在我年的职员在一个摩托车杂志,I rode hundreds of bikes. From twist-and-go 50 cc scooters to a V8-powered Boss Hoss. Portly cruisers one day and sharp-edged superbikes on a racetrack the next day. And though I don’t consider myself a serious off-road rider—I don’t own a hydration backpack—I’ve ridden deep into the Quebec wilderness on hardcore KTMs and soft-core KLRs. In motorcycling terms, I’ve been around.
Prior to taking the gig, I believed motorcycle magazine hacks led a tortured existence, wherein each motorcycle tested took root in the psyche and didn’t let go, leading the poor, chronically underpaid reviewer to have a list of coveted bikes at least as long as the lyric sheet to Dylan’sDesolation Row. But that’s not what I found. The task of a motorcycle reviewer isn’t so different from that of a sommelier: swirl it around your mouth, opine on its essence, spit it out, and move on. To my surprise, I learned that sampling a bike is often enough to quell your desire for it. Even for bikes you really like. But, even with that caveat, thereare自行车,坚持你。
I bought the bike pictured, a 1993 Ducati 900 Supersport, on a whim in 2008 from a Montreal truck driver. Part of the reason I bought it was that, at $4,000, I could afford it. I didn’t know much about the bike, other than that it had been used by the trucker for track days and that the bike had in its fifteen years of existence racked up a very un-Ducati-like 40,000 miles. But I rode the 900 only once, a 600-mile loop on a glorious fall day. And then I sold it a week later to my brother, because, on yet another whim, I’d bought a first-year Ducati 916. My brother rarely rode the 900, and then, after a minor crash, he’d had enough and the bike sat in his garage for a dozen years. And then, on another whim (you guessed it) I bought the 900 back earlier this summer. Why? Blame Peter Egan.
LongtimeCycle Worldwriter Egan (read my story about himhere) owned a 900 in the ’90s, and re-reading a thirty-year-oldLeaningscolumn got me thinking aboutmy900 again. Egan noted that the 900 was an anomaly. It wasn’t a hard-core sportbike, nor was it a standard or a sport-tourer. And it was, even by the standards of the day, no more than a so-so performer on the spec sheet.Cycle Worlddiscovered it topped out at 129 mph—Japanese 750s and 1000s of the day would eat it for lunch. Yet Egan called the Supersport his favorite motorcycle. I thought back to my one-day ride on the 900, but the specifics were foggy. In my defense, it was a busy time 15 years ago—I had a three-year-old, my father died, and I’d received a promotion at my job, which entailed a modest increase in wage and a colossal increase in responsibility. With interest in the old 900 piqued, it demanded a second look.
Sitting, for humansandmotorcycles, isn’t ideal. After adjusting the valves and changing the belts that drive the overhead camshafts, I put a new battery in the Ducati and turned the key. The dash lights glowed. Weakly. So weakly that they’re absolutely invisible at any time other than the dead of night. I was happy to hear the fuel pump whirring. I was less happy to see the increasingly large pool of gasoline on the shed floor. Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten the joys of carburetors.
Down into the bowels of the bike I dug. The original Mikunis had been replaced with Keihins by a previous owner (it’s a popular—and expensive—upgrade). My brother had properly laid the bike up for non-use by draining the fuel tank and the float bowls and it showed. Both the tank and the carbs were spotlessly clean, but a tiny bit of grit had lodged into the taper where fuel enters the float bowl. Thirty minutes later the bike was back together and running. But something didn’t sound right.
Ducati engines—clacking dry clutches aside—make very little mechanical clatter. Yes, the exhaust booms, but the engines themselves are quiet. Eventually, I traced the noise to an exhaust leak at the horizontal cylinder head. A new gasket was an easy, cheap fix. Time to ride. I suited up but found the next problem before I’d reached the end of the driveway: crusty steering head bearings. This was perplexing. My brother replaced them in his ownership, and the bike had been stored in a dry garage and there was absolutely no corrosion on any other part of the machine. Back to the shed.
With the bearings replaced, I eased out onto the road and gingerly shifted through the gearbox. Ducati transmissions, in my experience, shift in one of two ways: beautifully or miserably. Neutral on the 900 can take a deft touch to find, but the shifting is light, positive, and, above all, mechanical. The last word is key.Mechanical.
To step off, say, a modern Honda and onto the 900 would shock your system. Whereas the Japanese make supremely refined machines, the 900 has a raw edge that you either respond to or you don’t. If a Honda is a cappuccino, an old Ducati is a doppio espresso—and don’t dare come near me with that cinnamon shaker. On a clear stretch of road, with the engine humming along and happily up to temperature, I downshifted to third gear and rolled the throttle to the stop. Intake noise drowned out exhaust noise and in fury the 900 lunged ahead with surprising vigor for a machine on the light side of 80 horsepower.
Everything Peter Egan had written about the bike is true. The seating position, for me at least, is all-day ideal. A slight forward lean to raised clip-ons and moderately rear-set footpegs. The 900 is thin, unhappy under 3,000 rpm, wonderfully direct in its feedback, surprisingly susceptible to being moved around by vigorous crosswinds, and the rear suspension has the sophistication of a leaf-sprung Mennonite buggy. It’s far from a perfect machine, and yet I’m in agreement with Egan: it’s my favorite motorcycle. But don’t run out and buy one. I doubt it’s ideal foryou.
It took me until well into middle age to determine that my preference in motorcycles dovetails with the Italian ideal. Raw, visceral, and hard-edged, the Italian motorcycle doesn’t profess to do everything well—and that’s its strength. An Italian motorcycle never disappears beneath you. It’s as insistent a companion as an eight-year-old who won’t stop talking. It howls, growls, bucks, shudders when lugged, and the stock gearing (soon to be changed with a sprocket swap) is Bonneville-salt-flat ready. But get it on a road with endless sweeping corners and warm, dry pavement, and it becomes an extension of your body.
In uncharacteristically warm late September weather, I took a weekday for myself and did a 500-mile loop. With the tach needle hovering between 5,000 and 7,000 rpm on the sublimely austere white-faced Veglia gauge, my favorite roads became more like an Olympic luge run than paved roadways. Huge noise on the run into a corner turned to raucous overrun during braking. And the corner stability is such that the 900 sits at whatever lean angle you ask of it without a hint of complaint. My kind of riding is hard, fast, solo travel punctuated with strong coffee and quiet moments staring into dark lakes and serene forests. The thirty-year-old 900 excels in the narrow wedge of motorcycling that most interests me. I’m thankful we found each other.
