1199S ABS 1200-mile weekend

EXCELLENT thread!

Awesome Thread Styler! just awesome...

Great read Styler. Cant wait for your next chapter...

Excellent photos, keep the story comin!

Great story, wish I lived in the states !

Crap , it's only Saturday ! Ready for some more good reading ! LOL !

I proceed to case the joint.

I can’t believe how much inventory is on the floor. At least one of every current Ducati model, and examples of new superbikes going back to the 999 fill my field of view. I pause at three examples of the Diablo on display, surrounding the latest variations of the 848s on a raised platform, a Corse and a baby Streetfighter. The three Diablo sisters look like husky sentries at the foot of the smaller bikes, apparently variations on the fat-girl theme – one having a carbon look, the other a little more shiny and the third appears to be a standard. “I wonder if these will ever find a home?” I think to myself. “I hope Ducati is successful in selling these plus-size beasts to the cruiser crowd,” I say aloud to no one in particular. Although they must appear slender compared to the big girls many skinny hillbillies pair up with down here. They sure like their hogs. “We need another Monster to fund their superbike and racing efforts.” I say aloud to the salesman, just outside of earshot.

I wander over to the Triumph and Yamaha wing of the Donelson complex, responding to glint of the funky new headlights on a 2012 Speed Triple in the sun. I zero in on the fact that it’s and “R” with the forged wheels, Ohlins suspension, a revised frame, and longer swing-arm. I can’t help but compare it to my own Speedie, a 2008 with Factory Racing clip-ons from the UK, BST carbon wheels from South Africa, Ohlins rear shock from Sweden, and bejeweled with Rizoma bling and a three-into-one titanium pipe from Italy. She’s my Euro-trash girl all right; and I must say she looks a little butch compared to the 1199; but, she’s always up for a good time. She’d be jealous if she new what I was up to right now. It’s kind of like checking out your girlfriend’s younger, more athletic sister. A Monty Python skit runs through my head: “I bet she’s a goer; no what I mean… nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Say no more. Say no more.” I begin to swing a leg over, and then decide against it.

I find my way back to the main part of the dealership, stopping to caress some of the machines along the way. I inform Kim that I am going to take her up on her offer and try and get some sleep on the futon out back. I head through the museum and into the employee lounge, take off my shoes, turn out the light and crash for a couple of hours. In the dark, sounds become more than background noise. I hear the mechanics below me working away in the shop, the running of an inline four.

I awake to the sound of big Ducati twin revving downstairs or outside the back of the shop. I make my way out of the dark room and into the full light of the dealership. Puffy faced and not quite awake, I head downstairs to the service area. Brian is still working on my bike. The sound I awoke to was someone taking delivery of a new 1198. I love watching people take delivery of a new bike; there is always so much nervous joy about it.

I wander back inside. Brian is just about to put the last panel back on, but stops to show me how to change the oil. He pulls up the engine schematics on a computer points to the bike and then to the drawings and an exploded view of the bits relevant to an oil and filter job.
“You have to be very, very careful when pulling this apart to get to the filter – use this kind of tool (he shows me a little pry-bar like thing), and move this piece a little bit on each side until you can get behind it and pull it straight off. Don’t pry to much on one side or it will break,” he cautions.
“What an odd set-up,” I think to myself, “and what an odd looking filter.” It’s looks like a long tube, inserted into the side of the engine. I’ve never seen anything like it. I wonder to myself if all Ducs are this way.

“I know they say you’re good to go until 7,500 now; but, if it was my bike, I’d change the oil and filter again at 2,500 miles” proclaims Brian. “Order the filter now and we’ll send it to you. It’s better to have it before you need it. You never know with Ducati. I don’t have any more filters for this bike in stock. They should be here next week.”
“I’ll do that” I respond. “That should be about the time my Termi system is supposed to come in. I’ll probably have you do it then when you’re putting the pipe on. Thanks for the tips though.”

We continue to chat as he puts her back together. “So, what do you think; how’s do you like it?” he asks.
“I love it!” I proclaim with genuine enthusiasm. “But, she’s a little frustrating right now to tell you the truth. I find myself leaned over in a corner trying to keep my eye on the road while watching the tach to keep her under six grand. It’s hard to do because she really begins to smooth out above five. It should be better now that I can get her up to seven.”
Brian comments about how much tire I’ve used in the day since I’ve seen him last. “You certainly have had her over.”
“I suppose,” is my response, slightly surprised, as I look over the chicken strips on each side of the tire. The words “Super Corsa” remain unmarred by pavement, as if challenging me.
“Remember, it’s a 200 on a race bike” Brian comments, “that’s a fat tire and you’re riding on the road.”
“Whatever,” I think to myself. The shiny words “Super Corsa” on the side of the rear tire still make me feel like a woosey.

Brian’s putting the last panel back on and so I excuse myself to say goodbye to everyone upstairs and change into my leathers. I meet up with Kim, Carl and Cathy as I enter the show-room. “I heard you had a nap,” says Carl. “Feeling rested?
“There’s pizza back there,” says Kim, pointing to the employee lounge. “Help yourself.”
I head back and pile a couple of pieces on a paper plate and wander through the museum looking at bikes and old photos of flat trackers while I feed on a pepperoni slice. I pause and look at pictures of Cathy from the 60’s. Some on an old Triumph, some holding trophies, and another sitting with her back against a tree, catching some trackside shade with none other than Steve McQueen. Cool.

2:00 PM. Three pieces of pizza in my gut, leathers on, I say one last goodbye to everyone. “Thank you for your business,” Carl says with a firm handshake.

I head down stairs, thank Brian and head out back to my bike. Gone is all of the occasion from the first night. Everyone is on to other things as I start her up and roll away from the shop towards Interstate 70.

Westbound, I’m heading to Exit 175 where I’ll fuel and pick up HWY 19 south again. The clock ticks to mile 621 and a red icon on the dash appears, screaming “Oil Service!” to me. I begin to worry, then think about what’s just happened. Despite the book declaring the need for a 600-mile service, she’s Italian and thinks in metric. A 1,000-kiliometer service just happens to be 621 miles. I bet there’s nothing to worry about and no way for me to get rid of this light without taking it back to the dealership to be plugged into some computer-thingy. Sometimes, being the first one with a new model is not always the best thing. I ride a few more miles until my exit, pull off, fuel, and then call Brian. Sure enough, nothing to worry about. I’ve decided to live with the red warning light until next month when I venture back to the dealership for the installation of the new exhaust system and oil change.

Ahead of schedule, I look at the map and decide to branch off of HWY 19 after burning the next tank of gas to find some new roads. No rush.

Southbound on 19, I approach the town of Herman as I cross the bridge over the Missouri River. Magnificent homes line the bluffs of the south side of the river valley; they seem to watch over my approach to the old German settlement. A sign declares, “founded in 1837,” I wonder what late 19th Century industry fueled the boom of this place and paid for all of the magnificent brick buildings and beautiful architecture. “What a pretty town. I could live here,” I think to myself. “Sure looks different without all of the fog.”

I putter through town, and then begin to pick up the pace as I leave Herman’s brick buildings behind. I add about 30 MPH to whatever speed limit is posted. I accelerate and use the quick shifter to fire off shifts at 7,000 RPM. It stops working, when I realize I’ve quickly arrived at 6th gear and am doing 114 MPH, just below seven grand. Turkey vultures come into view on the road ahead. Five of them, hunched over a carcass of something. I’m coming up on them quickly when the sound of the bike announces its time for them to leave. Two go to the right, three to the left, when suddenly one swoops back over my path. “....!” I yell into my helmet as I duck behind the screen and swear for almost getting taken out by a big-ass bald bird with a five-foot wingspan. “That would’ve hurt, getting that in the face at 100 MPH.”

The road becomes “crooked” again (as they say in the south) and I tend to ride at a more reasonable pace. Still, 85 MPH through the curves posted as 50 and I’m loving the quick shifter as I use it more frequently, particularly to pass cars while trying to keep it under the seven 7,000 RPM target.

We quickly find ourselves in Owensville, where we stop for fuel. I pull out my map and decide to leave HWY 19 and join up with HYW 28 South and then onto HWY 68 to Salem, Missouri… a circuitous route pointed in the same general direction as home. I figure it’s good to leave 19 for a little change of scenery. As long as I get home tomorrow, I’ll be fine.

To be continued…

Wow! You are my new favorite non fiction writer.

Damn , this sounds like a nice ride ! Minus the bird attack.

Styler you gotta write some shorts for Ducati, like the ones BMW did a few years ago : YouTube - Beat The Devil (BMW Short Film)

It’s sunny and approaching the peak heat of the day, 89 degrees.

Exploring twisty lines on a map in my quest for a crooked, southern path home yields some nice roads and little to no traffic.

HYW 28 and 68 prove to be smooth pavement over rolling hills of fields and forest; this is the land of scenic, 90 MPH sweepers. “B-roads” composed of broad, tree-lined curves and thunderous rolling straights that let you explore speed while whooping it up and out of your seat as you crest each hill at speed. The combination of continuous fun is only punctuated by a small town or side road every seven-to-ten miles. It’s the perfect combination, encouraging an exploration of man and machine, vigour, precision and speed.

The telepathic front end careens through the corner with a precision and responsiveness that masks our pace; its the perfect complement to the massive mechanical grip from the rear. Now I understand. I know how to feel the road through the machine; she is communicating with me.

The rhythm of it makes me all the more conscious of technique, locking in the outside leg under the tank while leveraging off the peg, the use of my knees and thighs to transition from one curve and then another. I’m reminded of running drills at the track, except this is so much more than that. Its more personal, more organic, more magical.

The combination of our forms in this rhythmic pursuit of function is no less anchored in the reality of the moment. I will need to order a set of Stomp Grips. She can be slippery.

At Salem, HWY 68 and 19 converge again. Perfect, since this sets me up for some of the best riding Missouri has to offer as the road tightens, twists and turns descending through a steep, forested river valley and into Eminence, Missouri for the next tank of gas and a short rest.

To be continued…

Bravo, bravo!!!

I’m southbound HWY 19 towards the town of Eminence, Missouri, located in the center of the “Ozark National Scenic Riverways,” Missouri's largest national park. The road is outstanding; a two-lane ribbon of smooth payment that winds, dips, and climbs through rolling forested hills. On the map, this stretch of road passes through another green chunk of “Mark Twain National Forest” and so no side roads, farms or roadside businesses interrupt our high-speed ebb and flow through the landscape. The only break in the green blur of the at the side of the road are multiple river crossing, each punctuated with a yellow “Caution Narrow Bridge” sign marking the approach. I rode this very section of pavement the day before and so its a familiar friend; however this time there is virtually no traffic. “Odd, for a Saturday,” I muse.

We enter the zone – the point in which everything works without a second thought to it; again, man and machine in harmony. I’ve never experienced a bike so at home and so stable while healed over on its ear. I’m truly amazed at the speed through corners; lines are precise, speed fantastic. The velocity into the corner is complemented by mechanical grip on the exit; depending on the corner, the throttle makes everything that much better, whether its getting on the gas sooner or holding it open all of the way through. The curves tighten as we descend upon Eminence. It is here, through the tighter corners that the lack of engine braking percolates to the surface of my mind. “I thought big V-twins were notorious for obtrusive engine breaking,” I think to myself. “This is even less than my Speed Triple.” Clearly the electronic braking control is doing its part, above and beyond the slipper clutch because Speedie is also equipped with a slipper and this is a big twin. I can hardly believe that I have not consciously thought about this before, and we’ve already done over 700 miles together.

I adjust my line just short of an apex to avoid another turtle and then, still in the meat of the curve, begin banging through the best gearbox ever, using the quick shifter to build on the momentum of the curve for a quick exit and pass of a lumbering motorhome. We shoot over a long, narrow bridge and the river below. All the time, I’m thinking about that turtle, and the dozens upon dozens of other hard-shelled critters I’ve come across today, each enthusiastically trying to cross the road. “What’s with the turtles and the urge to cross the road,” I think to myself. “I wonder how many actually make it?” I’m reminded of a recent observation of a friend, recently divorced.
“Think about it,” Richard had once said to me. “The divorce rate is in excess of 50%. If you new that you only had a 50% chance of making it across the road, would you try? No!”
“Apparently, you would if you were a turtle,” I think to myself. A few curves later and the view broadens as we descend onto the valley floor with the town – population 548 – presented before us.

Puttering through town in first gear at the posted limit of 35 MPH, the thought of turtles is still with me, “Turtles must like motorcyclists better than car drivers, and Ducati motorcycles most of all.” We stop at the same old gas station we did yesterday for a well-earned rest and fueling.

It’s a funky old station, with separate pumps for each fuel grade; a rare but welcome thing these days for motorcyclists. I prefer this setup; it means I get what I pay for: high-octane fuel, and not half a tank of whatever the last guy pumped into his econo-box or ancient pick-up. To top it off, the station is complemented by an old-fashioned roadside ice cream and hot-dog stand directly across the street, complete with picnic tables set up in the shade for its motoring patrons.

Fueled up and ready to go, I fire her up for the 30-yard journey across the street. Parked in the shade, I proceed to undress, removing my gloves, helmet, pack and jacket, dumping them in a pile on the picnic table. I’m as thirsty as she was, only I opt for a diet coke and a banana – none of that high-test for me, at least not yet.

“May I have a large diet coke, no ice, and a banana please?” I ask the husky teenager at the order window.
“You want a banana?” She asks, her head cocked slightly to the side, like a confused golden retriever trying to understand its master’s request.
“Yes please,” I reply, “If you sell them like that.”
She retreats from the order window to conference with her colleague, another young girl who also appears to work here for the ice cream delights as much as the hourly wage. Apparently, the bananas are reserved for banana splits.

Eventually, they agree to sell me a banana for 50 cents. I’m thankful; it’s 89 degrees out and the last think I want is a gut full of sugar and dairy products. After all, it’s 4 PM and I have at least four hours of riding before sunset. I return to the bike and my pile of gear, sit down and proceed to take off my boots for a bit of a rest and some people-watching. I sip on my drink, eat my banana and observe being observed by the constant coming and going of people who stop by for ice cream treats, hot dogs and soda pop. Ah, the great American diet.

A yellow 1970’s Jeep CJ pulls in beside me. Doorless, weather-beaten, faded and well used, what’s left of the seats and soft top appear to be original with the exception of the silver duct-tape trim, which itself looks to have been accumulated over many years. An older man gets out, tips his ballcap as he passes and orders an ice cream at the window before returning and to sit on the adjacent picnic table in the shade.
“What kind of a bike is that?” he enquires, ice-cream drips cascading down his hand.
“A Ducati,” I reply. “It’s Italian.”
“You’re not from a round here.” He responds, posing a statement and a question at the same time.

Jesus; if I only had a gallon of gas for every time I’ve heard that in the last couple of days. I proceed to tell him my story, that I’m Canadian, working in Canada, but living in Northwest Arkansas, and that I fly a lot. Each time I tell the story I’m considered somewhat exotic, but mostly just odd.

A red gasoline truck pulls into the gas station across the street with the company name “Brown Oil” written in white letters across the side. “It is what it is,” I think to myself. That’s just the way it is around here. If we were in the big city, I bet someone would have paid a marketing genius to come up with that.

I point out the fueling truck to the old guy with the ice cream and comment on how much I like the old-style station and pumps. We chat some more and he introduces himself as JD (or maybe JB), and claims to be an “original hillbilly from these parts.”

“I hope they can make a go of it,” he says. “That used to be my station, ya know. I traded all the money I had in the bank, my livestock and my truck for it. But before I did, I asked the recruiter if I was going to be drafted. They said no, that I was too old, so I did the deal. Two weeks later, I was drafted to go to Viet Nam. I didn’t own the land, just the business. When I got back, it was done. Gone.”
“Damn,” I think. “What’s with all the Nam stories? That war sure ...... people up. I’ve got to hook up with a younger crowd. Then again, what war doesn't?

JD (JB?) appears to know everybody in town, and soon everyone that drops in for a treat comes by for a quick hello or a chat. All that is, except the girls with the oversized sunglasses in the Ford Flex across the parking lot. They just sit and watch, licking their ice creams. They appear to look straight through us without really looking at us – that 1,000 yard stare that only shell-shocked vets and skinny chicks in sunglasses appear to be able to pull off.

I clean my visor with a water-soaked towel, pack up and head out of town on HWY 19 to Thayer, MO, where I plan to fuel up again and join HWY 142 West, tracing the Missouri-Arkansas border.

To be continued…

A couple of more photos to go with the story.
Shacked up in Cuba, MO (second night), and the Brown Oil fuel truck outside of the old gas station as seen from the ice cream stand across the street in Eminence, MO.

Styler, how the hell do you get that girl through the door singlehandedly (I'm not implying she's fat, haha)? I would think even a wide door would impose some hard to negotiate problems.

jjmontesanto said:

Styler, how the hell do you get that girl through the door singlehandedly (I'm not implying she's fat, haha)? I would think even a wide door would impose some hard to negotiate problems.

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Sir: She is not fat!... ... although she does have big ears!
(don't tell her I said that.)

Most of the motels with ground floor doors opening into the parking lot are also set up as handicapped rooms. They have wider than normal doorways to accomodate wheel chairs (and girls with big ears).

She just fits, but I have to get her through, leaned slightly over to one side. I get one mirror through and then lean her the other way to get the second mirror past the door jam.

Good stuff Styler ! I feel like I'm reading a novel about a bike that I can't wait to get. good reading ! The ice cream girls sound hot. Just saying.

Styler said:

Sir: She is not fat!... ... although she does have big ears!
(don't tell her I said that.)

Most of the motels with ground floor doors opening into the parking lot are also set up as handicapped rooms. They have wider than normal doorways to accomodate wheel chairs (and girls with big ears).

She just fits, but I have to get her through, leaned slightly over to one side. I get one mirror through and then lean her the other way to get the second mirror past the door jam.

Click to expand...

Ah-ha, roger. Keep these posts coming, I'm still in vicarious mode!

I could just picture those Turtles!! Absolutely LMAO!
Appreciate you sharing this with us

More good reading. Cheers Styler

Styler said:

She just fits, but I have to get her through, leaned slightly over to one side. I get one mirror through and then lean her the other way to get the second mirror past the door jam.

Click to expand...

Why don't you just fold the mirrors back?