Tag: ST4s

How far? On a what?!

&ldquot;You go touring. On a Ducati? — so where’s the tow truck?&rdquot; — if I’d had a quid (Eng. coll: unit of currency) for every time I’d heard that from fellow bikers, I’d be at least a couple of dozen cappucinos to the good. So here’ we are, three years and 31,000 miles down the line, and me and the Stealth Bomber are not only still hanging around together, but doing very well — I haven’t even managed to drop it yet, despite one panic-fuelled deadlift of 210kg — a strained muscle was self-healing, fairings aren’t. So, 31,000 miles in three years, on a Ducati. Without a support vehicle? (remembering that the average annual mileage of a Ducati in the UK is 2,500) Er, yes actually, so it’s probably worth a review of the score so far — let’s see just how temperamental these ‘fragile’ Italian beasts really are. First, the vital statistics:

Number of breakdowns: 0.
Number of no-starts: 0.
Number of not-quite starts: 1 (cold day and dodgy battery – replaced under warranty).
Number of stops on-the-road: 0 (although a worn-out wheel bearing discovered at the Nurburgring caused some nervous twitching).

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(Un)Shiny Toy

In Southern England, an only moderate spring and summer have suddenly sequed into a classical Indian Summer – it hasn’t rained at all for over two months. Today, it is absolutely pissing down. So guess when my new bike arrived?? Very nearly right – I actually picked it up yesterday afternoon, and managed the first 60 miles in the glow of a glorious Autumn evening, presumably running on residual kharmic credit. It’s been damply downhill ever since.

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Me and Mine

In the Beginning…

All stories should have a beginning — here it’s 1977, and my first bike, a 1958 Royal Enfield Crusader Sports, 849 EBB. Bought in a box and several paper bags for £80 and rebuilt over the summer of 1976 by myself and my father, this was my transport through my second and third years at University. Sold in 1978 to fund an expedition to Africa, it was briefly seen in about 1988, putting down Princes Street in Edinburgh, pursued by myself on foot, with a cry of “Come back you bastard, I want my bike back!!”

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