As I hope you’ve gathered, this site isn’t meant to be entirely or even approximately serious. There are however times when there’s simply no humorous or whimsical slant on an event. This is one of those.
On 17 October, Jim Osborne, Chief Observer of the Wey Valley Advanced Motorcyclists (WVAM) and his wife Carol were leading a club run on what was a perfect Autumn day – warm, sunny and crystal clear. At just after 6pm, at Henley Hill, on the A286 North of Midhurst, Jim and Carol were involved in a collision with a car and were both killed.
I don’t know the details of what happened but it does bring it home – they were skilled and experienced motorcyclists who have put much time and effort into helping bring others (including myself) up to something approaching a reasonable standard of skill and awareness.
The only reason I wasn’t on that ride was that I had a prior commitment in Guildford that day. I was on the bike, had taken the long way home and had one of my best rides ever. I’d also passed along the same stretch of road only an hour before the group did. This entry was originally going to be about that ride, the focus and the pleasure – the reasons we ride motorcycles. I’ll still travel that route. I’ll be slower for a while. There will however be a certain extra satisfaction in getting it right.
There’s no particular lesson or moral in this – anyone who rides a motorcycle has already taken the decision that the reward is worth the risk. A tragedy like this simply reinforces the fact that it can happen to anyone – just don’t ever ride in the belief that it won’t happen to you. Always try to ride (and live) in the knowledge that it could and might. It doesn’t matter how skilful and careful you are, there’s always some moron out there (and include yourself in that) whose behaviour you aren’t going to be able to anticipate. It’s up to each of us to remember why we do it and keep our own risk/reward equations in balance.
Category: Diary (Page 6 of 7)
Semi-random thoughts and observations on the world as seen by enthusiast riders and drivers, or at least by this one. Your mileage may vary.
Cod philosophy time: It’s funny how behaviour on either side of the biggest ideological divides can be indistinguishable — in politics, we’ve got the fascisms of the right and of the left, each behaving in near-identical ways, while in motorcyling we have Ducati and Harley Davidson.
The Harley rider is someone who’s bought comprehensively into the brand’s v-twin cult of appearance, style and attitude. Why else would they put up with abysmal performance, atrocious handling and vibration that would shame a jackhammer? They’ve paid over the odds for a machine that does nothing that you can’t find for less money and with greater reliability elsewhere. That’s only the start — no Harley is considered to be worth a second glance unless it’s been laden with enough extras and chrome to make the original purchase price pale into insignificance. We sneer at the Harley rider.
Now look at us Ducati riders: folks who’ve bought comprehensively into the v-twin brand’s cult of appearance, style and attitude. Why else would we put up with filling-destroying suspension, spine-mangling riding positions and a paranoia about never going out without the warranty card and a mobile phone? We pay over the odds for a level of performance that can be matched or exceeded for way less money and we then spend a fortune on tricking the machine up to make it stand out even more from its peers. Sorry, am I repeating myself?
If it’s Tuesday, it must be Press Day at the Frankfurt Motor Show. I’m not press and I’m not in the motor trade, so what the hell was I doing there? Simple — it just happened to be a convenient location for a meeting I’d arranged. Of course, I wasn’g going to turn down the opportunity to wander around new bikes and cars and relieve the exhibitors of some of their copious supplies of champagne and gourmet canapés.
Simple in principle, that is — however, being Press Day, the organisers had some pretty strict ideas about who were and weren’t to be allowed in. People with trivial needs like business meetings simply didn’t count. Only one thing to be done then — blag Press accreditation. How? As a roving researcher of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy of course. Armed with suitably completed form and my completely unrelated business card, I waited in the sweaty queue of hungry, thirsty hopefuls. Some made it, some didn’t. When my turn came, I handed over the form and card with a studiously casual air, staring off distractedly into the middle distance as it this were a tediously routine process. Bloke behind counter looks at my card. He looks at my form. He looks at my card again. Not a good sign. He opens hi s mouth. The guy checking in next to me also looks over, sees my busines card and goes ballistic: “Aha! You are the Digital Village!”. “Er, yes — part thereof?”. “You are all wonderful — Starship Titanic, h2g2, The Hitchhiker’s Guide — all truly great!”. At this point, check-in bloke shrugs and prints off my press card. Tamás, nice to meet you and thanks for the help!
Having got the serious stuff out of the way, time for a wander. Although primarily a car show, there were some interesting sightings of the new Hondas: the X-11, The VTR1000-SP1 (RC51 in NA, I think) and the 2000 Fireblade. There was also a new Foggy Replica to be seen, although perhaps not quite what you might expect?
I don’t like commuting. Particularly, I don’t like commuting by motor vehicle — the sheer waste, inefficiency and damage caused make it economically, morally and environmentally unsustainable. OK, so I didn’t buy either of my motor vehicles with other than a nod towards fuel economy and green cred, but the thought’s there?
The state of British public transport does mean that there are times (hopefully few) when it does make much more sense. For instance, when I needed to get from darkest Surrey to Covent Garden on a blazing hot Saturday morning, especially when the bike’s been mothballed for a fortnight while I’ve been away. The temptation was just too much — bicycle plus train or car would have each taken about an hour-and-a-half. The question wasn’t whether the Duke would be quicker but just how much quicker would it be?
The answer was illuminating — 42 minutes door-to-door, home to office, a distance of 49 miles. Now I can’ think of a machine better designed NOT to be used as a city commuter than the 748 — full head-down, bum-up riding position, with a set of pipes designed to roast its rider’s backside and legs at anything below 50mph. That and no steering lock to speak of. Bloody good fun though — London traffic just melted away (as did my legs) and it was definitely a cyclist’s wish fulfilment dream — the ability to get through tiny gaps with the help of the Duke’s narrow bars (so long as you get the line right well in advance) and being able to accelerate away from anything else on the road. A touch nervous about the comfort in slow London traffic, but I just went into insane London cyclist mode as soon as I hit the city. Didn’t even notice the pain.
So it is possible to commute on a Ducati. You can also do dressage with an elephant — it just may not be the best beastie for the job.
Total cost for anyone who’s counting — about £7 for just over two (Imperial) gallons of unleaded (ouch), plus any GATSOs I may not have spotted in time.
Unfortunately, the off-peak train fare is £7.25 return, so I’m going to have to work on the excuses a littler harder.
It’s the first Sunday in August. I own a Ducati. I live in England. The most popular attendance motor sport in England is World Superbike, not least partly because the bloke running away with the championship is both English and on a works Ducati, The first Sunday in August is the European Round of WSB, at Brands Hatch. Continue reading
Got the bike, wobbled around a bit. Now I’ve got a choice — I can spend time getting myself back into the groove or I can try to short-circuit the whole thing with some training. There’s a wide range of choices here — I could go back to Genesis and have them teach me about the mysteries of the clutch lever again; I can go to a track-based school such as the California Superbike School or I can join a club that provides advanced training. I can’t be bothered with the first, don’t feel ready for the second, so that leaves the club approach. Around us that’s the Wey Valley Advanced Motorcyclists.
Now here we have a problem. The WVAM are affiliated to the Institute of Advanced Motorists (IAM) and put a great deal of dedicated effort into training people up to the standard required for the advanced motorcycling test. A very worthy and worthwhile thing to do. And that’s the problem — the IAM has a very worthy and very, very boring image — visions of legions of Belstaff and Sam Browne- bedecked old farts with their elderly BMWs nailed to a 68mph maximum.
This is a beautiful part of the world — full of twisty country lanes, forests, great pubs, little fluffy bunny rabbits (“Pass me the Purdey, Jeeves, the vermin are on the lawn again!”) and dewy-eyed Bambi lookalikes. While each of those contributes in its own way to creating memorable motorcycling experiences (that’s ‘memorable’, not necessarily ”great’ — no-one who’s just failed to outbrake a bouncing deer at midnight is likely to describe that experience as ‘great’), there are a couple of local places that makes it special for anyone with any appreciation of motor-racing history. One is the great banked circuit at Brooklands (remains of) and the other the Goodwood race circuit and hill climb, set in the rolling countryside of West Sussex.
Goodwood was the Classic Gentleman’s racing circuit — attached to a stately home, converted in the 1940s from the wartime fighter airfield, and with the paddocks in the stables, it epitomised the immediate post-war racing clan — the sort of upper-class twit element that instantly and irresistably conjures Monty Python and Harry Enfield. After many years of genteel decay, the whole of Goodwood has been now been revitalised, spruced up and brought into the latter days of the twentieth century. It now hosts an annual Festival of Speed, one of the great opportunities to see racing cars and bikes of every era both close to and in action on the hill climb circuit that runs past Goodwood house itself.
Six weeks later and not only have I not fallen off, but have managed to put about 1500 miles on the thing, it’s had it’s first service and I’ve more or less worked out the difference between it’s capabilities and mine: A lot.
The week’s order time turns into a 10 day wait. Not too bad, but one final decision to make — colour: choice between Ferrari Rosso (in the finest Italian tradition) or luminous yellow. Dithering but veering towards the yellow when Jane spotted a yellow 748 and declared that she wasn’t going anywhere, any time, on a flying banana. Red it is then, dear…
Two great machines — one fun, practical and approximately sensible; the other fun, impractical and insane. A quick reference to first principles and it’s no contest — insanity wins every time. So it’s the 748 for me. Now for the fun bit — the dealing.
The 748 lists at £9400, £9750 on the road. A UK-spec parallel (or a parallel fully converted to UK spec) is around £8500 on the road. The very cheapest import I’ve seen was at £7900. Quite a difference.
Looking at the cheap parallels reveals however that they invariably don’t have the headlights and clocks converted to UK spec and that everything is extra. More realistic is to make a comparison with a full-spec. parallel against the official machine.
It’s also very much worth remembering in negotiation that it’s much easier for a dealer to throw in extras at their marginal cost, resulting in a better deal for you as the punter who pays retail prices. I was after a Spyball Alarm/Immobiliser, Datatag coding, a factory paddock stand (essential on a machine that’s only got a sidestand, even if the only maintenance you’ll do is lube the chain) and a decent lock. Total retail (including fitting) on that lot was about £650.
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