1199S ABS 1200-mile weekend

Styler said:

So first, some answer to your questions:

• Temperatures ranged from 69 F around 6 AM to the high 89 F at 5 PM
• Humidity was high on most days
• Full synthetic oil, I forget if it's 5W-40 or whatever

Now, some more of the story...

Delivery Eve.
Like Christmas Eve for a kid; but different. When you are a kid, you don't necessarily know what you're going to get and you don't really know why or exactly how. And you don't question it; you just accept that some nice guy hands out gifts cause he thinks you deserve them. With Delivery Eve, you know the goods inside out. You've boarded the press wagon long ago, know all about it, watched the videos, cruised every on-line forum, bought and read the magazines and even read the manual you downloaded the day before. And you sure as hell know why you're getting it - cause you worked damn hard for your money, life is short, you can afford to (or can't afford not to) and somehow it will make living life that much more.

I leave work at noon on Thursday and head to the airport like usual; but this time, instead of 5-lbs of work paper to read during my weekly commute I have the Owners Manual for the 2012 Ducati Panigale 1199 S ABS, printed out on company stock and accompanied by a highlighter and a pen. And a magazine with an article about the 1199 on back-up; just in case. It's just like work travel; but different. Instead of a brief case and leather duffle of business wear, I'm sporting a Vanson armoured jacket, jeans, running shoes, a Kreiga backpack and an Arai helmet, stuffed with the bare necessities: a tire gage, alarmed disk lock, Vanson armoured pants, some undergarments and a couple of credit cards. I figure I'll buy evening wear (a Ducati T-shirt) when I get to the dealer.

The usual people I see during my weekly travels look at me differently this week but don't say anything. Maybe it's the Alpinestar boots strapped upside down to the side of my pack? Nonetheless, I feel compelled to tell them:
"Instead of flying home this weekend, I'm flying to St. Louis to pick up my new motorcycle. I'm taking tomorrow off; none of this working remotely this Friday. It's a Ducati. I'm on vacation. I'm picking up the bike tonight, riding it all day Friday, getting it's 600-mile first service Saturday morning, and then going to ride another 500 miles of Missouri and Arkansas backroads all the way home. I'm excited. My wife went to see her parents for the weekend."
And always I am met with the same reaction. A quiet nod of understanding and a look that says: "Sure; whatever. Just don't get too close to me."

At the airport I encounter the first and only disappointment of the night. My flight is delayed; I'm going to miss my connection and get in around 7 PM, not 4:30. I phone the dealer, worried; they close at 6.
"Sure no problem. We can still pick you up; and it's no bother to stay; that's what we do. Call us when you land. We'll be there."
And sure enough, Kim Donelson is there to pick me up and her father and founder of the business, Carl Donelson, is at the dealership to meet me. Even the mechanic, Brian has stayed late to review the bike with me. Introductions, genuine discussion, small talk, paperwork and a once-over with Brian and they send me into the night with my new love, a map and a recommendation for a cheap motel just off the interstate on the outside of town.

The First 39 Miles
In the dark, with a litre of synthetic in my pack and strict instructions not to exceed 6000 RPM, I head out out of the city. Starting and stopping with all of the traffic lights and city mayhem the bike hits 200 degrees pretty quickly and begins to transfer that heat to my butt and legs through the exhaust pipe that curls its way around and down into the cans. The clutch is silent, and the lever effortless. It's quite loud for a standard exhaust, and it pulls easily from 2000 RPM. Accommodations are ample for my 5'11" frame and yet the bike is tiny. Navigating the on-ramp to Interstate 70, heading west, I turn in way too quickly and thus early. I'm not used to a motorcycle that reacts to so little input. Must recalibrate.
On the interstate, I'm impressed by it's acceleration, smooth engine and abundant torque for a bike being short-shifted at 6 grand.
I pull off at exit 214 and look for the motel. Sure enough, I find one that has rooms exiting right into the parking lot. I pull in and request one of them. Paper work done and the proprietor occupied with another customer, I dump by gear on the bed and begin to wheel the bike into my room. 39 miles on the clock. I rationalize: "Well I can't bloody well leave her outside all night can I?" and chuckle to myself as I reflect on the fact that we're shacking up for the night in a cheap motel.

Our private moment is interrupted by a long-haired, slightly inebriated brunette standing behind me in the parking lot: "Is that your bike? It's beautifull!"
"No; but I'm stealing it because she is so beautiful." I reply
"How big is it?"
"Pardon?"
"Is it a 600?"
"Oh... no (awkward moment); actually it is a 1200"
"Wow; that must be a lot of power."
"Yes; I suppose. I just got her 30 minutes ago. Hey; do you know where I can get some food around here, walking distance at this time of night?"
"Sure; downstairs. The pub is where all of the action is. I've got to go but you should meet my girlfriend. She's down there, loves bikes; but is a hand-full. She just broke up with her boyfriend a few days a go. Look for the girl with the long-red hair; the wild one. Tell her I sent you. Be careful though; she can be a hand-full..."

Day 1 - The next 417 miles
4:30 AM. I need water.
5:00 AM. Still dark out; might as well read the manual again.
5:30 AM. Time to pack; it will be light by 6 and then I should hit get on HWY 19 South and find some breakfast.

So much for finding a decent place to eat. 90 miles down the road and the only thing resembling breakfast food is a sausage McMuffin. That will do I suppose.
A couple approach me while I'm eating. They are both ex-riders. She an R6; he a Gixer. They explain to me that speeding tickets and lawyers were costing them way too much. Apparently, it got to the point that the cops would just wait for them at home. Small town and the only girl around with a pink leather suit riding an R6 and soon enough they have your number. Go figure.
Anyway, they help me check the oil and top it up by lending me a flashlight so I can see the sight-glass. As Brian noted, she's consuming oil; a few hundred millilitres.

The rest of the day is more of the same. Stop every 100 or so miles to check the oil, fill the tank, and speak with whomever approaches to chat about the bike, their bike, bikes they've had, etc. The only material difference is that I no longer have to feed her oil. I'm getting about 105 to 115 miles before the fuel light comes on and I learn that I can get at least another 15 miles out of reserve. Not willing to push the limits on this one just yet. The need will arise soon enough, no doubt.

I head all the way down HWY 19 to Alton, MO, not far from the AR state line, stop for lunch at a diner in the town square. Over lunch I realize that every one in Alton, population 850, knows each other. A tune from my childhood emerges from my grey matter: "which one of these things is not like the other?" Sesame Street must have imprinted among tens of millions of children over the years. Too bad they did not feature motorcycles; "two wheels good, four wheels bad" with a catchy little tune. The world could have been a different place.

After lunch, with the bike cool and the town watching me in a manner that, to the casual observers appears that they're not, I check the oil and confirm all is good. I pack up, point the bike in the direction from which I came and begin to take random B-roads in the general direction of North and back to the interstate for the eastern blast into the city the next day.

Heading North-by-North-East on HWY 160, I'm impressed by the acceleration, deceleration, and ease of directional changes... how I can change my line mid-corner to avoid any number of daredevil turtles trying to get to the other side, squirrels that want you to run them over, and cardinals that want to take your head off while you are effortlessly chugging down every rolling straight that you're presented with at 97 miles/hour in 6th gear and just under 6000 RPM. I soon learn to recalibrate every road sign. 85 is the new 55 in corners, and 75 the new 40. In fact most things are at least 75. Except the 10 MPH corners; here 10 is 10.

I ride in sport mode and feel the antilock breaks kick in just once as I stop hard to check out a mystery side road. The CA Superbike School has taught me that I was no where near locking up the front end and so I think there was a lot more left in the front before It would have let go. But the breaks are solid with unparalleled feel. Unlike my Speed Triple, the rear break actually does something. I've tested the breaking with and without the rear brake just to see if it makes much of a difference. And it does; so, I know the linked breaks have helped reduce my stopping distance since I was not using the rear break when I hauled on the binders and the ABS kicked in. The side road twists and turns and then ends with a sign that declares something to the effect "End of State maintained highway" - a dirt road that appears to end at a couple of trailer homes persuades me to turn around.

With 456 miles on the clock, I get as far as Cuba, MO about 7 PM when I find a Motel 6, and once again it's similar to the evening before (but different); I find an ideal room with a wide door that opens into the parking lot. I wheel her in when nobody is looking and take her picture, shacked up for the night. I'm impressed; I am the proud owner of a rocket ship comfortable enough to tour on (as long as you're occupied by the curves, dips and challenges of high-speed "crooked" roads.)

A couple of Viet Nam vets on Harley trikes start up a conversation while they fiddle with their bag of tools and a faulty solinoid in the parking lot outside of their rooms.
"They won't like that" the one resting in the wheelchair says, referring to having wheeled the bike into my room."But I must say, I'd do that too if I could... Won't fit."

Day 2 - the next 450 miles miles
To be Continued...

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Styler said:

5:00 AM. I am awake (again) before I need to be; but, then again, maybe not. Maybe I need to get up, actually have to. I mean, it's almost as if I don't have a choice. Sunrise is about 6:00 AM and I now understand that it's the excitement of the coming day -- time aboard my own, personal, red rocketship combination of sex and combustion -- that has had me up most mornings well before the sun. It's like Coco has wired herself into mind and body, scheming while I sleep to ensure that I am up and ready for another day of stimulus - "Get up, get ready; don't sleep your life away. It will be light in an hour and there are roads to ride!"

I roll out of bed, ready for another road trip adventure; only this one will be the last day of this trip. I'm only three hours from home. Realizing this, and not quite sure how I feel about it, I pull a cold, Styrofoam container of left-over rice, chips, salsa and steak burrito out of the bar fridge and distract myself with the tasty treat. I'm still running on the massive plate of food from last night - portions in the southern US are HUGE and Mexican joints appear to heap it on more than most. With this breakfast, I should be good to go for at least another 8 hours.

I packed the night before and so all there is to do is check Coco's oil and throw on my leathers. She takes about a 50 milliletres on a stone-cold engine.

Before I leave the motel, I text some of my riding buddies to let them know I will likely arrive in Eureka Springs around 8:30, where we can connect for a ride if they're up for it. (I really don't want this to end.)

On Saturdays, we usually meet at Rosco's Internet Café for a good cup of coffee before we start our ride out to some breakfast joint in one Ozark town or another. Taking back-roads to the back roads, I usually turn what is a 35-mile ride into an 80-mile ride. It's a wonderful way to start a Saturday. But today is Sunday, and most of the guys are usually tending to life's other duties. Rosco, a motorcyclist, musician and the proprietor of an internet café that celebrates both, has a great little spot on HWY 62 in the centre of town and is one of the best places to grab a coffee and meet up with riding friends - people who actually ride their Triumphs, Ducati's, KTMs, and dual sports as their designers intended. Also known as "motorcycles anonymous," I figured this was a good place to stop since I had not had a decent cup of coffee in days and it was on my way home anyway; after which I could take any number of routes home if I really had to.

I wheel Coco outside and into another beautiful dawn. Straping on my pack, I close the door behind us and walk her over to the edge of the motel's lot where I turn her on, climb aboard and coast down the hill towards the main road, dropping her into gear she bump-starts to life out of earshot of the other sleeping guests.

We roll out of town heading west, the only one's on Mountain Home's main strip except for the occasional service trucks tending to the town's dumpsters. At the edge of town we hit a modern gas station for a full tank to start the day. Full, we follow the signs towards HWY 62 west.

The roads continue to be just what Ducati recommended for the breaking-in period, twisty with a lot of elevation changes that generates the desired variable load on the engine. Delightful.

On the outside of town, we pass a fresh deer-kill in the ditch to the right. It's not hard to miss, as passers-by are flagged by a big red stain on the road and a long, dark-red skid leading off into the ditch at the side of the road. I glance at the carnage. It looks like this four-legged hoodlum tried to pick on a transport truck. "That'll teach ya," I think to myself. "Won't do that again, will ya? "¦...... deer."

An hour on the road and the traffic is starting to pick up. We're heading west on HWY 62 towards Eureka Springs. This part of the journey is perhaps the worst of the entire trip, where a perfectly good road has been ruined in the interest of commercialism, safety and flow. Highway 62 has gone from two to four-lanes, with way too many signs, buildings and cars and far too few trees, vistas and farms. Entering Eureka is painfully slow, as tourists don't know where they're going or have any idea of what they are looking for or why. It's in the high 80s and Coco is getting hot under the collar - 210, 215 - I pull into Rosco's as she crests 220 degrees.

Rosco bounds out of the café with a silly smile on his face. I've never seen that man move so fast; usually, he's very "efficient" in his movement and pace, deliberate and slow.
"Rosco, I haven't had a decent cup of coffee in over 1,000 miles!" I exclaim. "Set me up with a six-shot espresso!" He doesn't appear to hear or care about my coffee situation.
"How many miles you have on her?" he asks, as he proceeds to ogle and stroke her flanks.
"1,040," I reply. "It's been a great couple of days. Thanks for the tip about HWY 19; I loved the sweepers and the pavement was perfect."

We head into the café and then onto the tree-lined deck out back to chill-out in the shade. Sipping my coffee I begin to tell him about our trip. I check my phone and many have replied to my text from earlier in the day; but only Gareth is able to ride. We arrange to meet up at my place in a few hours to go ripping along familiar roads. Gareth has an 1198 SP with only 3,000 miles on the clock. She's a rescue; her previous guardian, who spoilt her with a race exhausts system and expensive baubles, yet only let her out for a few hundred miles during her first year"¦ a trophy mistress.

After half an hour of relaxing and recounting our journey, I prepare to leave for the rest of the ride home. I opt for the long-way, avoiding the busy roads, but really, just not wanting it to end. Yet, I can hardly wait to dump my pack and get into my perforated leathers for an unrestricted romp. With mixed emotions, we arrive home by 9:30 AM. I park Coco in the carport, away from the usual place in front of the man cave, where I park when I return from a ride. Speedie is in the man cave and... well, let's just say that it would be awkward.

I let Lily, our grey tabby, out of the house as I enter the air-conditioned home-sweet-home. Lily is vocal and pissed for having been left alone for a couple of days; but not mad enough to not stop and check out Coco.

I text my wife, still in Toronto with her parents, to let her know I'm "home safe and sound," and proceed to change into some shorts and assemble the tools, products and hose required to give Coco a good bath before our ride. The phone rings"¦

"How was the ride?" she asks, knowing the answer, but still not believing that someone would actually enjoy riding over 1,000 miles in two days.
"Awesome," I reply enthusiastically.
"Well; I guess you've got enough riding in. You know, you're getting a little obsessed"¦ (Pause). It's getting boring," she warns. I don't reply, remembering what my grandmother used to tell me about "if you've got nothing good to say"¦." While the words of a friend also surface: "full disclosure is not required."
"Where are you?" She asks.
"Outside, playing with Lily," I reply - a half-truth at best.
"What's that noise? What are you doing? Are you washing your bike already?"
"I'm watering the vegetable garden," I reply, feeling justified in this second deviation from the truth since I had finished that task a mere 10 minutes prior.
Waiting for the S100 to do its magic on the bug guts splattered over Coco's face, I add "The tomato plants have really grown in the last week; they look great."

The sound of Gareth's Termi exhaust signals that its' time to end the conversation before I get busted.
"Well; I should get going. Lily wants to play," as I pile on one fib after another. "What the hell; in for a penny in for a pound" I think to myself. After all, it's true - she does. I end the call just as the sound of Gareth's approaching exhaust is about to overpower the conversation. I pick Lily up and walk over to the old-growth Sassafras tree and place her on its lowest limb. Lily proceeds to stretch and claw the bark before taking off up through the canopy for a better view.

I return to greet Gareth, who is looking over Coco, still in his leathers and helmet.
"Take off you helmet and leathers," I encourage. "It's 90 degrees out. I will be ready in a few minutes but I've got to finish up here and then get changed." Gareth takes off his helmet and retrieves a smoke from the silly looking fanny pack he rides with. He lights it and nods his approval as he looks her over, not saying a word.
I rinse her down and towel her off before heading over to the man cave to change into my leathers.

Ten minutes later I return to the carport to find Gareth still smoking and looking her over, thinking. The only thing different is the cigarette. I break the silence by suggesting our usual, Saturday-morning route back to Rosco's - even though he'll be closed by the time we get there. We agree to head north into Missouri before heading east on HWY 90, south on 37 and then east along 86 and 112.

This time, I'll take the lead.

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Trauma said:

Wow, nice ride story. You should have given me some warning, and I would've "escorted" you out of town! Donnelson's a great place, been there forever, and an entire mortorcylce catalog in-store, along with the museum if you had a chance. Alton is near where I used to float/camp years ago, beautiful hilly/curvey area.

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Trauma said:

Sorry to hear that, but if you tikme it right, you could go on one of our rides that head south, then just keep going on to AR! Have you ever been to Thorncrown Chapel?

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Styler said:

No; never heard of it. Sounds like a plan though. And I do have to plan such trips; going to catch the SBK races at Barber as well that month, and fly to Toronto for some work, so it will be busy.

I'll PM you about a week or so in advance at least.
Cheers.

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