After years of mainstream happy, hassle-free Honda riding, I have succumbed to the Italian bike bug. Seemingly not satisfied with having but one demanding mechanical mistress - my ever competent but fiendishly complex Audi A4 - I came upon this particular gig by accident, quite literally.
While riding along Upper Lachine road in NDG one beautiful August evening on my trusty old VF1000R, an elderly man in a parked Cavalier decided to pull out and make a u-turn right in front of me. The result was semi-predictable. I slammed the old girl as far as she would go to the left, but in the end was missing about two feet of room to make it past. The right side of the VF’s lower fairing, engine and frame crashed first into the front wheel, then tore off the bumper. I didn’t see this first hand, as I had since left the bike and was flying over the hood with my eyes closed, hitting the pavement and rolling to a stop about twenty feet further away. I suffered nothing but a tiny bruise on my right hip (from the ratchet handle I had been carrying in my pocket), which is a testament to why you should ALWAYS wear your gear, even when it’s 32C outside. And to her credit, the massive VF is truly one tough old broad... the Cavy had to be towed away, but I simply picked the bike up, pushed the starter button and rode her home, minus one foot peg.
Once the insurance settled I got busy searching for parts, no mean feat for a bike that's 21 years old and was imported by the dozens, not thousands. Fate was about to intervene though.
A few days later Pete decides to go check out a new local Ducati club meeting and cons me into tagging along. I listen to their cult-like spiels and tell them that yes, really, I love the bikes - Pete's 900SS in particular - but even with the insurance cheque coming they're a wee bit out of my range. They all immediately come back with "yeah, but you gotta check out the deals in the ‘states, they're givin' em away!!". I nod politely.
The very next day, Pete e-mails me a picture of a very clean '94 900SS/CR that some guy in New Hampshire is selling... to me, says Pete. I laugh it off until I see the price.
Half of what Pete's cost.
Now granted he has the fancy-schmancy SS/SP, but still...
Having convinced me that there's in fact no catches, this is the real deal, I make an even lower offer, and the guy accepts! Now I just have to figure out how to get it here.
We had agreed to meet in the Laconia area, as Eddie - the previous owner - lived down at the bottom of the state and it seemed like a reasonable distance for each of us, plus it would give him one last chance to ride it before parting ways.
The forecast looked pretty good, calling for sun and 10C in Laconia, and a chance of rain as we got closer to the border crossing in Champlain NY where I would be storing it for a few days while the paperwork was being sorted out. Quite workable.
Pete volunteered to come along and drive the car back. We set out around 8:30 with the A4's thermometer reading -2C, a wee bit chilly, but otherwise a bright and beautiful day.
By 11:30 we had reached the agreed upon spot outside of Laconia, and not long after Eddie pulled in with his wife following.
Man what a sight! The thing was just gorgeous, with a few bitty scratches here and there but otherwise resplendent, loud and proud in a way only very red Italian rides can be. Eddie had obviously taken great care of it, something that somehow been evident even in our correspondence and had made me comfortable about buying it nearly sight unseen. And the sound.... aaaarrrrggghhh... nothing sounds like a Duc with straight mufflers, a staccato symphony in V-twin minor...
Eddie turned out to be a real kindred spirit, having as bad or worse a case of gearhead as me or Pete, we exchanged all kinds of stories and agreed to try and get together for some future rides.
We finally headed out around 12:30, clouds were moving in but we’d no major worries at that point. I had Pete's electric vest wired up and with a few layers of good gear was snug and happy. Getting used to the way the 900SS rode and handled was another matter entirely. It's like having worked with chainsaws alll your life and then being handed a scalpel. You can pretty much pick out which pebble you want to aim for on the far side of the apex rather than just work on staying in your own lane. And the brakes - for me anyway - were insane. Sneeze while squeezing and you'd soon be seeing the pavement up close and personal.
For sure it doesn't have the big, electric top end thrust of the V4 Honda motors I've been raised on, but the bottom and midrange is just as good, and it was almost as fast if you actually used the gears, something the Hondas didn't require; leave in 5th and forget. A switch to Keihin 41mm flat-slide carbs apparently changes this, giving it significantly more high end power and a 250 km/h + top speed, which is more like what I was used to. Time for a little e-Bay search, me thinks...
Getting used to the V-twin buzz in one's posterior was another matter too, but after a few hours I didn't pay much attention.
Besides, did I mention the sound?
Mmmmm, who needs an i-Pod...
About an hour in we began to climb the White mountain range between N.H. and Vermont, and the temperature definitely began to drop. I actually felt a slight chill coming through my very well insulated boots, something that's never happened and a sign it was getting colder than I could ever recall up to that point in my two-wheeled career. The vest was still keeping the core cozy though, so it was no big.
Well, that is until it started, uh, snowing.
Yes, that's right, fine white flakes appeared down the road and swept straight towards us. I didn't panic, as the road surface was still OK and I figured this was an altitude thing that would be done as soon as we dropped on the other side, which in fact turned out to be the case about 20 or 30 minutes later. We had dodged the weather bullet. Or so I thought.
The next few miles passed without incident, and as we approached Montpelier VT a light rain began to fall. It was getting on towards 4:00 pm, about time to grab a bite anyway so we took refuge in the local Applebee's. As we chowed down and admired Ms. Duc's fine Italian figure through the window, we began to notice some small white particles bouncing off the seat.
Ice pellets.
Lovely.
By the time we finished it had gone back to straight rain, but was it getting steadier rather than backing off. Well, I can live with it, I thought, please just stay liquid…
We made a quick run into the local mega-grocer to stock up on a few American-only delicacies and set off on the final leg.
Being that the weather now looked like it wasn't going to get any better we decided to run straight up the 89 and cross over into NY at Rouses Point, about the quickest way from where we were.
The next hour on the interstate was very wet and cold, with the temps hovering just above freezing, but strangely, as sport bikes go one could hardly ask for a better tool for the task. The Conti tires split the water with great efficiency, and the Duc’s rigid trellis frame would faithfully telegraph even the most minute changes in traction and road surface, inspiring tremendous confidence in otherwise horrendous conditions.
By the time we got to the turn off for NY it was pretty much dark, and the rain showed no sign of letting up. We stopped for a quick gas-up, and a chance to try to regain some movement in my fingers which were now beginning to suffer the consequences of this mad pre-winter dash. My neck and upper back was getting pretty soggy as well, as my wool tube neck warmer was now acting as a giant sponge, and the relentless rain blast on my torso had finally bested the water resisting abilities of my jacket, leaving me with a rather wet, if at least not frozen, belly. Thankfully the heated vest hadn't shorted out, an unlikely but still rather exciting prospect I was not keen to experience.
This last bit was the by far the worst, the cold and rain now such that my visor wouldn't stay clear at the lower back road speeds, remaining only just clear enough to see if I controlled my breathing perfectly. Alternatively I could crack it open, but anything near enough to make a difference had my face being pelted with stinging ice water.
The traffic in front of us seemed to be going slower and slower, and with the conditions and extremely limited visibility I had in the pitch black it was nearly out of the question to pass on the winding road. To make matters worse, the bike now seemed to be getting cranky for some reason, like it was just cold, fed up and wanted a nice warm garage somewhere and a glass of fine synthetic 5w40. Or perhaps an owner who was more inclined to be riding around in the Tuscan sun instead of this northern hell.
After a time of observing the symptoms - bucking, misfiring at low revs and increasingly sluggish throttle response - I considered the weather conditions and my mind harkened back to the days of pilot training. I realized what was happening - carburetor icing! At least we weren’t chugging along at 5000 ft.
This of course does generally not improve unless one introduces some form of heat into the intake, and unlike the old 172's I've flown, the Carb Heat lever was nowhere to be seen (note: I was quite amazed to see later on in the shop manual that some Ducatis actually had this feature. But this begged the question… who else was stupid enough to be out riding in this kinda stuff?).
We finally began to see lights and a bit of civilization, meaning we were approaching Champlain and our final destination, Paulo's vacant U.S. office where the bike was to be parked while being cleared for her new citizenship. I kept the revs up at the stoplights, hoping some vestige of heat would creep up and keep the throats clear, not knowing how much time I had before they would freeze completely.
C'mon honey, you can make it...
Soon enough we crossed over the 87 and I began to look for an abandoned strip mall as described by Paulo. It was all I could do to see the road at this point, so after a run back and forth past the expected spot, Pete suggested I stay put in a nearby parking lot and set out to locate it with the car. Sitting there with my visor up and no need to concentrate on staying alive, I then spotted in the distance an outline of what looked like our building, right where it was supposed to be. Pete returned moments later confirming this.
We located the correct door, unlocked the place and pushed her in.
Despite the harrowing journey the paint still glowed a clean, bright red, the whole bike looking absolutely unperturbed by the experience. The same may not perhaps have been the case with the rider, but his circulation and faculties (or what vestiges of which he had to begin with, anyway) seemed to be returning.
Just as we stood there admiring, sizable chunks of ice began to drop from where the carbs lived up underneath the frame, and shatter on the floor.
A perfectly punctuated ending for one of the better entries in my Dumb-Things-I-have-Done log.
