Road Test of Kim's New Ducati
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How a sexy Italian almost beat an old man to death.

Paul Schnorenberg, the new owner of Mary, (see other story), came to pick up his bike and he brought his son Richard along.  It seems that Richard also loves motorcycles and enjoys swapping them enough that he currently has 7 in his garage.  Well, by the time Paul came back from his test ride, Richard and I had just about solidified a deal on a red 1999 Ducati 750 Supersport with twin Two Brothers canisters showing about 3,500 miles on the odometer.  After returning home, Richard sent some pics and details, and when he agreed to drop the price to cover my expenses for pickup, the deal was made.  

Now I have a perfectly good Cadillac, with a perfectly good trailer hitch, and three, yes three, trailers among my friends in the neighborhood.  But once again that wild part of me that still thinks he's 20 years old decided that the only way for a true Bavorak Rider to pick up a new bike was to ride it home.  So last Friday, I boarded Northwest's 6:20 am flight to Kansas City to claim my new mistress.  My first mistake was made before I even left the house.  I decided that since I had to change planes in Memphis, and would need to walk quite a distance to another gate, I did not want the discomfort of my boots so I chose to wear normal street shoes instead.  More on this mistake later.

I arrived at KC and was met by Richard, rode with him to his house and met his lovely wife and two of the friendliest beagles known to man.  There in his garage, surrounded by not only whole bikes, but a ton of pieces and parts, was my little Italian redhead.  So beautiful, so sleek, it even looks fast while setting still.  I looked it over, started it up, and fell in love with that wonderful sound.  I said, "Let's do the paperwork, I have to get going".  Paul suggested a test ride, but I said I trusted him and was sure all would be fine, to which he responded if not, just bring it back.  The deal was done, and I donned my gear, my Nolan full face, Kevlar Gloves (summer weight), Joe Rocket Ballistic Jacket, and street shoes.  My first problem was getting on the bike.  With a small bag bungeed on the rear portion of the seat, I could barely swing my leg over.  A Ducati does not have a centerstand, just a measly little side stand.  And to make matters worse, the stand is spring loaded to automatically retract when the bike is pulled upright.  I should have known I was in trouble when I almost threw my hip joint out while mounting, but the pain was just beginning.  As I sat on the seat, I realized that the Duc gas tank was taking up space I reserve for my body's gas tank   The gear only made matters worse, and I was struggling to get comfortable when I realized what was my biggest problem.  I have never been on a bike where the handlebars seemed so far away.  As I bent to grab them, they seemed as if they were mounted on the front axle, so far away in fact, that I could only curl my fingertips around the grips, not my palms.  This was scary.  Only the balls of my feet would touch the ground, so slow speed maneuvering was sloppy at best.  With all the gear, and bent over at such an angle, I could not even turn my head to look far enough left or right to check lanes.  I was so far out of my element that the only sensible thing to do was to have Richard take me to Uhaul to rent a truck for the return trip.  So I waved goodbye and rode shakily off into the sunset on my new Ducati.

The one smart thing I had done was to make reservations at a hotel on the west side of St. Louis, knowing I would not get away from KC early.  Out on the highway things got better, for a while.  That lovely sound made me want to upshift and downshift at every opportunity, and as I exceeded 60 mph, the wind blast bore the brunt of my weight, making the controls seem lighter and relieving my wrists of discomfort.  The switches seem so tiny compared to other bikes, but I guess they have to be since the handlebars are only about the size of two 5 pound barbells.  The Italians are a strange lot.  There is no fuel gauge, and since this model is fuel injected, no petcock with reserve.  They expect you to put all your trust in a 39 cent bulb that rests behind the Low Fuel lens.  I decided it was time to revert to the old 'watch the mileage' method.  Depending on how spirited your right hand is, the light comes on after about 3 gallons, or 100 to 125 miles.  As I pulled in for my first fuel stop, I discovered the biggest problem of the trip.

Dismounting and mounting.  Yes, something so simple as getting on and off the bike was a trial in balance and agility.  As you pull to a stop, you must first straighten up, then look down to see where the side stand is, then catch it with your heel and push it down and forward while you slowly shift the bikes weight onto the stand, praying that it is past the 90 degree point where it will just fold back up next to the frame.  Once the stand is down, and you've rocked the bike backwards at least 3 or 4 times to be sure it is on the stand, it is time to dismount.  By sliding off to the left, you would then need to swing your right leg over the bike, but I could not do this with the bag on the seat.  So I developed a dismount that must have been quite entertaining to all the Quik Stop cashiers I encountered.  I would carefully balance the bike, standing up with both feet on the pegs, being careful not to lean too far left lest the spindly aluminum stand bend, and not leaning too far forward, lest the autoretract feature be initiated, and then while standing on the pegs and both hands placed on top of the tank, I would s-l-o-w-l-y swing my right leg over and down to the ground.  Mounting was just the opposite, but since all my weight initially is placed on the left footpeg, I had to take extra care to balance the bike just a little, not too much, to the other side so the side stand did not bend.  Saddlebags only from now on, nothing mounted on the seat.  

From Independence the weatherman lied.  The temperature began to drop farther and farther down the scale, finally settling at about 38 degrees.  I got so cold that I had to pull over at a state rest stop just to put on my Frogg Toggs, that, while not meant for warmth, did a credible job of stopping the air flowing up my jeans with their velcro cuffs.  Back on the road, my fingers were cramping, my hip was hurting, and I knew my core temperature was dropping too low.  About 50 miles from my motel, God decided to water the crops.  The Ballistic jacket did a fine job, as did the Frogg Toggs, (best $45 I've spent this year), but my summer weight gloves were wet and cold, only exceeded in discomfort by my now soaked street shoes.  Just a few miles from the motel and the Low Fuel light made it's appearance again so I pulled into a Big Foot.  Everyone loved the bike, but of course they all started the conversation with the same witty question of "Kinda cold on that bike, isn't it?"  I got a cup of hot coffee and sat down in a chair in the adjoining restaurant and then it hit me.  I began to shiver and shake like I never have before.  I know it is some sort of defense mechanism the body has for extreme cold, but I continued to shiver for at least 30 minutes before I was able to leave for the motel.  All in all, a miserable ride on a bike for which I had already begun writing the ad copy.  I turned the heater on high and slept wonderfully (thanks pacemaker).

Saturday, I waited until the day had warmed somewhat and finally pulled out of the motel parking lot at 12:05 pm.  Something was different.  The Ducati felt much more comfortable as I accelerated onto the onramp,  and as I rolled up through the gears I felt truly in control of this magnificent machine for the first time.  I passed the airport, thru downtown, past the Arch, over the bridge and onto 64 into Illinois before I knew it.  Then as traffic began to thin out, I let the Duc run.  Although the bike feels fine at 65, it seems to smooth out and sing a much happier song when running between 80 and 100.  I was a little cold, but not like the day before.  And playing those little traffic games, accelerating, decelerating, gliding through the curves as if on rails, it all made the trip home seem not only effortless, but fun.  It was as if the Duc was telling me, "OK, yesterday was initiation day, now today you are one of the fraternity."  I won't say too much about my speed since I do feel the Duc speedometer is optimistic, but with one gas stop I arrived at my home in Newburgh at 3:02 pm.  Not bad for being on the west side of St. Louis.  The best thing about the day was that I grew to like my little red Italian.  I have to do something about raising the bars, but it proved it more than deserves a place in my garage.  On Sunday I took it out for a short ride with only a sweater on and was even more comfortable.  And as I rolled through the gears, she began singing me that wonderful song.