right hand side of the lane. Most of the time this sort of action on my part results in a rather predictable outcome, yet this particular time it seemed to illicit a rather perplexing response from the guy behind me - as if he either didn’t know what to do or he simply never expected me to do this. Perhaps he never expected some guy riding a sportbike to let him get ahead of them. After a brief hesitation and another hand guesture by me the guy finally seemed to get the message and finally, right before the corner he over took me.
When we hit the 180º bowl I watch the guy fight his way around the corner and then really let it out on the exiting straight away. I took the corner rather spirited, but really dialed it down on the exit. Figuring that I wanted to try and keep the day dialed down. Eventually he had a pretty good lead on me. Which in all honesty was just fine by me, I’ve got no ego about how fast I need to be.
A couple of corners later I caught up to the guy because he was now stuck behind an old Ford Pickup Truck that was slowly swooping it’s way through the canyons. I wasn’t very excited about this development, but whatever… We both followed the truck in tandem for about a mile before the guy ahead of me (on what appeared to be a Yamaha Sport Tourer… an FJR maybe?) tucked underneath the truck in a left hand corner with limited visibility and made the pass in the on-coming traffic lane. I held back and a couple of corners later the truck pulled over on the shoulder and let me pass. About three minutes later I pulled up at the intersection of Mullhulland and Cornell only to find bright blue Yamaha guy pulled over by the local county sheriff.
A Day of Days (& Video!)
Man it’s good to be home. That’s got to be my overriding thought for the weekend. During the past forty eight hours I’ve continually found myself thinking about how getting away sometimes is the only way to remind yourself how much you really enjoy something or in this case, somewhere. Not so much because I dislike other parts of the country, but rather because I truly enjoy the LA experience. It’s a sick satisfaction I know, but flying in to LAX I actually was happy to see traffic on the 405. Somehow that said something to me.
Of course coming home is nice, but having a free weekend to enjoy is much more exciting. Yesterday I once again woke up way to early and ended up hitting the road around 6:15 AM. Normally I’d be annoyed about the lack of sleep, but being out on the road that early turned out to be just glorious. Seldom in LA do you get the PCH all to yourself but yesterday it just opened up when I hit the Santa Monica grade and stayed that way until I hit Las Floras Canyon. Between the early morning light, the cool ocean breeze, the vibrant sea smells and the lack of traffic, there was just to much good karma going around to ignore.
Las Floras Early In The Morning
Sitting here now - about twenty four hours later - I’m still smiling about the ride. After ten straight days of working this weekend was well worth the wait. And yesterday in particular was just one of those magical days when you remember why you enjoy riding. One of those days when you hit the apex of every corner and everything feels supremely planted all the whole way through and when you get on the gas the bike just speaks to you as it stands up and rockets away.
After shooting up Las Floras, I made my way up and over the mountains on Piuma and Saddlepeak. From there I hit Las Virgines and took Mullhulland all the way back to The Rockstore. Because I had hit the road so early in the morning the parking lot was basically all beemers once again. Man those guys ride early! Of course by the time I left a good portion of the sportbike crowd had showed up and filled in the gaps.
(more…)
When you know you’re home again
Few things truly wake up your soul like going for your first ride after being out of town for awhile. Right now I honestly have no idea what time my body thinks it is, but after being on the road for the past nine days I woke up at an un-godly hour this morning and was able to hit the road a good two hours before I normally do. This turned out to be the blessing of all blessing as I was able to carve my way through the canyons in complete peace and quiet before the rest of the LA basin woke up. And what a sight it was. The early morning light was absolutely beautiful with golden colored hues lighting up the world before my eyes. And after seeing nothing but straight lines and boring roads for the past several days it was nice to finally see some curves again. Something that begged for a sportbike and not a harley. Eventually I ended up working my way to the Rockstore for an early morning bite. Turned out that I was there so early that the only company in the parking lot was the beemer crowd. Been awhile since that was the case…
After grabbing some eats I took Mullhulland to Kanan and then popped down Latigo Canyon. Curves were just coming from every direction and somewhere between the elevation changes, the constantly changing radius and the vistas of the pacific ocean I just lost myself. If there is a more visual reminder as to why I enjoy Southern California I don’t know what it is. By the time I hit the end of the road, down by the PCH, I felt so inspired that I ended up taking Latigo back the other way to Kanan Dune to complete the round trip. It was just that nice.
Some random thoughts from the ride:
Memorial Weekend Rides
I’ve been staring at this blank computer canvas for the past twenty minutes trying to come up with an adequate framework to describe riding over the Memorial Day Weekend and while I’m sure there are numerous ways to try and capture what it felt like, perhaps the best description I’ve stumbled on to is the idea that this weekend was truly a vacation from LA while still being in LA.
Seldom in my life have I ever felt as far away from the real world while still being immersed within the trappings of the usual. I might have slept at home, but I sure didn’t stay there. And perhaps it’s because we rode for three straight days and that in and of itself is unusual, but waking up this morning I felt so much more relaxed it’s hard to imagine that I was actually in LA over the holiday weekend. Maybe the planets simply were aligned in some healthy cosmic way, but I wish every weekend felt like this one. It was flat out wonderful - in some many ways and on so many levels.
Long time readers of this blog will probably point out that I’m fairly consistent in my effervescent gushing of all things LA, Ducati or Motorcycle - and while that’s fairly true, like anyone else after awhile the real world can just drive you crazy. You simply need a break. You need to get away. And while I truly would have loved to head up the coast and really get away, having the opportunity to experience so much of LA over the course of one weekend was just great. Sometimes I tend to forget that one of the great assests of the LA basin is the fact that from the coast the mountains, there is a tremendous amount of diversity in geographic textures, climates and atmospheres. No two parts ever feel the same or act similar. Whether it’s from one corner to the next or from one zip code to another, LA offers so many different possibilities all within a two hour drive or ride it’s kinda amazing.
The famed Rockstore
Over the course of the weekend MotorMilt & I put about four hundred miles on the Ducs - which while not Bimmer miles ain’t bad for a couple of sportbike torture racks. All day I found myself profusely glowing. Course I’d be lying if I didn’t mention how sore I was too. Many it’s a masochistic manifest destiny, but in an odd way I actually find myself enjoying the soreness and the pain. Because then I know we were out riding, working it and pushing it a bit. Almost like the tired and beat up athlete after practice. The one who knows how hard they worked - not that riding is work exactly, but you get the point.
At this point much of the weekend is starting the blur together, but over the course of the three days MotorMilt & I hit almost all of our favorite canyons, got up to Ojai, and found new roads and routes. Over that spread I found myself thinking about a number of things…
On one of the days we hit the Rockstore fairly early - somewhere around 8:30am or thereabouts - and I was struck by a couple of guys we walked past in the parking lot who were experiencing riding for the first time because one of their friends shared the sport with them. For some reason this really struck me - had it not been for a friend who had just gotten back into riding 15 years ago, MotorMilt probably never would have picked up the habit again. Had he not been bitten by the bug, he never would have shared it with me and then I might never have started riding in the first place. If that had happened I would have missed so much and as I started thinking about it, it occurred to me that we live in a world where so many people say some many negative things about riding - it’s dangerous, it’s rowdy, it’s loud, it’s unsafe - and yet when someone opens to the door so to speak and brings them into this hobby or this sport, they almost always see it differently.
On one of the other days we hit Ojai and watched as the town was overtaken by cruisers. If you have told me that The Wild One was being re-shot over the weekend I would have probably believed you. Harley’s and the like were everywhere and so were the cops. And while I think it’s awesome that so many people were out riding, I found myself asking if there are so many people out on their bikes today where the hell do they keep them on all the other weekends when either Ojai or the canyons seem almost empty?
A couple days ago I read a blog entry by Doug K over Forty Years on Two Wheels about what he thinks about inside his helmet while he rides. For some reason that struck a chord with me and over the weekend I was more aware of what I was thinking about then I’d venture I normally am and as I rolled through it all I couldn’t help but think that Doug was dead-on on so many levels. Perhaps the only thing he left out - which might be LA specific - is ‘damn housing prices are out of control’….
I think the updated ‘05 999 color scheme is killer. The red frame & black rims make a beautiful bike that much more beautiful. Kind of amazing how such a little change seems so big…
I think I might be more excited for the 600 mile service on the Duc than on any of the other bikes. With so much more low end torque I can’t wait to let the bike out…
The Next Day Syndrome
I kept thinking about the original BMW R-32 horizontal twin today. In its era all motorcycles regardless of manufacture looked and rode very similar. They were forms of basic transportation built to get you from point A to point B. The idea that one day there would be a whole host of different motorcycle genres from which to choose from probably would seem unfathomable to it’s builders. Yet today so many different styles of motorcycles exist. On one side stand the pure cruisers and on the other the pure sportbikes. In between you’ll find standards, multipurpose, tourers, and sport-tourers just to name a few. Each of these styles offers certain advantages and disadvantages. Today I was reminded about those differences.
After yesterday’s 200+ mile mammoth ride I found myself squarely feeling the effects of the next day syndrome. I woke up hurting. My back was tight. My knees were sore. My legs ached. Had you asked I could have honestly told you that I felt like I ran a marathon yesterday. Around 7 AM I was looking for any excuse not to ride. Yet it was simply to glorious of a day not to try to ride. So MotorMilt and I headed out for a breakfast jaunt even though we weren’t 100% sold on the idea.
Heading up the coast I couldn’t help but think about the choices in bike styles that we as riders make. My pain was most certainly a derivative of the style of bike I ride. It’s really that simple. Back when I rode a BMW R1100S, a 200 mile day was nothing. Actually on long rides up the coast if MotorMilt and I didn’t get further than that I felt cheated. Towards the end of that bike’s reign I actually starting giving serious thought to trying to make an LA to SF trip in one day up the PCH. Now the idea of a 500 mile ride up the coast on the Duc sounds like the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. It most definitely has to be a multiday trip or I won’t survive and I’m not exactly physically falling apart.
For the first half of our trip up the coast I was certain that heading out today was a stupid idea. However a funny thing happened once we hit the fun part of Mullhulland. I got jazzed. All of a sudden a wave of enthusiasm came out of nowhere and suddenly it was just me and road doing battle. The more challenging the road became the more focused I got. Each corner was a step towards waking up.
When we hit Agoura, I felt alive. Reminded that even when you feel sore on a bike if you’re offered the opportunity to ‘get into the ride’ an amazing thing happens. The pain vanishes and at least for awhile life simply comes down to riding. Enjoying the moment as it unfolds and ultimately isn’t that why we all ride? To lose ourselves and find that inner peace?
Here’s a couple picts of the day…
The Duc’s in the Mullhulland Valley
The requisite canyon shot
The Duc’s in the Mullhulland Valley, part 2
Dawn Of A New Ducati
5:00 AM - This Morning
It’s way to early to be awake and I’m a bit out of sorts right now. During the past several hours I simply have been unable to sleep very much. So many random thoughts have been running through my mind it’s hard to imagine that it’s already morning. Just about a week and a half ago the Italian Diva sprang it’s second major oil leak in less than a month. In the ten days or so since then it seems that at least in terms of motorcycles I’ve been on a whirlwind ride encompassing just about every emotional facet.
While watching the bike continue to drip oil as it got towed away I couldn’t help but ask myself what else could possible happen?
It was less than a year ago that I started down the Ducatista road. Just 348 days to be exact. (Yeah, I’m odd enough to go back and look that sort of stuff up… don’t ask). During that time a whole heck of a lot has happened, or so it seems to me… While I’ve been busy falling in love with the bikes, the marque and the experience, I’ve had my heart and soul ripped out when the ‘03 749 was stolen, had two major oil leaks on the ‘04 999, have had the chance to experience a thrilling trackday on the 999 with the CLASS folks, have seen my level and skill skyrocket, and have had the chance to ride both roads I thought I knew and roads I had never seen before. I’ve been filled with equal parts passion, lust, emotional excess, loss, devastation, tragedy, and amazing blood pumping excitement. What other brand could offer such extremes? Longtime Duc owners would probably tell you that this is nothing new. After reading message boards across the ‘net and talking to current and former Ducati owners, there certainly seems to be a distinct love-hate relationship that most folks have with their Ducs.
Yet throughout my journey with the marque - perhaps even love affair - every incident seems to have made the bond between me and the bike stronger. How odd is that?
Whether it’s been a good or bad experience, every moment with the bike has made me feel something. Some sense of emotion or passion. Years of riding BMWs never illicited any sensation on any comparable level. They were absolutely perfect mechanical beasts, but at least for me not nearly as heartfelt. Of course after you spend a few weekends sitting around because your bike is having mechanical issues you logically start to wonder why you should bother with all of this turmoil when you can own a GSXR for less money and in all likely hood have less pitfalls… I suppose it’s only common sense to ask the question. Yet everytime I start to mentally head down that road, I keep coming back to the joy of the Ducati experience. The pure excitement in the way it rides, the way it behaves. It may not be a one-of-a-kind, but it’s certainly not one of several thousand that all look alike. Every time it kicks over something special happens inside me. I don’t know why. It just does. It’s something that feels unique. Perhaps it’s not. Perhaps it is. Yet when I think about it, it works for me. I enjoy it and it means something on a personal level.
I suppose that leads me back to today and this morning in particular. After only ten days, Mike Norman and the folks at Ducati North America along with Jake & the ProItalia boys have pulled off a major miracle as far as I’m concerned. They have managed to get me back on a Ducati… And quickly. Much to my surprise I feel like I’m a six year old waking up on Christmas Day. (Talk about feelings from your youth that you never thought you’d have again…but perhaps that’s for another blog post ) In just a few short hours I’ll be heading off to ProItalia to pick up a brand new ‘05 Ducati 999 to replace the ‘04.
After all the craziness of the past year I honestly can’t believe that this has happened so fast and so friendly. Everyone involved in the process seemed to want to ‘make it right’. The fact that a major brand has the guts to stand behind their product and replace a bike that had a problem with a brand new bike just blows me away. Maybe I’m a bit jaded, but that sort of respect for the customer seems to have been forgotten in big business these days. Case in point during the past two years I’ve had to deal with a couple of computer purchases where the machines wouldn’t boot out of the box. They were fried before I ever plugged them in. Each one of those experiences was far more annoying even though major computer manufacturers build and sell millions more units then Ducati does. I would think that logic would dictate that it should be much easier to replace a cpu than a motorcycle simply based on the differences in scale. Yet from the first phone call to the last, everyone involved in this process has seemed to get where I was coming from, what had happened and how I felt. If only customer service everywhere was as exceptional as my experience with Ducati of North America & ProItalia, the world would be a much better place IMHO. So while it’s a bit insane that I’ll be breaking in my third Duc in less than a year, I’ve never felt so good about my decision to purchase a Ducati or felt like I was in better hands. From this point forward I will always have a Duc in the stable.
10:15 AM
MotorMilt & I arrive at ProItalia just after rush hour dies down. I feel a bit ampped up. On one hand I’m a bit tired of picking up new bikes. On the other hand, does this feeling ever grow old? When we walk into the shop Jake is ready and waiting with all the paperwork. In a way I’ve dreaded this process. After the Insurance fiasco I can’t imagine it’s easy. Turns out I’m wrong. The paperwork gets wrapped up in less than five minutes. No hidden costs or jerking around. I honestly can’t believe that it’s done.
New key in hand, I head over to the parts counter. Spend the next hour and half trying on new helmets. After realizing that I’ve been riding a Ducati for a year now it occurs to me that my current blue & white Arai is around five years old. That seems a touch on the lengthy side from everything I’ve read. So while I don’t really feel like dropping the coin on a new lid, it seems like the prudent thing to do. After a number of attempts with different brands, I decided that even though Arai seems to have altered the RX7 model line it’s probably best to go back into a helmet that I know fits my head shape. Turns out PI only seems to have my size in bright silver. Usually I’m not exactly the most color conscious guy, but the bright silver doesn’t really do much for me. The parts guy (who’s name is either John or Perry but I’m currently blanking on it right now) offers to order whatever color I want.
Testing out the fit of the new lid
Turns out my first two choices are no longer being made. After way too much debate on my part I settle on solid black. Seems safe and easy. I’m also ready to just be done with picking out a helmet. I need a large. PI only has a medium in stock. The part guys (again I aplogize for the lack of the correct name) tells me that the shell size is the same, it’s just the pads inside that are different. I’m a bit uncertain about this, but he offers to swap out the guts of the helmet and custom one up. Ten minutes later I’ve got a new helmet that fits better than my old, feels safer and isn’t giving me a headache. Awesome.
12:00-ish
Helmet in hand, I head outside of the shop and check out the new bike. My heart is beating three times as fast as normal. I can’t believe I’m back on a Duc. It’s awesome and I feel incredibly lucky. In an odd twist of fate the new bike is parked next to the old one. Part of me feels a bit bummed… I feel like I’m cheating on my girlfriend. Perhaps I am because I’m done with yellow.
While I’m not normally the most superstitious person in the world, it just seemed like my luck with yellow wasn’t so hot lately. Two yellow bikes going away for two different reasons just seemed like enough of a hint. I really don’t want that third strike if I can help it. Perhaps that’s insane. Obviously this isn’t the most logical reaction and I’ll be the first to admit that this could be entirely a rationalization inside my head, but Ducati & PI were kind enough to indulge me and let me switch over to red anyway. I suspect it’s not the type of request their customer service folks normally get, but it was very cool of them to understand.
Me and the Duc outside of PI
Sitting on the new bike it’s obvious that things have changed from the ‘04 model to the ‘05. Even though everything is in the same place, the fairing feels substantially larger. I had read that the windscreen was taller, but sitting on the bike for the first time it’s more noticeable than I would have thought. The mirrors feel about an inch or two further out. Visibility seems to be seriously improved over the ‘04 model. Turning the bike over for the first time, the engine roars to life and my heart just kicks into another gear. I knew I missed being on the bike, but I had no idea how much. With the exception of our trackday and two weekends ago, MotorMilt and I haven’t been regularly riding for about two months due to weather and repairs. It’s awesome to finally feel like that’s all in the past.
Leaving ProItalia
12:30-ish
Heading out, it’s clear that more has changed on the ‘05 model than just the fairing. The engine feels very different. I can only open it up to 6,000 rpms (here we go with the break-in stuff again ) but the thing just snaps. Seems much more powerful in perhaps a more meaningful real-world way. The first two thousand rpms are pretty bumpy, but from two to six it’s twice as linear as the ‘04. The bike just pops from two to six almost instantly. Riding home it occurs to me that this must by why people bought the ‘S’ model. I’m not entirely sure how they have managed to make what already felt like a rocketship even faster, but they have. Damn I love Italian engineering.
Around 1:30 PM
We get back to the westside and I’m jonesing for a ‘real’ ride. It’s just way to beautiful of a day in LA to ignore. Way to many stars seem to have aligned today. The weather is perfect. Picking up the bike went super smoothly. Life seems very, very good… And besides who wouldn’t want to rush out to ride their Italian Diva? Doesn’t take much to convince MotorMilt to go along with my half-assed plan. Ten minutes later we’re heading up the coast towards the Santa Monica Mountains. Amazingly I feel instantly comfortable with the bike. It just sings and I feel like I’m one with it. Even though the tires are new and need to be scuffed in, the bike already feels very planted. After reading the Ducati website last night, I know it’s gotten lighter but I’m genuinely shocked at how much nimbler it feels. And that’s just on Highway-1.
When we hit Las Floras Canyon the bike feels twice as quick. Flickability has a new meaning. I jump around between 1st, 2nd and 3rd for most of the way up, constantly trying to keep it around five and half in the rpms. Everything feels very smooth. Out of all three Ducati’s I’ve now broken in during the past year, this one feels the most solid right off the showroom floor. The transmission feels much more certain. Hundreds of times better IMHO. Even though I’m not revving as high as I normally do, I still seem to be going at a pretty good clip. To his credit MotorMilt does a pretty good job of riding his ride, but still keeping up. Course I think the two new stop signs from the winter rain damage help out 
.
At the top of the hill, MotorMilt says I look very comfortable. I certainly feel that way. He says it looks like the ‘05 has more low end grunt given the way I’m riding. I’m pretty sure I agree with him, but I’m not 100% certain. We hang a right and eventually work our way over to Schueren. While the tires are getting nicely scuffed in, the brakes still don’t feel all the way there. On the last two Ducs they seemed to hit their max power once I had around 150 miles on the bikes. I’m at roughly fifty miles, so as much as I’d like to head down Piuma Canyon that seems a touch tighter than I think I want to deal with until the brakes have a bit more grab in them.
Schueren turns out to be a fantastic idea. It’s a short little jaunt between Las Floras and the intersection of Stunt Road and Saddle Peak. Six or seven corners that aren’t twisties and not quite sweepers. Somewhere in between. The Duc feels incredibly planted as I make my way from one end to the other. At the top of the hill, we take a ten minute breather at the usual pull-off spot. At this point I’m completely floored. Life just does not get better nor does the bike. This is awesome.
While we’re off the bikes, I snap a couple of picts and take a look at the new fairing. Side by side it’s extremely obvious how much has changed. I had assumed that the new fairing simply didn’t have the upper air vents. The new one is much larger and a bit lower in it’s stance. The ‘04 seems more architectural with the extra vents and more angle appearance.
‘The fairings
After the break we head down Stunt. It seems like I haven’t ridden this route in a very long time. The road is ridable, but not exactly clear. There’s a lot of damage from the rainy season and CalTrans has done a pretty poor job of fixing it. In several places I hit bumps that didn’t exists before. The asphalt patch jobs have raised the road surface over the cracks about an inch and a half higher than the rest of the road. I’m doing about fifty or sixty at this point. Pretty sure if it was any faster I’d be airborne after hitting one of these bumps. Get the feeling that while heading up to the top of the mountains is as fast as ever, the way down this summer is going to be a bit slower.
Once we’re down the hill, we make our way through the first half of Mullhulland and hit the Deli for a late lunch. At this point it’s clear that this is just one of those days that has come together in a big way. The weather is fantastic. Warm, but not hot. Little to no wind. Almost empty canyons. Views after every corner. I just feel so fuck’n lucky to be out riding again.
After lunch I ask MotorMilt to switch bikes with me. At first he seems a bit hesitant. Like somehow this will spoil my fun. But I need a reality check. I can’t fathom that the ‘05 feels so different. It must be in my head. After awhile he gives in and agrees. Of course I’m pretty sure that he’s wanted to give it a whirl all day, so this isn’t a tremendous shock. He’s just being a great parent, being happy for his kid.
On the ‘04 I instantly recognize the difference in the engine. It’s nowhere near as linear as the ‘05. I hate to admit this to myself because I already feel guilty enough after having picked up the ‘05 - but from 1 to 6 thousand rpms the ‘04 lugs in comparison. The new power plant is simply a massive improvement on an already awesome motorcycle. Since MotorMilt’s bike is broken in, when we hit Mullhulland I’m able to let it out. Man it’s nice to be able to do that. Hearing the engine kick it up a notch around seven and half on the tach simply makes my soul sing. MotorMilt disappears behind me and the canyons feel as friendly as ever. His new tread has about two hundred and some odd miles on it. I never thought I’d be able to tell the difference between relatively fresh tires, but his have far more grip. Mine are nowhere near scuffed up enough yet. After we cross over Las Virgines, we take another breather at the overlook.
First thing that MotorMilit says to me is that he loves the new engine. Apparently I’m not insane. The bike really does feel different. He seems extremely impressed with how solid it feels. I have to smile. It’s just glorious to be out here today. I tell him that his bike feels really good and he chuckles. “I knew the reason you wanted to ride it was to get above six”.
By the time we get home I’m flat out amazed at how much different and dare I say, better the ‘05 feels. It’s got more power. It feels lighter. It seems faster turning into corners. The red frame and blacked out wheels and exhaust look awesome. The new fairing seems to cut down on the wind resistance while riding… And the mirrors actually seem to work. I feel so fortunate to have had things workout in such a magnificent way. It certainly wasn’t a heck of a lot of fun having to go through the whole oil leak ordeal, but thankfully it has all worked out above and beyond any of my expectations. The Ducati folks simply rock.
