Cycle World - Cycle World Staff Blog, 2007

Adam Willey, a self-described die-hard Cycle World reader, is locked up in Florida undergoing treatment for drug addiction. It's the pits, he says. To pass the time, he draws. A lot, apparently. Earlier this month, he submitted an illustration of a Yamaha repli-racer that he sketched free-hand while in jail.

“It took me eight hours to draw using only a #2 pencil that I had to sharpen with my disposable razor,” Willey writes. “I used twisted-up toilet paper to get my shading—no wonder it's the s@*t! I would love to get your advice on my artwork. If you like, I will send a picture every month.”

Not bad, given the circumstances. Doubt I could even hold a pencil without my morning cup of coffee.

You may have heard that the Chinese are coming; in most sectors of retail they've already made their presence well known. But the predicted invasion of cheap, Chinese-made scooters and motorcycles has yet to hit our streets in the same way that other products from the Far East have hit the shelves at Wal-Mart.

At last year's Indianapolis dealer show, the Chinese were out in full force, with more companies present than ever before. But so far seem to be missing on America's highways in discernable numbers. So where are they?

I can tell you exactly where they are—and it shouldn't come as much of a surprise—Mexico. Recently, while on vacation in Mazatlan, I discovered that the country is chocked full of Chinese-made motorcycles and scooters. It makes perfect sense in an economically developing country like Mexico; cheap transportation that is easy to keep running is a home run.

Cruisers, standards, scooters and even quads are everywhere you look. It's only a matter of time before the Chinese invasion hits in force, but brace yourself, because it's already ashore south of the border.

Unquestionably, the world's most dangerous and challenging roadrace is the legendary Isle of Man TT. Held in late May and early June each year on the tiny island off the west coast of England, the TT is run entirely on the same public roads used for 35- to 40-mph commuting by Manx citizens the rest of the year. Each lap of the TT course covers 37¾ miles, much of it on bumpy, narrow asphalt, and it threads competitors through more than 200 corners, with elevation changes ranging from sea level to 1300 feet.

No matter how fast you are as a street rider or how wild your Sunday-morning rides might be, all of it pales in comparison to the blinding speeds and impending danger that loom around every corner and along every straightaway in the TT. Rock walls, iron fences, brick buildings, power poles, dense forests and sheer hillsides line the course, some so close that riders' shoulders and helmets barely miss them by a few inches, often at more than 150 mph. The speeds through some sections are even more unimaginable, exemplified in 2006 by rider Bruce Anstey, whose Superbike-spec Suzuki GSX-R1000 was clocked at 206 mph on a two-lane straight lined with trees and buildings. And whereas turning a lap at an average speed of 100 mph was once a benchmark that all riders aimed for, John McGuinness this past year set the absolute lap record at just over 129 mph on a Honda CBR1000RR Superbike.

The TT will celebrate its 100th anniversary this year, and were it not for its long-standing tradition, this race—and any other even remotely like it—could not exist in this day and age.

If you've never been to the TT, you can get a much better idea of the event's incredible speeds and dangers by watching a free 51-minute streaming video now available on Google Video. Just click here, then sit back and enjoy. The quality of the video is not hi-def, but its content, both visual and aural, will likely evoke expletives even from the most pious churchgoer. More than once.

While I appreciate the thought that everyone at the Kevin Schwantz Suzuki School put into creating their annual Christmas card, the coolest part wasn't the card; it was the Schwantz autograph stamp on the mailing envelope.

Apparently, anyone of legal age can go to www.stamps.com, an approved United States Postal Service vendor, and design his/her own personal stamp. According to the website, the monthly service charge for a new account is $15.99.

For the Schwantz stamp, KSSS Managing Director Marnie Lincoln tried several ideas before she finally decided to use Kevin's signature. It incorporates his racing number, 34, which was retired by the FIM when he officially hung up his leathers in 1995 and now serves as the basis for his accessory and clothing line, Brand 34.

I wonder if our corporate bean-counters in New York would go for a Team CW stamp.

It is hard to pinpoint the beginning of my streetbike obsession. I loved the '83 Suzuki GS1150ES and the '82 Katana. Not long afterward, the '84 Kawasaki Ninja 900 blew me away. But I was too young to ride on the street at the time and even if I'd had my license, I didn't have the cash. It was always smaller motorcycles that caught my real attention, first because they were cheaper and second because they somehow seemed more attainable, approachable and “right” for a kid learning the rules of the road. So it was a new Yamaha RZ350 that I wished for, and when I turned 16, a used RD400 that I could afford to buy. It was small, simple, light and sporty. And it meant I could go places and have fun getting there or simply riding to nowhere.

It was that sort-of expectant mindset, that longing for riding that those bikes brought about which came welling up again recently. I went to the Cycle World International Motorcycle Show in Long Beach, where Cagiva USA unveiled the Mito 500. The big news here is the powerplant, a 60-horsepower Husqvarna Single. It's stuffed into the old Mito two-stroke's chassis with its Ducati 916-inspired bodywork. Weight is said to be in the 260-pound range, and if the bike were ever to reach production and make it to the U.S. market, projected target price was between $7000 and $9000. At the moment the bike is just a prototype, and when we had it in our studio to photograph, I got a good, up-close look. It basically appears as though some enthusiasts back at the factory in Italy took a seized Mito and tossed the engine, called up the Husky department for a big one-lunger and applied some spare time. The engine looks like a pretty good fit, and I have to admit the bike is irresistible to me. Singles have been a hard sell on the street in the States for a long, long time, but I have always been a big fan.

Even though I can ride most anything I want, this type of light and lithe machine is a vivid reminder of the simple, initial pleasure of my first sporty bike and the fun and freedom it represented. Cagiva USA set up an e-mail address, mito500@cagivausa.com to receive comments about whether or not to build the little Single. I'm going to tell them to build it. If only for selfish reasons.

At the onset of a new project, just before the opening carnage, my Pops normally offers this sage piece of advice, “If it ain't broke, don't fix it.” A great pearl of wisdom, but unfortunately in conflict with what is muttered once a project is underway, “Well, since I'm there…”

The conflict of these two statements came to mind recently as I sat in my garage re-tracing the wiring harness of my 1970 Triumph T-100C for the 20th time and wondering why my newly installed super-cool electronic ignition system was producing no spark, when the not-so-super-cool original dual-point ignition had been doing so just fine.

It all started about 500 miles into my ownership of this little purple slice of heaven. All had been working great, until things took a slight turn for the worse. The tank had been resprayed by the previous owner but not sealed. Rust had found a home inside and little flakes had made it into my Amal. Simple fix, really. With my newly acquired Whitworth spanners, I removed the tank and dropped it off at my buddy Rick Doughty's Vintage Iron shop (www.vintageiron.com) for sealing. Back in my garage, gasket kit in hand, a simple carb rebuild was performed. All seemed right.

Not having the tank back from sealing yet gave me time to think—never a good thing in my case. Several people had suggested that a Boyer electronic ignition was the way to go for British bikes that you want to ride. But remembering Dad's advice, I thought, “It ain't broke, I don't need to fix it.” But a beer later it occurred to me that since the tank was off and everything was right in front me, “Well, since I'm here…”

Though the directions were a bit confusing, after a few reviews (and possibly another beer) I got the general gist and the ignition installation went forward without a hitch. And, sadly, without a spark. Some four hours later, I was still sparkless and completely dejected. About this time, Doughty called to report the tank was ready for pick up. With a swallowing of pride, I explained my sparkless conundrum and asked for his council.

“Well, the Boyer is the way to go, and the instillation is straightforward, but, damn, the instructions can be confusing,” Rick stated on the other end of the phone. “Bring it into the shop and we can take look at it when you pick up the tank.” I loaded the bike and headed to the wilds of Yorba Linda, certain that the problem was the result of my own stupidity.

“Everything looks correct” announced Doughty, surrounded by vintage motocross bikes in various states of restoration. “Great! At least I didn't do something stupid,” I said, feeling somehow redeemed, even though my bike was still dead.

The saga continued as we poked, prodded and tested. We replaced connectors and continued our search for spark. Finally, out of pure stupid luck we heard the crackle of electrical current while checking connections for the umpteenth time. A bad butt-splice from the electronic pickup to the brain. Simple and cheap—the Triumph was back in business.

Doughty helped me set timing on the mighty 500 and we took turns doing hot laps around the shop. I thanked Doughty and explained that in the future I was no longer going to fix what wasn't broken. He smiled knowingly as we loaded the bike and I drove away. I am fairly certain that he understands that leaving things alone when it comes to old bikes is far easier said than done. In fact, I'm guessing it's the backbone of his business.

We should all be so lucky to have a wife as moto-friendly as Amanda Rosa. Husband Rolando is a Cycle World reader and big Valentino Rossi aficionado (who isn't?) and when he wanted to pay tribute to “The Doctor” in his own special way, an understanding Amanda pointed him in the direction of the family room and said have at it.

“Since my husband is such a fan of the MotoGP circuit and loves motorcycling, our family room has become the 'guy' room,” she wrote. “Being an artist and a very huge fan of Valentino Rossi, he decided to adorn our family-room wall with Rossi's picture. He is an art teacher so was off last summer—from July to August this is the transformation that took place; he worked a total of 80 hours from start to finish. It was done in acrylic paint right on the wall (if you zoom in a little you can actually see the electrical outlet by the back tire).”

Proud wife Amanda continued, “I am writing to you because my husband is a subscriber to your magazine and enjoys it very much. He is unaware that I am sending this e-mail along with the picture, but I just wanted to send it to you to maybe share with your editors and readers.

Affirmative on both counts, Amanda, and now that you've got Rolando's artwork “published” on the CW site, you should be expecting something really good from him for Valentine's Day.

It was a nipple-cracking 39 degrees when I rolled my FJR1300 out of Whitworth Ranch this morning. I didn't want to show up on a touring bike wearing a red Aerostich to my appointment with Chica the custom builder in my old hometown of Huntington Beach, but when you are a poofter regarding cold, you have a hard time looking cool. Or is that “Kool”?

Chica set up his bike shop over here after bailing on his home country of Japan 11 years ago. “No one liked my style over there,” he said. Since then he has made his reputation on a string of killer custom bikes in the USA. It was I think in our inaugural “American Flyers” feature back in 1999 that I first saw his stuff, a Harley dubbed “Bauhaus Bobber.” Chica was ahead of his time in looking backward.

While I was there interviewing him about a bike for an upcoming issue, Chica was giving a tune-up to a very-LSD-1971-looking silver-metalflake chopper with a sparkling red diamond-stitch seat and mile-high sissybar. In my most insightful tone I remarked, “That is a cool bike.” He said he built it to celebrate his 10th anniversary with his wife and that they took it on a 500-mile road trip through Texas. It has a centrifugal auto clutch for ease of riding. Oh, yeah, Clutch-Glide…

Chica is a creative, funny guy, so he couldn't just build a bike to take a road-trip on. It had to have a proper theme. “I call the bike 'Captain Japan'—like Captain America (from Easy Rider), but with a Japanese flag! There are 95 spike nuts on it.” The bike was definitely looking very spiky. I told him I thought riding 500 miles on something like that was pretty rough duty. Chica countered, “When you put your wife or girlfriend on the back it is very comfortable. You have a backrest and armrests…” Depending on your wife or girlfriend, that could be quite cushy. Chica is living right, I tell you. Unlike Captain America's ending, Captain Japan is continuing to live the dream.

It should come as no surprise that Chris Balish's entertaining and well-written new book, How To Live Well Without Owning A Car, devotes an entire chapter to motorcycles. A self-professed luxury SUV lover before going car-free several years ago, Balish now preaches that motorcycles (and scooters) are an economical way to get around town.

“When researching this book,” he writes, “I put out a request for motorcycle commuters to participate in an interview about biking to work. Within three days I had received so many e-mail messages, they filled my inbox and clogged my e-mail system for a week. That tells me there are an awful lot of people out there who are passionate about riding motorcycles as daily transportation.”

One of those people is Andy Goldfine of Aerostich fame. With Goldfine's approval, Balish reprinted the Roadcrafter inventor's “Top Eleven Reasons Not to Ride a Motorcycle to Work Addressed.” My personal favorite is the last: “It's too much work.” Goldfine's clear-cut response? “And sometimes it rains. Get over it. And get a rainsuit.”

Balish's book is available from Ten Speed Press. Read it, live it—if you dare.

I was supposed to be shopping for a Christmas gift for my wife. Instead, I found myself at Barnes & Noble thumbing through the December issue of InSynch, “the adventure magazine of the watch world.”

Okay, hold the “they pay those CW editors too much” forum posts: I'm not in the market for the featured A. Lange & Söhne Datograph Perpetual ($137K!). No, what caught my eye were the multiple images midway through the glossy, large-format book of MotoGP World Champion Nicky Hayden.

Turns out, Hayden is a “brand ambassador” for Tissot watches, official timekeeper of MotoGP. In addition to awarding a timepiece to the top qualifier at each round, the Swiss watchmaker went so far as to create a limited-edition model based on its quartz chronograph T-Race model to honor the Owensboro, Kentucky, native. The back-of-the-case medallion even wears Hayden's signature.

IS International Editor Keith Strandberg was a guest of Tissot at last summer's Spanish GP at Catalunya. He saw first-hand the massive crash at the start of the event, which took out a significant portion of the field and fundamentally led to Sete Gibernau's end-of-season retirement.

“The sound of these powerful motorcycles racing off down the straight and into the first turn was phenomenal,” Strandberg wrote. “It was a sound that got me in the gut.”

Despite what you might think, gentle reader, magazine photo shoots rarely are fun-filled, but they are almost always action-packed. That condition holds especially true if the shooter is freelance lensman Kevin Wing.

I've known Wing for more than 15 years, and every job we've worked on together he's had me ride in an obviously, profoundly and grandiloquently illegal and/or dangerous fashion. And if Wing is feeling particularly festive, he'll join in, usually in a rental car. He apparently leads a charmed life, as well, with a protective bubble that often covers his photo models. It's the only explanation that makes any sense.

Kawasaki's recent introduction of its Vulcan 900 Custom in Austin, Texas, provided another perfect opportunity to see Wing, arguably at the height of his powers, display his devil-take-the-hindmost insouciance toward traffic laws, photo models and more.

The first setup seemed simple enough: Using early-morning (rush-hour) light, it was a head-on action shot with the Texas state capitol prominently in the background. I'd wait for a break in traffic on Congress, then pull out and ride—slowly—directly at the camera, while Wing squeezed off as long a burst as he dared. Yes, I was going as slowly as possible, but I was aiming precisely for the camera just as Wing had instructed. Thing is, he was lying prone on the pavement, in the middle of one of the busier streets in Austin, during rush hour, and I was pointing the 900 Custom's 21-inch front wheel right at his head. And I didn't even graze him once.

Another setup was a simple car-to-bike tracking shot over one of the many bridges Austin has spanning the Colorado River. Traffic complicated the shot, because it was right at end-of-the-day rush hour, and adjacent to downtown. There were three of us from three different publications, all on Vulcan 900 Customs. We took turns, with one in the far right lane getting photographed from the vehicle in the far left lane. The other two functioned as moving chicanes to block traffic, keeping civilians from coming up the center lane, and from possibly getting in the shot behind the subject. And, again, we're riding really slowly so Wing can get off as many frames as possible.

We made laps of Austin's bridges like that, temporarily blocking all three lanes, for more than an hour, and not a single person opened fire. Shucks, we hardly drew a harsh glance. Imagine doing that in other American cities—especially Los Angeles. There'd be the friendly warning shot through the temple, followed by enfilading small-arms fire.

A friend of mine—who's also worked with Wing for some time—reckons that when he retires, he'll have a special phrase embroidered on a jacket. It'll read: “I know I'll go to heaven in the next life, because I've worked with photographers in this one.” I want one too.

Just got back from our annual road trip back to Texas for the holidays—me and Peggy and Ned the Wonder Spaniel in the ol' 130,000-mile Dodge Dakota, formerly the CW shop truck, now part of the oddball Edwards motor pool.

Best Christmas present came three days late when I visited RPM Cycle in Dallas to check in on the T140 Bonneville café special that Keith Martin and crew are building for me. The Triumph belonged to my late brother Kevin, a $100 basketcase that he brought back to life on a thin budget and highly suspect application of Krylon paint.

Not long after his passing, I attended the Lake o' the Pines Rallye in north Texas, one of Kevin's favorite events, where over suds 'n' steaks his riding buddies and I decided it would be a grand thing to re-do Kev's old beater Bonnie as a tribute bike, best of everything. The man for the job was in attendance at the rally. Martin runs one of the few new Triumph dealerships (www.rpmcycletx.com) that also caters to the originals. An alumnus of Jack Wilson's famed Big D Cycle, Keith has a racer's heart, with numerous land-speed projects in the works and an impressive resume in classic roadracing.

Using knowledge gained in racing, Keith has come up with a set of mods for mid-'70s oil-in-frame Bonnevilles. Starting point is frame modification by Salt Flats Hall of Famer Ed Mabry, the man who cajoled the "Texas Ceegar" streamliner's twisted tubes back into shape after the bike's near-total destruction in the fire at England's National Motorcycle Museum. Mabry's T140 mods involve cutting and rewelding the oil-bearing backbone to tuck in the steering-head angle, plus additional tubes and gusseting for the rear frame section and swingarm.

This was the first time I'd seen the bike in paint—main color being the same metallic ice-blue as used on a certain beloved 1953 Triumph Thunderbird that our father sold in '55 in order to get the money to marry our mom. Surprise of the day was the inclusion of a discreet hand-painted figure of Kevin on the front portion of the rear fender. It shows him on the old T140 (including its infamous powder-blue cylinders) motoring along a Texas farm-to-market backroad. A perfect touch to what will be a spectacular rebuild.

Still to do: Fit the front fender, tank badges and mufflers (out for rechroming), plus some detail work and a thorough break-in before the bike is ready to make noise in the California sun. Can't wait.

It was my first session lapping Laguna Seca Raceway at the press intro for the new 2007 Yamaha YZF-R1. For some reason, my left forearm and hand ached terribly after only a few moderately hard laps, and the R1's new smooth-operating slipper clutch wasn't to blame.

I had noticed the glove I was wearing on that hand had been rather difficult to get on and wasn't any easier to remove once the session ended. Turns out the brand-new Shift SR1 leather gloves I was wearing had been miss-packaged from the factory; a size Small left had been paired with a Large right in a package labeled as L. Of course, when I was pulling gear from our wardrobe rack back at the office, I tried on the right (wrong) glove. Still, it could have been worse however, and I would know…

A few years ago I flew all the way to Australia for a Suzuki GSX-R1000 launch held at the Phillip Island circuit. As we were suiting up to ride the bikes, I discovered that I'd packed two left boots in my gearbag. Okay, I'm an idiot! But how did that happen? Seems someone had set Sidi boots of like model, color, size and foot next to one another on CW's boot shelf.

A lesson to be learned here? Even if the shoe (glove or boot) fits, best try on the other one, too.

“Oh, God, what have I done?” I muttered to myself. “That sounds serious.”

Actually, what I had just done was a wheelie. Not a 10-mile-long, Doug Domokos monowheel journey but instead just a lift-it-in-second-and-shift-to-third jobbie that's a piece of birthday cake on the new KTM Super Duke. I was just returning from a spirited afternoon charge along Ortega Highway's famous twisties aboard the big V-Twin KTM, and as I turned onto the last piece of straight, lightly traveled pavement just a few blocks from our Newport Beach offices, I thought a harmless little wheelie would be a fitting conclusion to a fun ride. So I wicked the throttle open in second gear, and the Katoom's impressive midrange torque yanked the front wheel skyward.

So far, so good. But shortly after my upshift to third, I saw the nose of a car edging out of a driveway not too far ahead. That startled me enough that I snapped the throttle shut rather than rolling it closed, making the front of the bike slam down rather harshly. Just as the front tire made abrupt contact with the asphalt, a loud, metallic whirring noise began emanating from somewhere down below. I had no idea what was causing the racket, but whatever it was, it wasn't good.

I immediately slowed way down and practically coasted the rest of the way to the office. Once there, I was able to dismount the bike, crouch down next to the running engine and determine that the noise was coming from inside the clutch case. Something had come loose in there.

Fortunately, the clutch can be accessed through a round cover that's just slightly larger in diameter than the clutch itself and secured by seven screws. It took me only a minute to remove the cover and find that one of the six clutch-spring retaining bolts had worked completely loose and was hitting the reinforcement ribs on the inside of the cover.

Obviously, my one-wheel self-indulgence had nothing to do with the actual problem; the abrupt front-wheel landing had just been the last straw, shaking loose a bolt that apparently had been hanging by its very last thread. The bolt would have soon started hitting the cover anyway, wheelie or no wheelie.

The bolt had not gotten damaged, so after a clean-up of the clutch area, I reinstalled and tightened it. In the process, I discovered that all five of the other bolts had not been adequately tightened. Two of them were barely finger-tight, and the three others could not have been torqued to more than 2 or 3 foot-pounds. Sooner or later (probably sooner), all of them would have come completely loose.

Problem here was that our May-issue test of the Super Duke had already been completed. Plus, we didn't know if this was a problem inherent in all Super Dukes or if it was simply a testbike set-up gaffe by one of KTM's techs here in the U.S.

A week later, during a conversation with a KTM rep, Road Test Editor Don Canet—who wrote the test—learned that another Super Duke had exhibited the very same problem. One of its clutch-spring bolts had worked its way out to the point where it was just about to start making contact with the inside of the clutch cover, and several of the other bolts had not been sufficiently tightened. The rep also said that no one stateside had ever touched the clutches on the test bikes, so the problem originated on the assembly line.

By the time you read this, KTM should already have addressed the problem at the factory level, and dealers will be alerted to check the clutch-spring bolts on all the Super Dukes that pass through their hands.

On my way back to my hotel from Ducati's New Blue intro in Manhattan, I thought of dinner. In my hot, economical hotel room (stunning view of the air shaft) I puzzled over getting to the next day's opening of the NYC Cycle World Show. Then out to dinner. As I walked past Thai, Mexican, French and seemingly every other variety of restaurant, I occasionally saw someone coming home—opening a plain steel basement door to enter some kind of warm refuge, a den, a burrow in the great city. I envied them but was soon happily seated in front of a lovely scaloppini piccata.

The Javits Center—home to the CW Show—is built of welded steel tubes as if giants inspired by Ducati's trellis frames had gone mad in large scale. The rest is glass. On my way there I saw people hurrying, coffees in hand, to work. Well, so was I, and I envied the coffee. I paused to watch FedEx trucks erupt from their cavern.

Once I got my credentials and entered the exhibit area, I was confronted by Victory's big gamble—their bold and futuristic new Vision touring bike, which integrates all the elements that have been traditionally separate into one swoopy, curvily Buck Rogers whole. It was pulling a lot of floor traffic, and as I stared I thought of how this will break down the door to a lot more new styling.

Why so? Traditionally, Harley has led in cruiser/bagger styling, almost by common consent. But they have been backed into a corner by their clientele, many of whom are conservative older riders who enjoy the invocation of a classic and simpler past. For iPod people, that's already in the history books, safely gathering dust at the library. How's that for a marketing problem? Bravo to Victory for crashing the barricades.

Next was Ducati's “Little Bologna,” thunderously red and with its windows set up high to suggest secret delights within. Agreeably, I would spend much of the day with Cook Neilson and his wife, and we found we had more to say to one another than formerly. I suspect that when he left Cycle magazine and the industry he wanted a complete break—like a racer quitting the sport.

A huge contrast from past shows was the absence of a solid press of bodies around custom-bike areas. Could it be that TV's magnifying glass has moved on? It could be argued that the twin but opposed prongs of imaginative creation and all-business copying have penetrated the market as far as they can. Just how long can painfully perfect paint, welding and CNC machining hold our attention? How long does it take a wiiide primary belt drive to morph from being wayradtrick to instead appearing to be a funny treadmill for small children? Product cycle times are now so short that in the twinkling of an eye, everything that can be imagined has been presented to a jaded public. Then what?

Why, mix 'n' match, of course. If people have had enough vanilla, chocolate and strawberry, stir it all together and see how tutti frutti flies. This is where architecture, clothing and music have gone, so why not custom bikes? Soon even that becomes old, so that now people speak of “The Death of the Chopper.” At the New York Show, you could feel it. Yet all those TIG machines, multi-axis mills and paint booths out there aren't going to stop because of a hiccup in public attention—we just don't know what's next.

Jesse James, ace chopper guy, Mr. Pay Up Sucker, might have become a scooter geek, perish the thought, had it not been for a timely bit of parental oversight.

We were at West Coast Choppers, shooting pix of James' latest creation, a radial aircraft-engined motorcycle (see the story in the April issue of CW), when Mark Cernicky came bopping into view aboard Piaggio's new Three Wheeler, on loan from the press fleet at the nearby Long Beach bike show. Jesse immediately conscripted the scooter and began giving rides.

“Anybody who looks at this sucker and says they don't wanna ride it is a liar!” he said. “Everyone wants to ride a scooter whether they admit it or not...deep down inside they do!”

Seems James has previous experience with scooters: “In a moment of weakness when I was 14, I saw Quadrophenia and immediately found and bought a '58 Lambretta for 200 bucks. Thankfully, my dad made me sell it the same day. Man, was I pissed! But if he hadn't, God only knows what kind of bikes I'd be building now.”

We get letters here at the magazine…and then we get letters. Lately, it's about a 50-50 mix regarding the “Euro Cannonball” speedfest and cop-bating run across the Old Continent by freelancer Dale Lomas. Half want him nominated for sainthood, half want him fed to the sharks—usually the mark of a pretty good story.

Anyway, putting all that in perspective is an e-mail we got from Lt. Col. William Hagestad, a U.S. Marine and frustrated motorcycle nut currently serving in Iraq. “I've been subscribing to your magazine on and off since I started riding and racing back in '76,” he wrote. “Now serving as a Marine in Fallujah, Iraq, each issue of my subscription my wife forwards is a fundamental delight; I read and re-read each word, coveting the photos of a sport, motorcycling, which has been a part of my life for so long. The issues get a good workout here; I share with my fellow Marines and we long lustfully for the day we return home and are able to ride again.”

I forwarded the e-mail to the rest of the CW staff, and Production Editor Robyn Davis immediately set to work putting together a moto-CARE package for Hagestad and the rest of the riders serving in the 4th CAG, Camp Fallujah. Several weeks later we received the following e-mail:

Our distinct pleasure and privilege, Lt. Col. You guys keep your heads down, stay safe and get back to your bikes asap.

I have never been much of a chopper guy but that didn't stop me from taking a cruise with the boys from Orange County Choppers. Paul Sr. invited me to join him, Paul Jr. and Mikey on an all-day ride on Southern California's best roads. And the best part, OCC supplied the bike, helmet and goggles. Everything was great until Paul Sr. yelled at me for doing burnouts. He said I was wasting his time and embarrassing myself. I didn't want to tell him that watching television is a waste of time, too. After the day was over the boys at OCC even made a video of our ride, check it out here.

I have never had the intent to buy any vehicle. Yet I have bought many. My mind wanders through varied mechanical fantasies, from synching the trio of Dell'Orto carbs on a Laverda Triple to kickstarting a Norton Commando to gliding down Pacific Coast Highway in a '64 Cadillac Eldorado convertible. These are triggered by small things like seeing a “For Sale” sign, or someone saying, “I know a guy who wants to sell bike X.” Suddenly, I am overcome by the vehicle, research its history, and want to know everything. Internet photos become desktop backgrounds on my computer. Obsession.

The only time this hasn't happened is when I bought a 1995 Honda VFR750, my first brand-new bike. I had only just joined the motorcycle business and my old GS550 wasn't cutting it anymore. After years of reading what a great motorcycle the VFR was, I had to (and was glad to) have one. But the rest of my purchases come down to receptivity of spirit and happy accidents.

This '69 Ford is the latest. There is massive (double meaning) utility in having a truck. I understand the utility of a van. I've got an old one, just in a million pieces languishing mid-restoration. But vans require carried items to fit in its box. Trucks are limited only by the sky, or at the very least low-overhang drive-thru's and bridges. And while motorcycles eat most of my daily mileage efficiently and entertainingly, sometimes a man needs to haul some crap.

I looked at a couple of '50s-era GMs, but their six-cylinder engines always ran on five or the brakes were gone or they could only comfortably cruise at 45 mph. But a 2500-pound-load-capcity Ford with a 390-cubic-inch V-Eight and air shocks does the job. The truck was owned by a neighbor, and he parked it roadside with a For Sale sign. I knew nothing of Ford pickups, and never considered owning one. Yet I am the third owner of this red-and-white version. It is only because I drove by the truck every day, and it tormented me.

It had been difficult but possible to resist various other truck buys over the past few years since I offloaded my '86 Toyota pickup. At 365,000 miles and with rapidly depleting compression, it was time. But how long can you live without a “heavy lifting” vehicle?

I don't care what people say, put a bunch of guys on a racetrack together and inevitably a “race” breaks out. That's the way it has always been and the way it will always be. Organized racing is great, a grid full of similar bikes all battling for the win. But there are almost always variables (a.k.a. excuses)—different tires, brakes, suspension, etc.—and always a reason that the other guy was faster.

That's why in the motorcycle-magazine business we have the Journalist GP. These events take place each season at sportbike press intros on world-class racetracks around the globe from Qatar to Malaysia, Spain to France and even right here in the U.S. at places like Barber Motorsports Park and Laguna Seca. What makes the Journo GPs so fun is that it everyone on the exact-same bikes on the same tires in the same conditions—excuses have to be pretty good in this tough crowd. There are no trophies and no points (although if there were, our own Don Canet would be champ), only the satisfaction in knowing that on that day you were going pretty good, your peers the witness.

So like dozens of times before, at the Kawasaki ZX-6R launch at Barber in December I found myself in the middle of a multi-lap battle with my good buddy Andrew Trevitt from Sportrider magazine. He's almost always quicker but I refuse to let him by without a fight. The photo above (that's him on the left) was taken in the midst of a five-lap tussle that I eventually lost. But talk about fun! And no, I don't have any excuses.

When I was at college, an acquaintance bought a noble-looking veteran Packard as his daily transportation. This young man was a child of privilege to the degree that he had never heard of oil changes. When oil in the Packard's engine got low, he added a quart. Some months later, the Packard stopped running, its engine a smoking wreck. Why?

Oil performs a great many functions in an engine other than simple lubrication. The internal circulation of oil acts to average temperature extremes—for example, cooling valve springs and crankshaft bearings, neither of which is effectively cooled by any other means. Oil also acts to collect harmful materials produced by normal operation. These include acids produced by the combination of water (a product of combustion) and the small amount of sulfur present in all petroleum fuels. Oil darkens in use because it mops up carbon thrown onto cylinder walls during combustion, and because the presence of air and high temperature facilitate chemical reactions that produce polymerization—the joining of many like molecules into chains. The result is gum, varnish and sludge, whose accumulation can plug oil passages or cause piston rings and valves to stick.

I suspect my college acquaintance used the cheapest oil he could find for his Packard, for even at that time branded motor oils contained what are now called dispersants. These are detergent compounds which, by surrounding particles of gum or sludge as they form, prevent them from accumulating on parts and instead keep them in circulation in the oil until they can be swept to the filter (the Packard very likely had none).

Other additives in oil emulsify water, preventing it from forming corrosive layers on parts that would otherwise result in rusted rings and cylinder bores, or in “hen-tracked” crankshaft bearings. There may also be alkaline chemistry that neutralizes acidity (“Alka-Seltzer for your engine”) and anti-wear additive to protect parts from friction during times when complete lubricating oil films break down. These include the following:

(1) Cold-starting, when oil may have drained away from critical parts.
(2) Piston rings move very slowly in the vicinity of TDC—perhaps too slowly to maintain full-film lubrication. This is why there is a wear ridge near TDC in high-hours engines.
(3) Friction between cam lobes and tappets can be most damaging at idle, when their relative motion is slow enough to squeeze out oil films.

Anti-wear additive, like the other additives described, is gradually consumed as the engine runs, forming its protective layers, being scraped away by continuing friction and reforming again from additive still in the oil. Oil gradually becomes loaded with emulsified water, carbon and dispersed gum particles. If the oil is not regularly changed, these materials accumulate to levels that the oil can no longer carry.

How did the Packard die? I can't be sure, but a leading candidate is by the polymerization of its oil through oxidation. The oil pump is designed to pump a liquid, not a rich, gooey gravy. When the oil became too thick to pump, moving parts ran dry and seized. I'm sure the owner had bus fare.

What the H. E. Double Hockey Sticks is this country coming to?! Bad enough we can't place faux bomb-like electronic PR devices around a major metropolis without said city coming apart at the seams. Now, it appears, Man's Best Friend is Public Enemy No. 1—at least if the pooch is on two wheels.

CW reader Willie Davis relates the following episode that happened as he and his well-behaved Australian cattle dog Casey were enjoying a little wind in the face/snout:

“Casey enjoys taking rides on my 1997 Honda Valkyrie. We rode together for two years without any problems until last June at “Thunder in the Valley” rally in Johnstown, PA when the city police stopped us. At first the officer said that having her strapped to me was the same as driving a car with an object dangling from the rearview mirror. He claimed that I might be temporarily blinded if she lifted her head. I raised her head and showed him that was impossible. He than pulled a little book out of his car and began flipping through it. A few minutes later he returned and said that the law states a rider cannot have a passenger on the front of a motorcycle. I assured him that while I was not in favor of arguing with the police, I did feel the need to point out that Casey was not mounted on the motorcycle, but rather was attached to my body. He then threatened to give me a $106 ticket if he caught us again.”

Before this incident Willie & Casey attracted only good vibes, including from some of Barney Fife's brethren in blue.

“Other police officers around Pennsylvania and Maryland would smile or wave,” says Davis. “They seemed to enjoy seeing us. Earlier that same day, in the Biker Parade, a city police officer on a motorcycle rode along with us.”

If anybody has any legal advice for this (otherwise) law-abiding citizen biker, please send it to ratdog_willie@yahoo.com. “I hope to be armed with valuable information if we get stopped by the Johnstown police again,” says Willie. Casey says thanks, too.

The 2007 AMP'd Mobile Supercross season has thus far been a tale of two extremes. Either great racing with exciting finishes, or complete blowouts that send the spectators heading for the parking lot before the checkered flag flies.

You can blame it all on one man: Suzuki-mounted Ricky Carmichael. The G.O.A.T. (Greatest of All Time) as he has been labeled, is the only man currently capable of racing rival James Stewart and his Kawi 450. When RC is in the field, like at the San Francisco Supercross, you can expect awesome on-track action. When he's not, due to his part-time, semi-retirement schedule, the racing is a one-man-show: The Bubba Show.

Round four of the series in San Francisco had all the elements of a great race. The track was in good shape—but pretty rutted up and rough—and AT&T Park was packed to the bay with fans. But more importantly, Carmichael was racing and Yamaha's Chad Reed was the healthiest he's been all season. The Supercross main didn't disappoint, as it came down to which of those three riders would make the fewest mistakes. Stewart crashed twice, Reed once and RC was lucky to avoid a couple of big ones himself.

In the end it was Carmichael taking the win, while the competition limped home. It was the best Supercross I'd seen in quite some time and I'm glad I didn't miss the great atmosphere and enthusiastic Nor-Cal fans. RC only has a few races left on the schedule, so if he's heading to your hometown make sure you get out and see what is sure to be one of best races of the year.

Ever wake up and find yourself the victim of a prank? Super Bowl Sunday the joke was on me. Nighttime temperatures in the California mountains dropped to 5 degrees and one of my wise-guy riding pals thought it would be a good idea to stick my KX250 next to the water spigot. He then turned on the water just enough to mist over my bike all night.

When I woke up it was like a big lime-green Popsicle. Frozen solid…wouldn't roll…suspension didn't budge…I couldn't even get to the kickstarter. Worse, when it gets that cold at night, it doesn't warm up very quickly in the morning.

I thought my riding day was over before it started, but after two hours of waiting I became impatient and started chipping the ice off. A couple of buddies joined in to help knock the brakes free. Once the kickstarter was accessible, it only took four prods to get the frigid KX running. The engine completed the rest of the thawing process and I was able to ride soon after.

As for the wise guy? He has something coming, just as soon as I figure out a topper. Any ideas?

Horse owners spend more time feeding, leading, currying and blanketing their animals than they do riding them. Motorcycle racers spend more time traveling to and from the races than they ever do on the bike with the engine running. In living this life in the 1970s, I often found myself in a van, on the road, unable to sleep while another person drove, but knowing that my next five-hour trick at the wheel was coming up fast. Sixty hours of this, coast-to-coast, seemed a fair trade for racing's moments of intensity.

For some, the track is a short drive—maybe 100 miles or less. Hardly worth thinking about. For others, it's a long grind and there is plenty to consider.

The three-dollar styrofoam cooler looked like a steal in the supermarket—stuff it with cold drinks and sandwiches, then dine like kings all the way to Mosport or VIR or Indianapolis Raceway Park. Plans fail. Styrofoam squeaks unstoppably. And someone will see it as a handy footrest, or even a place to sit. The steady vibration of travel causes rearrangements. That is, the sandwiches are rearranged downward, into the water melting from the ice so providently bought and packed. This is the true meaning of “submarine sandwich.” This is why I preferred to trot into the restaurant while the van was being tanked up, to see what's on offer. No earnestly homemade but soggy sandwiches.

The first van I endured was an English Thames Freighter with 50-hp engine. Its front wheels wobbled at 40 mph like a major-brand luxo-tourer ridden hands-off at the same speed, and for the same reason—that's the classic wheel-rotation speed for wobble. Because as in the motorcycle case, wobble damping increases with speed, we could bust through the wobble by “accelerating” (the quotes are because 50 hp provides only the most gradual acceleration). The strain finally caused the Thames to spin a rod bearing somewhere in Connecticut and it was replaced by a new car with a trailer. This would be travel in style—seats for all, no more roasting/freezing on a pressed-steel engine cover, and no sleeping under bikes in the back. Civilization triumphant.

But there are reasons so few trailer their racebikes. Trailer wheel bearings have secrets. They know when it is least convenient for them to melt out their grease, overheat and then seize dark blue so that no known force available at roadside can pull the inner race from the axle. Trailer lighting technology economically routes plastic-insulated wires through hastily drilled holes in the metal structure, shrewdly saving the nickel cost of a rubber grommet at each point. Rough edges saw through the insulation, causing the lights to wink at patrolling policemen.

Why do trailer tie-downs loosen mainly in tunnels? This allows one or more bikes to slump over against a trailer tire, which then friction-saws a crescent-shaped hole in your fairing or tank.

The outcome of the car experiment was that we all bought vans and shunned styrofoam coolers.

At its best, the van becomes a machine of social transition between your “cosmetic life” of job, home and responsible adulthood, and your real life. As the song says, “I'm not the man they think I am back home.” Somehow, falling endlessly into the blackness beyond the headlight cones, or wrestling on the bunk with a flood of edgy, coffee-derived ideas that prohibit sleep, one being is transformed into the other. In the early morning, shaving in a rearview mirror or eating bad things from the concession, you have become a RACER. Now stand in line, pay $156, pour fuel, air up tires, start and warm up. This is it.

Going the other way, you greet the dawn and home with the edge of a sore throat, find coffee, shower and struggle off to work, hoping your exhaustion won't morph into unemployment. Soon you're fine, doing whatever it is you're paid to do, a working stiff once more. You can do it. It's easy, because it's not real.

One friend of mine kept his life together this way, using the all-night solo driving time to sort and order his chaotic thoughts. The restoring realities of racing became an essential buffer against the strains of his high-technology job, a blond wife with associated mortgage and mysterious child, and the awful lightness of being.

Non-solo van travel requires trust. What if your partner falls asleep at the wheel? On one trip, he did. I awakened on the bunk, feeling vibration. Grass out the left window, grass out the right. Quicker than I thought I could move, I had the wheel. This was the classic prelude to eternity—crossing the median on a long diagonal at 70 mph. I did all the rest of the driving on that trip, and I was never the least bit sleepy.

Some offers you don't refuse. Red Bull Motorsports Communications Manager Jordan Miller sent out an invitation to the CW staff that read: As a token of appreciation for all of your support, you are invited to participate in a day of Red Bull experiences. What's that mean? I have one of those every day at 3 o'clock or so when I ingest a can of the stuff. Anyway, without hesitation, the Dude-K and I jumped at the opportunity to ditch work for a day. Besides rendezvous specifics, the only other information passed on was, “Bring a helmet.”

Cool! We met up in the morning at a restaurant in Orange called the Filling Station—“we” being journalists from various moto-mags—and filled up on breakfast before climbing into two short busses to be shuttled to an undisclosed locale.

We ended up at Glenn Helen motocross track, where we got to ride around a modified course in a Red Bull-sponsored Class-1 V-Eight-powered buggy. Bad news is that we were along as dead weight in the passenger hole—nobody being dumb enough to turn us loose with a roll bar, 800 horsepower and 30 inches of suspension travel in the mega-bucks off-road car. Maybe they've seen how we drive…

Afterward we hopped in the back of pickup for the short ride to a police advanced-driving training track. There on the skidpad sat the Red Bull-sponsored Pontiac Solstice drift-car. One-lap was just long enough to fill the fire-breathing, turbocharged four-cylinder car's cockpit with tire smoke. That Rhys Millen can drive, sideways. An awesome experience, breaking the laws of friction is addicting but, again, none of us got any throttle time.

Back in the bus, the Red Bull folks kept us guessing. Next we arrived at Perris Valley Skydiving School, home of a giant turbine for indoor skydiving. Flying in the vertical wind tunnel was, quite literally, a blast. Then, John Devore, a Red Bull skydiver, said, “Who wants to jump out of a plane for real?” My hand shot up, but not Ryan's. After a short instructional video, we were introduced to our jump-masters. Mine was Piya Navanugraha (say that fast three times), who fitted me with a tandem harness and went through the drill. Next thing I knew, we where climbing into the plane. Er, maybe Dudek had the right idea after all…?

Jumping out of the airplane from 13,000 feet was, indeed, Big Gasp Time, but the freefall was amazing. It couldn't last long enough for me; in fact, I was having so much fun flying that I forgot to pull the ripcord as I had been instructed during briefing back on the ground. Piya had to do the honors or I might have flown both of us right into the ground, smiling all the way! Once the canopy was open, my heart rate slowed and the rest of the decent was surreal. Over way too soon. Thanks for the day of adventure, Red Bull, I'm available same time next year.

Not everyone can spend ten thousand dollars on a new bike. Or even ten hundred. Not everyone needs to go 200 mph. Or even 100. Some of us enjoy simpler things. Like old dirtbikes that happen to be street-legal, too. The need for speed is universal but relative to the world around you.

“Someone's coming to look at the bike but it would be easier to sell if it were actually running,” a friend of mine said over the phone. “Can you come over and try to push-start it?”

Said friend was relocating to Monterey with her new husband and the non-running 1973 Honda XL250 Motosport had become a liability. Its only problem was a stripped kickstarter, but the repair had become a lesser priority since she became an “honest woman.”

The XL failed to start, but the bike began to grow on me. The size of this little charmer was perfect for a plan I'd had in mind for years—a “Plan B,” if you will. There's much to be said for having an exit-strategy and mine is ditching the assistant art director gig and riding off into the sunset like a 21st-century Dharma Bum. No strings, no bills, no schedules. Working odd jobs, jamming at open mikes, sleeping under the stars. Cash? Check. Gear? Check. Ukulele? Check. Crazy? You bet. The only item missing was that street-legal dirtbike.

Aside from the non-op kickstarter, the bike appeared solid, so I offered $500 on the spot. “I'm so glad 'Moto' is staying in the family,” she said, relieved to have it off her hands. A look through CW's April, 1972, issue enthusiastically validated the purchase. Gushing shamelessly over the four-stroke Single, the editors wrote: “The best off-road bike Honda has ever produced for sale to the public... Quiet... Sophisticated... Minimal vibration... Easy to start... Excellent gear spacing... Low center of gravity... Damping right on... Fine handling... An instant best-seller.”

A used kickstart shaft and lever were purchased from APF Motorcycle Salvage for $120, and a complete gasket set was found on eBay for just $20. After repairs, the Honda miraculously started first kick. A good omen if ever there was one. After noodling with the carb, I had her purring like a kitten and seconds later was enjoying wider and wider loops around the neighborhood. Cleaned, lubed and polished, the li'l Honda was quite a stunner. “Looks like somebody's in love,” I heard more than once.

Possibilities began dancing in my head. Baja? Four Corners? The video store? Unlike my not so dearly departed Yamaha XT600, regardless of engine temperature or alignment of planets, the XL is ready to go when I am. No leaks, no smoke, no excuses, just kick-n-go.

I receive a lot of mail, as does the rest of the CW staff. I open most of it, but there are times when the contents of a letter—a catalog or a CD, for instance—has to wait until more pressing issues, such as an editorial deadline, have passed. That was the case with the following from Big Dog Motorcycles, self-proclaimed “world's largest manufacturer of custom bikes.”

With the June issue put to bed (finally!), I loaded the CD into my computer. The clip begins as a Big Dog K-9 (yes, that's the actual model name) rumbles up alongside a nondescript minivan at a stoplight. Inside the van is a father, his wife (riding shotgun) and in the back seat, two small children.

The wife eyeballs the bike's shiny 117-cubic-inch V-Twin and fat 300mm-wide rear tire, then… Well, you'll have to watch it to see for yourself. One thing's for sure, from here on out, any mail I receive from Big Dog will be opened more promptly!

Well, in case you haven't, a Voxan is a French motorcycle that never has been exported to the U.S. Throughout its 12-year history, in fact, the marque has had trouble just staying in business. We've seen pictures of Voxans, and we've read stories and press releases about the ongoing financial ups and downs of the company, but we've never been able to get our hands on one.

Until just recently. Earlier in March, I was in the south of France to participate in Michelin's world launch of a new performance tire (Michelin has embargoed what we learned there, so I can't tell you anything about the tire until late in July), and among the broad assortment of motorcycles available to ride on the new tires were two Voxans—the Roadster, a naked standard, and the Black Magic, a naked sportbike. I never got the chance to saddle up the Roadster, but I did manage to log about 50 miles aboard the Black Magic on some of the finest and most isolated twisty roads in all of the south of France.

I came away reasonably impressed. The Black Magic, like all Voxans, is powered by a liquid-cooled, dohc, 72-degree V-Twin displacing 996cc. The engine is no competition for Ducati 998s and 999s or Aprilia RSV Factorys, but with 106 claimed horsepower, it is comparable to the 992cc single-cam Duck motors. It makes strong, steady power from right off idle to redline (which is around 10 grand; as is the case with some other Italian bikes, the Black Magic's tach has no redline) and is sneaky-fast. The power didn't seem all that impressive at first, but I soon learned that if I got a decent drive coming off corners, only a few of the other bikes (a BMW K1200R and a Yamaha FZ1 being two of them) would significantly outrun it on the straights.

It was a bit louder than most contemporary V-Twins, but in a pleasant way. The mufflers on the ends of the funky upswept pipes take the sharp rap out of the V-Twin exhaust note but do so without muting it into blandness. When you hear the Voxan coming, you definitely know it's a big V-Twin.

The Black Magic also handles rather well. It's a bit long (58-inch wheelbase) by modern sporty-bike standards but feels to have relatively quick (24.7-inch head angle, trail unknown) steering. That combination yields excellent high-speed stability but with light, easy turn-in.

Once in a turn, it's very stable. The inverted fork and under-engine shock (both by Paioli) keep the chassis under control, even on bumpy corners, and the bike remains very neutral while banked over at sharp lean angles.

One aspect of the Black Magic that surprised me was the riding position. It looks to have extremely low clip-ons that would force a radical—perhaps even painful—racer tuck, but that's not so. The seat is relatively low for a bike of this type, and that helps make the ergonomics quite livable. Granted, I only rode the bike for about a half-hour (Ooops! That just gave away my average speed), but I felt no discomfort during that time.

The Black Magic is expensive—about $20,000 at current exchange rates—but it comes across as a fun, pleasant motorcycle. It does so despite seeming a bit out of date in some areas, such as in the shifting, which is a little clunky at times. And a few of the little details (exhaust heat shields, general fit and finish, etc.) aren't as polished and refined as they are on most other modern bikes. In keeping with the Ducati comparison, the Black Magic in some ways seems like a naked Supersport Duck of the middle 1990s.

Has this happened to you? This past Tuesday, the CW staff was gathered in the building's conference room for our weekly editorial meeting. Ten minutes into our little get-together, Associate Editor Blake Conner's cell phone rang. Besides the obvious interruption, the sounds coming from his Motorola Razr were not those traditionally associated with a telephone-ring, ring, ring. Rather, they were the opening bars to the AC/DC classic, “Back in black.”

Pretty cool but not cool enough to draw an approving grin from Editor-in-Chief Edwards. “Do we need to check our phones at the door?” he asked, prompting Exec. Ed. Mark Hoyer to whip out his phone and set its ringer on mute.

I have a possible solution. Yamaha is offering a downloadable, 14-second MP3 file of Valentino Rossi's 990cc YZR-M1 on its website, www.yamaha-racing.com. For access to the free content, simply log on to the site (you are already a member, right?) and click on “MotoGP Fun Stuff.” Or click here for an MP3 preview. For off-road fans, there is a recording of the YZ450FM raced in MX1-GP by Josh Coppins and Marc de Reuver.

While I can't guarantee you won't catch flak from your boss, I'm quite sure David will get a kick out of it—at least once!

The great French photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson talked of the “decisive moment,” that instant when releasing a camera's shutter captures the essence of a scene. Fractions of a second either way and the image won't be as good—maybe no damn good at all.

I'd like to say that a little of HCB's awareness rubbed off when I got the best bike-racing shot of my short photojournalism career but, truth be told, luck played a bigger part. I was shooting practice at the Tulsa Half-Mile in 1980 (if memory holds), tracking riders from the outside of Turn 1 with my cheapie Olympus OM-1 and 180mm lens. As I finished a pan shot, facing Turn 2, I heard an ominous racket from my left, then that foreboding silence. I turned instinctively, no time to refocus, and fired off one frame—all I had at that point was a low-tech power-winder, not a zooty 7-frame-per-second motordrive.

What I caught in that 1/500th of a second was the great (and, sadly, late) Ricky Graham, maybe the deepest-driving flat-tracker of all time, parting company from his Ron Wood-tuned Harley XR-750 at about 80 mph. Ricky's faceshield has already flown off and he's about tumble out of frame. His poor, immaculate XR, trailing debris, is milliseconds away from turning itself into fiberglass shards and twisted metal.

Much the worse for wear, Graham got back up and made the race, of course, his bike patched back together. That's what guys like him do. Me? I was more than happy to be on the safe side of the haybales that day.

The other day a package arrived from the nicest Cycle World ad representative we have on staff. I won't use her name, wouldn't want to embarrass the other staff ad reps. She had sent along a token of her appreciation for my help on a marketing project we completed for one of her clients.

Inside the package I found a very cool orange-anodized KTM brake-reservoir cover—ooh, just the thing for my big orange KTM 950 Adventurer! Completely unnecessary but greatly appreciated, it struck me that this little chunk of aluminum motorcycle bling is just one of hundreds of accessories available for a motorcycle that is a long way from the mainstream. This is by no means unique to my bike—darn near every two-wheeled machine (regardless of what category it might fit into) built by any mainstream manufacturer offers at least a couple pages worth of OE accessories, and the motorcycle aftermarket is waiting in the wings with catalogs full of additional options. This is happening, if you haven't noticed, while motorcycles keep getting better—needing nothing when they roll off the showroom floor to deliver reliable, fun riding.

I'm not alone in my consumption of superfluous motorcycle bling. In my roll as Cycle World's Marketing Director I see this in the research we conduct among our readers. In 2003, 43% of our readers claimed to have spent $1000 or more on accessories for their primary motorcycle; in 2007, 64% made this claim. A gain of 21 percentage points in just 4 years! Let's not forget motorcycle gear. Since 2003, CW readers have added an average of one additional helmet, a pair of boots and gloves, as well as an additional jacket and riding suit to their gear collection. A great time to be an enthusiast—not to mention an aftermarket company with great products to sell. And more cool stuff is coming. Today, accessories and riding gear come from every corner of the globe.

Proof of that fact was seen this February in “sunny” Indianapolis, Indiana, at the annual Dealernews Dealer Expo. Over 1000 exhibitors took up 336,000 square feet of convention space to show dealers everything in the name of motorcycle accessories, gear and all manner of new vehicles from China, India and other exotic locales.

Wow, all this brainwork from one piece of orange aluminum. Like most motorcycle enthusiasts, I will keep looking for ways to improve, personalize or simply change whatever perfectly good motorcycle takes up residence in my garage. Searching for that next piece of superfluous motorcycle bling. Yeah, it is about the riding but the ability to make a motorcycle uniquely yours is one of the magical things about motorcycling. Way cooler than putting a set of spinner hubcaps on the Prius.

When the photos for the “Sonny Angel: An American Original” (CW, March) story came in a few months ago I was thumbing through all the great old black & white stuff Sonny sent to us from his own collection. Then Managing Editor Matt Miles grabbed the new pictures he and Brian Blades had just gone down to shoot at Sonny's National City, California, shop.

“Check it out,” said Matt. “That mill in the background could be yours! Sonny's got it up for sale because he wants to get a CNC milling machine.”

The old mill in question was an Index brand, 55-inch machine with a hard-chrome quill and power feed, made in Michigan. It dated from the mid-Fifties, ran on 110-volt current and at 2500 or so pounds (according to the brochure), would be cake to move. Okay, nix that last part. Anyway, I called Sonny up that day (actually that hour) and after talking to him it sounded like the thing to get, so we struck a deal and I picked it up. It is a thing of beauty, and not too hard to move if you have some equipment dollies and a Johnson bar—sort of a giant prybar with small, metal wheels. Three for four friends help, too. And don't tell the boss, but I borrowed our big box truck with, as luck would have it, a 2500-pound-capacity hydraulic lift on the back. The mill is home now.

Unfortunately, it blows the breaker on my garage electrical circuit. I've got a Lucas generator part I need to machine, so I will have to sort it out. After that, I am going to machine a lockbox for my checkbook. But if anybody knows of a nice South Bend lathe for sale, there's always the ATM…

While working on an upcoming dirt test, Ryan Dudek, photographer Jeff Allen and I hooked up with Motonation owner Bill Berroth for a two-day ride to Mike's Sky Ranch in Baja California, Mexico. I'd never been to Mike's, which seemed like a good enough reason to get out from behind my desk and take our street-legal 2007 KTM 450 EXC down into the peninsula for some unique photography and great off-road riding.

After staying the night just outside of Tecate at Rancho Santa Veronica, we saddled up for our 150-mile ride to Mike's, an unlikely motel-like facility—complete with bar and pool!—plonked down in the wilds of Arroyo San Rafael near the town of Valle de Trinidad. Originally intended for hunters and fisherman who would fly in (hence the name), Mike's was soon discovered by Jeepers and dirtbikers. You haven't really ridden Baja until you make it to Mike's Sky Ranch.

The wet and gloomy day proved to be quite different from other rides I've done in Baja. The moist air made trail conditions absolutely the best I've ever experienced. Great traction, minimal dust and the fact that we were riding on a Tuesday meant we had long sections of the Baja 1000 course to ourselves. The flip-side to the epic riding conditions was that we rode in cold drizzle all day. Additionally, I had scratched the lenses on my only set of goggles I brought—between the raindrops and the scratches, it was like looking through a kaleidoscope.

After multiple photo shoots and tons of great riding we pulled into Mike's, wet, cold, hungry, just before dark, ready for a few (how many does a few mean?) cervezas. We woke up the next morning only to find that it was snowing in Baja! Thus began another excellent day of off-road riding back to Tecate. Although after pounding sand whoops (and those beers) the day before, our bodies begged for some tight single-track. Our knowledgeable guide Bill took us on some of the best trails Mexico has to offer and we owe him a debt of gratitude. Without his guidance, rescue crews would still be trying to find our lost, frozen bodies somewhere in the Baja.

The Yarrow family has been racing supermoto since our Don Canet's revival series, SuperTT, started some nine years ago. One of the series' fixtures, father, grandfather and avid competitor Allen Yarrow, 53 years old, was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. In the trying times ahead, the Yarrows—racers one and all—can use as much help as possible.

Our friends at SuperMoto Racer magazine have put up their pride-n-joy for the cause. It's a very trick $20,000 FMF/Tokyomods/Race Tech/ Dave Dye-built 2006 Suzuki RMZ450SM that will be raffled off. All net proceeds from the purchase of your $10 raffle tickets will go directly to the Yarrow family. The lucky winner's ticket will be drawn at the Stateline Supermoto Challenge, April 14, 2007, though the winner need not be present to win and will be contacted by phone. (The raffle winner will be responsible for transportation of the motorcycle from a Southern California location and will also be responsible for all applicable taxes and registration charges.)

There is a cap on tickets sales, so hurry to www.supermotoracer.com to buy yours. Second Prize: Troy Lee Designs helmet. Third Prize: Works Connection bikestand with Guts Custom Graphics Fourth Prize: JA Media Group custom-printed 24 x 36-inch laminated poster made from your favorite picture. Fifth Prize: SuperMoto Racer hat, T-shirt and sticker kit.

Twenty-three years ago, reading the November, 1984, issue of Cycle World made me think that if my dream of becoming a factory GP racer didn't pan out, that working at CW would be a way to ride to live, because I already lived to ride—even if it was BMX bicycles at the time. I wasn't exactly an avid reader then, except when it came to issues of Cycle World.

On the cover of this monumental issue was the headline, “WE RIDE 7 SECRET BIKES OF JAPAN.” At the time my dreams were filled with two-stroke smoke and GP racing, so the Yamaha RZV500R on the cover was “it” for me. The red-and-white (Yamaha's international racing colors, don'tcha know) bike's 50-degree, 499cc, liquid-cooled V-Four two-stroke brrrrped out 64 hp at 8500 rpm. If the restrictors in the exhaust were removed, horsepower jumped to 91. CW Test riders Steve Anderson and Ken Vreeke were a bit surprised at how well the torquey RZV repli-racer worked on the street, but it was no surprise that the aluminum-framed RZV worked well around the Sugo Circuit; stock tires held it back from truly performing.

“Beyond Pit Row” was an accompanying behind-the-scenes story about what was happening at HRC (Honda Racing Company). Pictures of Freddy Spencer, Mike Baldwin and David Bailey's trick race machines were placed between words that explained Honda's serious commitment to the development of four-stroke racing engines. I hung on every word.

My head was left spinning with ideas of how I was going to get my hands on a fast bike. Meanwhile, I read that issue backward and forward, turning the pages between those stories so many times that November fell apart in my hands. So I busted out some skateboard stickers and rebuild its spine. I think that if it were possible, my eyes would have absorbed the print right off the pages of that issue of CW. I never got an RZV500, but I did own a couple of RDs and a Honda V-Four 500 Interceptor. And, no, I never got that GP ride but I did get a job here at Cycle World—now I just have to figure out how to get to Japan.

When is a 1975 Norton worth a cool $25,000? Apparently when it's an NOS Commando Roadster with just 6 miles showing—those put on by a factory test rider before it was crated for shipment to the U.S. 32 years ago.

“This motorcycle has never been licensed,” stated the owner in his eBay ad. “You will find all the original stickers still in place including two that were part of the factory assembly inspection program. The original mirrors, owner's manual, warranty book and dealer-prep literature are included. The original keys, tool tray and tool kit are included. Even the battery is original new old stock, never filled with acid, terminal bolts still in the sealed package, drip tube never connected. The tires still have the whiskers and mold match flashing.”

Bidding opened at $10,500, at least $2500 more than fair market price for a very good, low-mile Commando. Forty-three bids followed as six hopefuls fought over the bike. When all the clicking was over last Wednesday, “Bidder 6” wanted it the most, to the tune of an even $25,000, surely a record for a stock 1970s Norton streetbike.

It wasn't even in perfect condition, as the seller fully acknowledged in his online description: “Everything is as you would expect with a 1975-vintage Norton with the usual British motorcycle industry standards—there is some poor-quality paint on the right sidecover. There is some damage after 31 years of inside storage; a dent on the left lower portion of the black-cap muffler, four small chips in the paint on the tank's left rear and a larger one on the right front side.”

The stated reason for selling? “I have had this one for about 15 years. I am not short of space nor funds, but I have other Nortons that I ride regularly, including a 1975 Roadster plus a number of modern machines,” said the seller. “So the level of importance is not the same as it was 15 years ago. Do I keep it as an object of art, go ahead and ride it, or pass it on to someone who has always wanted a new Norton?”

Ah, to be young and dumb, footloose and fancy-free. A recent rummage through the archival shoebox that serves as my photo album unearthed these snapshots, taken on my first “big” motorcycle tour. I was 17, the year was 1973, the bike a '71 Honda CB350, the destination Mt. Pocono, Pennsylvania, for the AMA motocross and roadrace weekend.

It was mid-August, time for one last blast before my freshman year in aerospace engineering (big mistake!) at the University of Maryland. The twin AMA nationals at Pocono International Raceway, some 300 miles distant, seemed like the perfect excuse for a road trap. Packing was simple. A couple of changes of clothes, tools, cheapie rainsuit, a canteen and maps went into a blue duffel bag, which was bungeed to my trusty Triple A luggage rack. My $5 surplus-store sleeping bag was lashed to the rear seat—no need for a tent, I'd sleep under the stars, cowboy-style.

Cowboys, I suspect, hated rain. I know I did, especially as when it came I had no money for a motel. The budget was stretched to the breaking point just covering gas, food and race tickets. The first drops hit as I left at Brandywine Battlefield Park, home to Lafayette's Revolutionary War headquarters. I figured the good Marquis wouldn't mind if I rolled out my sleeping bag beneath a wooden picnic table sheltered by a huge tree, but park personnel had other ideas.

Onward through the drizzle then, arriving at a grassy field near the track late at night. I'd purchased garbage bags and masking tape at a gas stop and fashioned a reasonably waterproof lean-to tent using the bike and a nearby tree as support. A motorcycle gang camped nearby provided beer and a fire pit to warm up by. I remember feeling quite manly.

Gary Nixon won the big roadrace on Sunday, his factory Kawasaki running out of gas on the victory lap, but 34 years on I'd forgotten who won Saturday's muddy motocross on the track grounds. The AMA record books reminded me that Rich Thorwaldson took the 250cc race that day.

Thorwaldson gained fame by being one of the few riders who could tame Suzuki's fearsome TM400 in the desert. Sadly, his name was in the news a few years back when he crashed heavily as he avoided a fallen rider at Sears Point Raceway. A Honda dealer in Reno, Thorwaldson had taken up club-level roadracing late in life. Pretty good at it, too, as most dirt riders are, finishing as high as 25th place in the AMA 600 Supersport race at Sears against riders 30 years his junior. Unfortunately, head injuries from the crash put him in a coma from which he never recovered. He was 58 when he died a week later.

Upon his passing, Jody Weisel, editor of Motocross Action, wrote, “I looked up to Rich Thorwaldson. He was the most professional motocrosser of the '70s…although Rich was a factory rider and one of the most consistent on the circuit, he never got much press or acclaim. He was steady, reliable and indestructible.”

That last, of course, turned out to be untrue, as it is for all of us. “Thor,” by all I read on the Internet was a man who loved life and people and motorcycles in big, heaping doses. I wish I'd met him back in '73.

What do Northeasterners do when the lake-effect snow is blowing over frozen Buffalo, New York, in February? Well if you're Dunlop's racing tire guru Jim Allen, you hit the road and head south. What better places than the annual AMA tire tests at California Speedway in sunny Southern California, or Daytona International Speedway in Florida? Both probably sound pretty good when the snow is coming in sideways at 30 miles per hour at home.

An avid mountain biker, Allen was all too keen to get out of his snow boots and throw on a pair of bicycling cleats after the recent Superbike test at Cal Speedway. Rental bike procured, he hitched a ride down south to Orange County with long-time biking buddy Al Engel to join myself, Cycle News Editor Paul Carruthers and our buddy Lance McRoberts.

Perfect conditions greeted us for our mid-week mountain-bike hooky adventure. We took Allen on a nice 15-mile loop full of heart-pumping climbs and a bomb run down the famous Luge downhill (that's him on the far left in the photo above, taken at top of Luge). We sent Jim packing back to NY with legs of rubber, and dreams of single-track trail and the sun spinning in his head. He'll be back, and we bet it's soon.

Lubrication of moving parts has two basic modes. The first is called “hydrodynamic lubrication,” and in it the motion of the parts and the viscosity—thickness—of the oil combine to form a supporting wedge of lubricant that completely separates the parts. Think of this as a kind of surfing (the moving part is the surfboard) in very shallow water (the water is the lubricant). Oil enters the open end of the wedge and the motion of the parts sweeps it into the loaded zone because its viscosity keeps it from being immediately squeezed out at the sides. Thus it is the combination of motion plus viscosity that generates the pressure that supports the load.

The second mode is called “mixed lubrication,” and is what takes place when either the part moves too slowly or the load is too great to permit the whole load to be carried by a complete dynamic oil film. Some load is carried by a partial oil film, the rest is carried by actual contact between the moving parts. This occurs near top dead center in piston and ring motion, or between cam lobes and tappets at idle, or almost anywhere in the engine during cold-starting, when most wear takes place.

In hydrodynamic lubrication, it is the oil's viscosity that is important. As we increase oil viscosity, its resistance to being squeezed out from between moving parts increases, and so does the thickness of the film generated in the process. But because viscosity is the oil's resistance to sliding over itself, the greater we make oil viscosity, the more power is consumed in shearing oil films in the engine. The shearing of oil films consumes the largest part of engine friction, which is typically about 15% of the horsepower being developed. Choice of oil viscosity is therefore a compromise between the need to maintain full-film lubrication and the need to minimize engine friction.

Surface finishes of engine parts have been made smoother in recent years, allowing thinner oil films to support engine loads without risk of contact between the micro-roughnesses of moving parts. This is what lies behind the recent use of lower-viscosity oils in new engines.

Mixed lubrication sounds like metal-to-metal contact but fortunately, there are ways to prevent or greatly reduce the damage this can cause. Modern oils contain so-called anti-wear additives and “friction modifiers” that protect parts from each other during mixed lubrication. An anti-wear such as “zinc” (ZDDP) is carried along in the oil until it encounters an area of high temperature, such as a small region of metal-to-metal contact. Heat causes a reaction of the anti-wear with the steel surface, producing a layer of iron phosphide. This layer, being weaker and of lower melting point than the steel beneath it, greatly reduces friction in the hot area. If scraped away by continuing heavy local friction, the layer reforms from additive in the oil. In this way, parts are protected from damage.

A further reduction in friction is brought about by “friction modifiers,” which are oil-like molecules that are able to bond not only to surfaces but to each other, forming a kind of protective and self-healing “rug” of weaker and therefore lower-friction molecules. These materials appear to bond especially well to the sacrificial layers described in the previous paragraph, further lowering the surface-to-surface friction and reducing the heat generated there. It is through such action that wear is greatly slowed in regions of mixed lubrication.

As an example of how well additives can work, I had repeated failures of first-gear pinion in my Kawasaki H1-R 500cc racebike in 1971. The first symptom would be the appearance of fine pits along each gear tooth's pitch line; further use would enlarge these pits until fair-sized chunks of material were being dislodged. Outright failure would quickly follow. When I switched to a gear oil doped with Extreme Pressure (EP) additive, the pitting ceased, and new gears put into service would polish rather than pit.

The additives in oil are in limited amount and are gradually consumed as engine hours accumulate—one reason among many why regular oil changes are necessary.

Higher-ups at Escort recently stopped by our Newport Beach offices to meet with editors from Cycle World and Road & Track. Impetus was Escort's new Passport 9500i radar and laser detector, which includes GPS-derived speed and location among its many features. Company literature claims the 9500i is the “biggest breakthrough in radar and laser detection since 1978,” roll-out date for the original Escort radar detector.

One of the company's senior officers is a motorcyclist, with a pair of BMWs—a K1200S and a K1200LT—in his garage. So he appreciates the, ahem, capabilities of big, fast bikes. When I mentioned to him that the 9500i looks a bit too big and heavy for use on sportbikes, he noted that a two-wheel-specific product is part of the company's long-term plan.

While such a product may be months off, this particular individual is doing his part to make it a reality—actual R&D, in fact. His BMWs are hard-wired with a custom Passport SRX system. The modified automotive setup uses two small front-mounted laser transceivers (he doesn't use the rear-facing laser receiver), with the front radar and beam-redirecting laser “countermeasures” parts attached to a custom-made bracket under the oil cooler. The junction box and display module are hidden under the seat in a zip-lock bag (high-tech!). An amplified, gas-tank-top-mounted speaker has been fitted with a power-on LED and a mute button. A second laser-countermeasures system is installed below the rear license plate. For car use, he says, the system is certified to be 94 percent effective.

Installation sounds pretty involved—no amateur project. If it does make it to market, such a system would most likely be expensive, too; installed, the current car package retails for $1600. Justification, of course, is the very real likelihood of avoiding speeding tickets and, more importantly, the associated spike in personal insurance rates.

I'm a sucker for a good read, but I hate paying full price for anything. Luckily, with books you don't have to. Whenever I hit a bookstore, my first stop after the magazine racks (where I hide all the Motorcyclists and Riders, and move the Cycle Worlds to a prime location…) is at the bargain tables, where all kinds of treasures in print can be found, most for under 5 bucks—so many words, so little moolah. Most of my books on Harley-Davidsons come from the bargain tables, and if you're into touring, there's all kinds of inspiration out there just waiting to be read. Here are a few of my favorites:

Great Highways of the World: Already got your kicks on Route 66? Done California's Highway 1? Well, a few years back those merry mapmakers at Rand McNally in conjunction with England's Automobile Association, put together a wish list of 25 routes for the international road connoisseur, everything from A (the Appian Way out of Rome) to Z (Zell-am-See via Austria's spectacular Grossglockner Pass). Compiled by various authors, each chapter contains a map, great photography and tips for the traveler. Leafing through this book is bound to put your frequent-flyer miles in jeopardy—one day I will take my Dreer Norton along the Whisky Trail in Scotland.

Travels with Charley: There's no record of John Steinbeck ever owning a motorcycle, but toward the end of his career the Pulitzer- and Nobel Prize-winning writer crisscrossed the country in a pickup truck with camper shell, his faithful standard poodle Charley riding shotgun. Driven by a lifelong wanderlust he called the “virus of restlessness,” the author of Grapes of Wrath and Of Mice and Men covered 10,000 miles and 34 states in four months. “A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike,” he wrote. “It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness…we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.” In Travels with Charley in Search of America, a great American writer delivered a great American travelogue. This one rarely comes up on the bargain tables, so you may have to get it in paperback, or better yet visit the local used-book emporium and buy an old musty hardback version with some miles on it.

Monster Trucks & Hair-in-a-Can: What makes for a memorable motorcycle trip? Good roads, natch. Interesting waypoints, too. And the people you encounter along the route. Bill Geist, best known for his witty, humorous commentary on CBS television, has the latter covered. This 1994 collection of essays on particularly American characters finds fun in everybody from Bob Chandler, father of the car-crushing monster 4x4 “Bigfoot” to infomercial king Ron Popeil, he of the Pocket Fisherman, Veg-O-Matic and, yes, spray-on hair. And where else will you find an entire chapter devoted to Mary Hart's legs? “Suddenly, I was in the presence of…Them,” writes Geist of the TV host's famous gams. “And I began to sense why all those settlers in wagons gave their lives trying to get over the Rockies…” A good read.

Many of you I’m sure, work in positions where client lunches, dinners and entertainment are all considered part of doing business. Or perhaps you travel for work like we do here at Cycle World, literally, months out of the year. If so, you, like us, are well versed in the routine of filling out expense reports.

Not that any of us here would ever consider pushing the boundaries (eh-hem, cough) of what Mr. Edwards considers true business expenses, but sometimes it becomes muddled. Take for instance a recent trip that Off-Road Editor Ryan Dudek, staff photographer Jeff Allen and I took to Baja California, Mexico. After a day of flogging our new KTM 450 EXC testbike over 150 miles of pristine post-rain trails on the way to Mike’s Sky Ranch in the Arroyo San Rafael Mountains, we were worn out, sore and thirsty.

What better way to address the aches and pains of a nine-hour off-road adventure than cervezas. And in our case, free cervezas! You see, we were working, on the job, punched into the time clock. I know, I know, it doesn’t sound like work, and I’m sure I’ll get little sympathy for our version of “work” closely resembling a fun ride into Baja. Hey, someone’s gotta do it!

Upon checking out at Mike’s, Allen and I dutifully asked for receipts. Not something I’m sure the staff there gets asked on a regular basis. Between our horrible Spanish and her equally bad English, we were somehow finally handed two separate receipts, splitting the $300 expenses down the middle as requested. Upon my return, I pulled out the ticket only to discover one of the funniest itemizations I’d ever seen: 22 Cervezas $150!

Fortunately, the boss saw the humor in it; better yet, the boozy receipt made it through the bean-counters in New York with flying colors. Hey, we even have content—this very blog—to prove it was business!

We all have our moments of gracelessness, those split seconds when composure is lost and chaos ensues. My most unfortunate-and recent-moment happened on my second day on the job here at Cycle World. Finding my KTM 950 Adventure with a dead battery had me riding the large and powerful Yamaha FJR1300 long-term testbike home for the evening. It wasn't long into my ride before I experienced one of those moments, a particularly graceless one. In the blink of an eye-or should I say a blip of the throttle-I low-sided the bike. Shortly afterwards I was peeling myself, the FJR and various parts off the pavement, wondering what went wrong.

I've been hired on as the new Web Producer here at Cycle World, which means I'll be spending my time lurking in the background of this website making it as pleasing to the eye as possible, as well as contributing to the forums and keeping Gabe honest. I was brought on board just a few short years after graduating from the University of Idaho, and my professional experience ranges from working at motorcycle dealerships, slaving away at advertising agencies, and some time spent with a little sugar-water company called Red Bull. In my most recent gig I was the marketing and new-media coordinator at Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca. I survived two MotoGPs and as many car races there, so I'm now looking forward to being a spectator at the historic racetrack instead of a workhorse.

I have a serious passion for design, marketing and the way the web is changing the world we live in. I'm also very serious about motorcycles; a quick peek into my garage will show you a handful of bikes in various conditions ranging from a Kawasaki KX450F motocrosser to a track-day Yamaha R6. I've ridden in everything from the Minimoto National in Las Vegas to rainy track-days in the Pacific Northwest.

If you haven't had a crash lately-or ever-pray to the Moto Gods that they spare you from this unfortunate plight. If you have had a recent get-off, be thankful it wasn't your second day on the job at Cycle World!

I’m a bad uncle. I’ve only been out to a couple of my 11-year-old nephew Nathan Cernicky’s motocross races, and he’s done a lot of them. Over the last couple years, Nathan — along with my brother Glenn and his wife Kim — has been making a name for himself. Nathan races in San Diego one weekend and San Bernardino the next, putting in lots of laps, taking home some trophies and having a good time along. “He gets the holeshot in a lot of races, he just won’t let off until the other kids do. It’s awesome!” says Glenn through a large grin.

From June to September Perris Raceway hosts a 10-round series called Hot Summer Nights. Nathan kicked some sweaty summer butt in both his 65cc age bracket and 85cc Beginner, even after breaking his tailbone in the second-to-last race of the series.

When I asked him how far he wants to go with his racing, Nathan says he just wants to ride faster and have fun. He’s turned out to be a really cool kid (wasn’t too sure at first) who tries as hard in school as he does on the racetrack. I’m proud to say, “Hey, number 381 is my nephew.”

The problem was that Phil Schilling, Cycle magazine’s one-time Managing Editor, Executive Editor and Editor, was having a bit of a problem seeing New Blue with his own two eyes. He couldn’t make the NCR Ducati’s January NYC debut because of a niggling health problem, and the same thing had kept him away from Barber Motorsports Park in late February and Daytona in March for CW’s cover story on the bike. “Okay,” said Ducati’s Nick McCabe and NCR’s Joe Ippoliti, “we’ll just have to bring the bike out to Phil.”

Enter Mark Homchick and John Stein, two former (I guess we’re all FORMER) Cycle staffers, and Dr. Glen Freudenberger, a great friend of the magazine’s and one of its best photographers.

The plan: With the cooperation of New Blue’s owner, the bike was shipped from Daytona to Trevor Dunne’s Ducati dealership in Santa Barbara, where it was sequestered and kept under wraps. Meanwhile, Homchick and Stein rounded up some 35-odd other Cycle staffers for a surprise reunion, and Doc Freudenberger had special commemorative T-shirts and stickers made up.

The plot: The bike would be lurking in the neighborhood but out of sight. Phil and his wife Allyn (she was in on the conspiracy; Phil knew nothing) would be partaking of a quiet Saturday lunch. A signal would be sent to fire up New Blue.

Guess what? That’s exactly how it all worked out. People told me it was a day they’ll never forget. I won’t either.

Who is crazy enough to want to do this? Plenty of people, it turns out. These people are usually colorful, independent and ride very fast. People like San Francisco’s Wade Boyd, a 51-year-old fine-print curator, who has raced the TT every year since 1992. He loves going to the Isle, and his large circle of friends raise money to help pay the $30-40,000 it takes to pay for bikes, parts, fuel, crew, food, beer, bandages and other racing expenses each year.

That’s why I was saddened by the news that the TT’s organizers, swamped by entries for the much-anticipated centenary event, rejected his entry — along with seven other veteran TT racers—for all of the classes he entered. No room at the inn, they say, there are only 85 grid positions, and they have to select entrants based on past performance. Wade told me he thinks the race organizers are interested in promoting the “Silver Spoon Gang”; factory teams and wealthy privateers that promise a glitzy show for the race fans. But is it fair that Wade—and racers like him—who have raced IoM for almost 15 years, putting on a great show for spectators, be excluded and told by race organizers to just “come back next year”?

If you want to support the TT being a unique event with an independent flavor and think Wade should be allowed to strut his stuff, stretch your fingers a bit and tell some of the authorities why you think he should be permitted to race this year. Today Boyd and his teammates are sending in an official appeal, complete with a 1000-signature petition with names of race fans from all over the world. He’s going anyway; even if his appeal is ignored he’ll still try to somehow get into the event. If that fails, then what?

For more information, (and to sign a web-based petition) go to Wade Boyd’s website: www.wadeboyd.com

“Hiyo-sung?” said the other motojournalist at the swanky hotel bar when I told him my impressions of Hyosung's GT650R sportbike. “I don't mess about with that Chinese s**t!”

That was just last winter, and it wasn't the first time I'd heard prejudicial, misinformed opinions about Hyosung (say “yo-sung”). It's unfortunate that this South Korean manufacturer is attempting to get a foothold in the North American market at the same time as swarms of distributors of mainland-Chinese manufacturers-many of whom are fly-by-night peddlers of poorly made rolling junk-are making a quick buck dumping cheap scooters, motorcycles and ATVs on consumers looking for bargains. But this brand is different.

Hyosung Motors and Machinery, Inc. has been building motorcycles (as well as components for other manufacturers) since 1978, and exporting them to various overseas markets for almost as long. With a production capacity of more than 200,000 units annually (more than double BMW's) and their own R&D facilities, they are well-equipped to swim in the deep end of the swimming pool of global commerce.

Hyosung isn't a particularly sexy-sounding name, and with a history of making utilitarian Suzuki scooter clones and no pedigree, they needed a solid way to enter this market. They did it in 2004 (after testing the Australian market for a few years) by focusing on the low end of the streetbike market, with a 650cc V-Twin sportbike and a 250cc V-Twin cruiser and sportbike, along with some scooters and quads, all priced significantly less than their Japanese counterparts. The designs of the GT650 Comet standard and GT650R sportbike motor and chassis look a lot like a Suzuki SV650's. A little reverse-engineering?

For 2007, Hyosung has greatly expanded its dealer network and added a powerful, good-handling middleweight cruiser, the 650 Avitar (yes, it's spelled wrong-the “i” should be an “a”-something got lost in translation). This model (lead photo) looks nothing like a Suzuki, despite using the same 90-degree V-Twin motor as the GT650. But it does look a lot like a Harley-Davidson V-Rod.

I've had the opportunity to ride some of these bikes, and they show a lot of potential-and more than a few flaws. The 650 motor is powerful and durable, but also buzzy and crude. Handling is good, but the heavy steel frame, cheap suspension and underpowered brakes hold them back. The build quality of these models is...different. Not bad, but very industrial, with a lot of cheesy touches that make me think they didn't really know the U.S. market very well when they designed these bikes. After a riding impression, the Comet felt like a crude SV650 that was 50 pounds heavier and only $1000 less than the Suzuki; not my favorite bike. However, a few days on an Avitar impressed me; compared to Japanese middleweight cruisers it's surprisingly fast, agile and fun.

The Avitar shows that Hyosung is concerned with what American riders want, according to Hyosung Motors America's PR man Ron Lutrell. “They're not like an Italian manufacturer who'll say 'You shut up and take what we send you'... they respond to the demands and needs of the U.S. market.” For example, Hyosung showed its dealers a 125cc supermoto bike but they were unimpressed, asking for supermoto and dual-sport models with Hyosung's new 450cc ATV motor. Hyosung said okay; expect such bikes in 2008. They have also listened to criticism that Hyosung's models are too similar to Suzuki's and will be bringing out a 1200cc V-Twin for 2008 rather than an SV1000-like 1000, first in a cruiser, then in a standard and sportbike guises. And the trellis-and-aluminum frame on their GT650X concept (which will be coming as a 2008 model) promises better handling and less weight than the old GT650 in addition to sexy, original looks.

Where does Hyosung want to be in five years? “We want to be the number six brand sold, a viable alternative to the Japanese products,” said Luttrell. I don't think that's idle speculation or PR puffery. With an increasingly interesting product mix, an emerging company identity, value pricing and a growing dealer network, how long before the Japanese manufacturers find themselves fighting a new competitor for U.S. market share? Heck, even the most jaded motojourno might be enthusiastic about Chongwon City's upcoming offerings.

We all have our weaknesses, and one of mine is finned aluminum. Nothing dresses up an engine better than a piece of polished alloy festooned with ribs. It's a look carried over from aviation that harks back to the first postwar hot-rods—the intent being that this motor is so hopped up, making so much power, that extraordinary lengths have to be taken to cool it down before the evil thing spontaneously combusts.

My lust for all'y is cruelly fed by eBay, that Internet Swapmeet designed solely to separate me from any disposable income. Says Peggy as I sit bug-eyed at the keyboard, “Are you on eBay again?! Why can't you just view porn like most other guys? It'd be cheaper…”

She's right, of course. Type “Webco” for instance into the search engine and all kinds of tidbits are revealed. Float chambers, oil galleries, rocker covers, twin-carb manifolds, ignition covers, Hodaka gas caps (?), all rendered in sandcast glory by the 1960s aftermarket giant. The really rare stuff takes some digging. So far, my biggest score has been a set of BSA A10 rocker covers and engine-mount plates by Taylor-Dow, the defunct British café-racer supplier, found on a troll of ebaymotors.uk—yes, advanced eBaying!

Last week, though, I clicked onto a stateside auction for a set of Norton finned rocker covers that immediately sent me to the Buy It Now button. These are brand-new, beautifully crafted, highly polished pieces (one central intake, two exhausts) with twice the finning of any Webco or T-D item. That's because they're made using investment-mold (or lost-wax) casting, a technique used for jewelry and artwork. Next weekend they'll be on my Dreer 880 Commando.

The backstory is that Ed Bilton-Smith, a roadracer in his youth and now a retired tool and die maker, is building a 500cc Norton for Bonneville. When he showed the mocked-up motor, complete with custom finned covers, to Norton club members, he was besieged with requests for replicas of the covers. Instant Salt Flat Fund! “There will only be a limited production and after this run is finished, they may not be offered again,” he warned—which, of course, sucked me right in.

Beaming with pride, I rolled my Wood-framed Honda CRF450 flat-tracker down the ramp, turned on the fuel, set the choke and kicked. And kicked and kicked and kicked until I couldn't kick anymore.

I rolled the bike to Craig's truck. Craig is a pro, owns a modified CRF and has lots of experience. He kicked and kicked and kicked. Nothing, so then he said, “Of course you drained the carb after you rode it last.”

But I pushed the CRF back to my truck, removed the float-bowl nut, drained the fuel, put the nut back, kicked…and it fired up. Popped for a lap or two, then worked fine.

Why all this? I have several motorcycles in my barn, four Hondas and three Harleys, some late-model and a couple of antiques, 883 to 75cc. Due to living a mostly-normal life, some of my bikes get ridden every day or so, a couple sit between races or special events and the smallest doesn't run for months, while I wait for the newest grandkids to get old enough to ride.

The fuels are regular or high test, or high test plus premix, all from the pump. Neither grade nor mix seems to make a difference: Six engines will start after sitting, one won't…and the one that won't is the newest and most technically advanced.

Several pit kibitzers mentioned stale gas. Nonsense. The tiny jets in an intricate carburetor can clog if left for months. I've learned that. But even then the engine will fire even if it won't idle, and anyway, how could gas go stale after a week in one carb and not go stale after a month in another?

Time for science. I drained the CRF's carb, let it refill with gas fresh from the tank, set the choke and kicked. Five prods and varoommm, it fired up. Clever Honda adds a fast idle to the enrichener, by the way, so it will warm itself at a fast idle and all you have to do is keep yo hands to yo'self (old country and western song, sorry). Then I rode it a couple miles, which I can do 'cause I live so deep in the country that the neighborhood bears still speak Spanish, and I parked it with the carb full but taps turned off.

One week later I turned the taps on, set the choke…six kicks. Fired right up, ran perfectly, no valid statistical difference between full carb and empty carb. Science says I'd fallen for one of those urban myths, like the alligators in the sewer. Except before I put the bike away, I shut the taps off and ran it half a mile or so, using up the fuel.

Recently the AMA decided to retire arguably motocross' greatest-ever rider's number. That would be the #4 of the G.O.A.T. (Greatest of all Time) Ricky Carmichael, who was racing in his final supercross at the Citrus Bowl in Orlando, Florida. Sounds great and sounds like an honor, until you read the fine print. The AMA in all of its wisdom has decided to retire the number only until 2011, a symbolic four years. Huh?!

What would happen if the Denver Broncos told their fans that they retired the number #7 of John Elway, but only for seven years? They'd burn the city down; you'd have a mile-high inferno. What if the Chicago Bulls told its fans that Jordan's #23 was going to get ripped out of the rafters for use by some rookie, or if the Edmonton Oilers let Wayne Gretzky's #99 back onto the ice?

Supercross and motocross fill stadiums and venues around the country and yet somehow the AMA still doesn't get who's boss. They've yet to grasp the concept that without riders like Carmichael, McGrath, Ward, Stanton, Hannah and so on the sport would be nothing. Retiring Ricky's number for only a few short years is not good enough.

Motorcycle racing in the United States will never have the same status as, say, MotoGP in Europe or NASCAR right here on our side of the pond. Not if the AMA doesn't acknowledge that the riders out there risking their lives for the fans are the single-most important piece of the puzzle. Without them you'd have nothing. The AMA really needs to take a hard look at how the other sporting organizations in this country treat their athletes. There's a reason that the NFL, NBA, MLB, NHL and even NASCAR are as huge as they are, and it's about time the athletes in our sport get the respect that they've earned and deserve. Retire that number 4, forever.

The core of the problem here is that it is so easy to imagine a thousand wonderful futures stemming from countless meaningful pasts. “Here” in this case is in the seat of a 1969 Honda Trail 90. There is no reason for me to own this motorcycle, except for the fact that it seems to represent some golden ideal, to be a slice of a magic time. It is the same year as my recently acquired Ford pickup, and there was a simple poetry in going to pick up the 90 in an old F-250.

It is only a little ironic that I even bought the 90. I was trying to be good by selling off an old Jaguar sedan I've owned and loved for nearly 10 years (its older replacement's restoration is nearing completion). I posted a listing on the web and, hey, as long as I was there I might as well browse through the motorcycles for sale.

This fly-yellow 90 with black-and-yellow California license plate was listed by the son of the original owner. He was in his 60s, and his mom had used the bike to cruise the neighborhood and go to the market in the desert area where she lived. She was said to have ridden the bike into her 70s. So even though the bike was drooling oil from the cam-chain tunnel, needed tires and was much too difficult to start for a little old Honda, the very fact of the bike's overall level of preservation made it irresistible to me. Just as important was the direct line of history. Now, “little old lady to the market” doesn't quite have the same provenancial ring as “raced by Hailwood at the TT,” but it nonetheless gives to me a direct connection with a real past, a time when a lady of the desert went into the Honda dealer in Palmdale (Larry Lilley license frame intact!) and purchased new this cute little scooter for running errands.

I'm still not quite clear why this latter point matters so much to me. Sometimes I think I am grasping for a simplicity and greater happiness of earlier times, even though I am aware that these times may not actually have existed as I imagine them. At least there is always the pleasure of riding mechanical artifacts such as this one.

Apologies to all the aging Ton Up Boys in the audience, but many café-racers back in the day were a right mess. Built on a budget, often in the garden shed, they aspired to greatness but often fell short.

Well, here's one that hits all the right notes, constructed a quarter-century after the infamous burn-ups that started at London's Ace Café. “No expense spared,” claims the Canadian owner of this 1966 Norton Atlas 750 special currently for sale on eBay. And isn't it nice to see a proper Norton Twin filling the space in the Featherbed frame's engine bay rather than a Triumph 650 as seen in most Tritons? This one's all-Norton.

It's been tastefully and usefully upgraded, though. That's a later Commando fork up front, fitted with magnesium racing Lockheed brake caliper. Major bonus points. Add s'more for the modern(ish) pair of 32mm Amal Mk. IIs.

Other tastiness: Lyta “short-circuit” alloy gas tank, finished in red with neat lettering and pinstripes, held in place with a drilled aluminum strap. Sweptbacks and short meggas look the dog's bollocks (a little Limey lingo). All fasteners are stainless-steel, as are the fenders. Finished in 1993, the bike has approximately 6000 miles showing, which means it's a fully sorted rider. I'm always amused when an owner lists “Zero miles since restoration” as a selling point. Great, now I have to chase down the oil leaks, dial-in the carbs, retighten renegade nuts, etc.

“It weeps some oil out of the primary case, but is otherwise oil-tight,” the owner of this Atlas divulges. “Starts first kick (usually), handles and stops as you would expect from a Featherbed frame/disc brake classic. Acceleration from 4500 rpm is exhilarating. This is a very fast and capable motorcycle, geared for 130 mph and clocked at over 120.”

See more pictures or make a bid—c'mon, you know you want to. The auction lasts 'til April 12 and the bike is currently bid up to $5600. Cheap at twice the price.

On April 7, 2007, tattoo artist Monica Henk was hit by a black SUV at the corner of Kent and Flushing in Brooklyn, New York, while riding her motorcycle. She was only twenty-six. Her birthday was May 17.

Artist. Singer. Model. Dancer. Vixen. Taurus. Bohemian. Free spirit. Monica was no girl next door and no blank canvas.

She loved art, guns, Afro-Cuban rhythm, loud guitars and sushi. Frank Frazetta and H.P. Lovecraft. Movies but not TV.

“Love isn’t for cowards…love the life you live and live the life you love,” her website reveals. “If you like to get tattooed or even talk about an idea come and see me,” it offers.

The reward has quickly grown to more than $20,000 for the capture of the driver of the ’95-97 black Chevy S-10 Blazer that killed her. If you have any information regarding this hit-and-run, call New York State Crimestoppers at 800/577-TIPS.

CW reader Josh Gonen was one of ten recipients of free passes to the AMA races at Infineon Raceway in Sonoma, California the weekend of May 18-20. We sent him the tickets under one condition; that he take plenty of photos to share with our CW.com readers. Here’s his report in words and pictures:

Infineon Raceway has become quite a world-class facility in the past few years. These people have spent a lot of money and effort to bring this facility up to the same caliber as Laguna or Barber. And they’re still at it. Well, I’m here to tell you that Laguna Seca has nothing on Infineon Raceway. But for some reason this place still doesn’t draw quite as many people on race day as Laguna. Great! Easier access for us; spectators at Infineon can pretty much walk right up to the team garage on race day to see the bikes being prepared and their favorite riders getting ready, and the weather could not have been any better for the riders—or the spectators.

The best race of the weekend by far was the Supersport event on Sunday. Unfortunately, everyone was robbed of an epic last lap by a red flag. Current champ Hacking (now riding a Kawasaki ZX-6R), his teammate Little Roger Hayden, and Josh Hayes (Formula Xtreme champ) swapped the lead every lap until the race was prematurely stopped.

All in all, the AMA event at Infineon this year was enjoyed by all (except maybe Spies, who finished second twice in Superbike). Live bands were playing in the paddock throughout the weekend, pretty girls walked around in bikinis and stunt riders entertained everyone between the races. Moreover, everyone enjoyed the easy access to the facility, riders and equipment, as well as all the good spots from which to view the racing.

Unfortunately, no, it was just me crouching down behind my broken clothes dryer, in what turned out to be a successful attempt at repair. Initially, the fix only cost me $17 and seemed like a bargain because the dryer worked great. But my knee did not. I tried to ignore it, but the more activity I undertook, the worse it got, until I couldn’t stand it (walk it?) anymore. The doctor went in and tidied the knee up just fine, but everybody I see asks the same question: What did you crash?

Well, there I was, see, on a record lap at the Isle of Man…

Having recently returned from the big Legend of the Motorcycle Concours, where quite frankly I think street specials were given short shrift, lumped in with the competition machines (I’m lobbying for a change), I was happy to get this photo of a tastefully non-stock BSA in the mail. Reader Jim Walter had seen the recent story on my own Beezer, a bob-job 1954 Gold Star.

“It reminded me of a similar bike I owned during my high school years,” he wrote. “I got it new in 1950, a Model B34 called an Alloy Clipper. It was a sort of dirtbike at the time. It came from the factory with a re-tuned alloy engine, upswept exhaust, 2.75 x 21-inch front tire and a 4.00 x 19 on the rear. I replaced the tank with one from a BSA Bantam, added a smaller headlight and racing pillion pad, and bobbed the rear fender.”

Jim put the plunger-frame 500 Single to good use, too, and not just around town.

“The picture was taken in 1952 in Janesville, Wisconsin. I rode this bike from Janesville to Fort McClellan, Alabama—about 750 miles—and back while in the service in ’53. Thought you might enjoy this shot from the past.”

Immensely, Jim. To me it’s further proof that while 100-point stock motorcycles look good in museums and on the concours field, it’s bikes like yours that are the real history on motorcycling in America. Thanks for sharing.

Only on rare occasions do the mutterings of online motorcycle forums actually amount to more than bench racing, silly conversation and the occasional laugh. I’ve spent many an idle hour typing away about a particular rider, bike or race—only to find myself logging out wondering if I’ll ever get that hour of my life back.

However, last month the power brokers of one particular motorcycle forum put their collective moto-brains together to create something truly remarkable. The members of Mototalk on Motonews, led by a notorious and hilarious writer named Rupert Pellet, put the two-stroke dirtbike back on the map. In true Rupert form, he opened a thread essentially offering five American dollars to the first man, woman or child to qualify and compete in the main event of an AMP’d Mobile AMA Supercross Series race on an old, “obsolete” two-stroke.

Premix fanatics of the board began to salivate, seat-bouncing out of their chairs in McGrath form (circa 1990s, of course), and whipping their wallets out to contribute to the kitty. Soon this Supercross pot of gold reached the $3000 mark, thanks to the donations of what seemed like an endless supply of two-smoke fans.

Privateers catching wind of this opportunity scrambled for their ratio rites and long-forgotten two-strokers. First to the plate was privateer Scott Metz, giving his best aboard a Suzuki RM250 in Georgia, only to end up 41st fastest in the qualifying rounds, out of the show. Soon after, Cernic’s Racing’s Eric Sorby prepared to make a smokey presence at a night show, although failure to locate a suitable rear shock for a Kawasaki he borrowed from James Stewart foiled this attempt.

The AMA’s displacement rules allow a two-stroke competing in the Lites class to have a maximum capacity of 144cc. Acknowledging the veritable wealth of two-stroke parts KTM had lying around, the Orange Men decided to put together an effort to bag the prize money. Racing Director Kurt Nicoll and the rest of the KTM squad were rumored to have really enjoyed digging up the old parts for Michael Willard’s attempt in the Seattle Supercross.

Willard rode strong all day in Seattle, slipping easily into the main event, and crossed the line in 15th place once the checkers flew. This effort—sponsored by an active online community and executed by a hard-working group of individuals—paid tribute to the kind of motorcycles many of us grew up racing.

When the series came to a close in Las Vegas, Willard was presented with a $3200 check for his efforts. As for an official Two-Stroke Challenge, part deux, it is still up to the collective conscious of Motonews. If Rupert and his band of cronies decide to put together another challenge, they can officially put me down for $5.

In February, Assistant Art Director Keith May picked up a groovy little 1972 Honda XL250 for a song. We got so much reader feedback we decided to check back in with the happy couple.

Trust established and camera in backpack, the XL250 and I head north Sunday morning on Highway 1 in search of coastal backdrops. Newport Beach. Huntington Beach. Sunset Beach. Seal Beach. The speedo shows 70 through the wetlands of Bolsa Chica, but vibration rattling my vision convinces me to slow down. Boy racers curiously shadow us before disappearing into the distance. The Honda’s silhouette is an icon for childhoods revisited, and she continuously receives nods from sportbikers and cruiser riders alike.

When an errant fuel line forces a stop on the shoulder, an old landscaper approaches curiously. “Nice bike. Ever get it dirty? Used to ride myself, but not an enduro. I woulda broken the lights off,” he reflected, pushing his wheelbarrow away. He was probably my age when this bike was new. Things were a lot different in 1972.

“Maybe you should start a club,” Editor Edwards mused when the letters began rolling in. Some sample comments:

“It’s good to know I’m not the only one who likes simple, fun, practical, good old bikes from yesterday…”

“Everything you discovered is true; it’s a simple, reliable, inexpensive bike to own and a ton of fun...”

“The Honda 250 Motosport will always be a special bike in my book. The styling still looks good today. I call it a classic…”

I began convincing myself the Honda was a collector’s item. Dreaming of possibilities, we visited Boris at California Cycle and Watercraft Design for a paint job estimate. A well-regarded craftsman, Boris comes highly recommended. “If you’re looking to get your money back, you won’t,” he said plainly. “It’s a good-looking bike, though. Nice commuter?”

The website posting was brief and brutal: Ken Barrow, racing in the vintage meet at Tulare, California, high-sided in Turn 2, came down hard and was put on life support. My first reaction was shock and dismay, followed by the urge to not tell my wife, followed by realizing that I had to tell her. This is a secret we had to share. Start with a universal truth, that everything that lives…must die. Part of the deal, no getting around it.

Closer to home, I once quipped to my usual circle that we seem to see each other only at weddings and wakes, and that every year there are fewer weddings and more wakes—Ron Griewe, Don Vesco, Ken Maely, Roy Burris… A guy in my vintage flat-track class died of a heart attack, and at the meeting where Ken went down, another racer won his class and suffered a stroke in the pits. The next day in the paper, I read that a 10-year-old, a member of the Hayden racing clan, was killed at the track. This is part of life, see philosophical statement in the previous paragraph.

Last season we picnicked at the night races. My whole clan and Ken, whose family lives back East, shared supper. He was the particular hero of my granddaughter Kalista, aged 6 at the time, because Ken contributed blue Gatorade. Too cool.

So? It’s one thing to read about tragedy in the paper, or to lose a friend to age or illness. It’s another thing…well, two races ago my wife was in the stands, camcorder in action, when another rider low-sided next to me in Turn 3 and my bike jumped the hurdles, came down sideways, lock to lock. I stayed on, by luck and not by skill, and she saw the whole thing.

We’re not talking statistics here, or fate. We’re talking a friend, a better rider than me, who runs the same tracks and same class.

A couple of months ago, at practice, Ken was working on his two-stroke, for the shorter tracks, when there was a shout and he was engulfed in flames. The carb needle had stuck and flooding fuel spilled and ignited. He jumped off, onlookers jumped in and hauled the bike to the water truck. Reuben Malaguarnera had the courage to yank open the valve and the fire was out, no harm done. We found the grit that stuck the valve, patched the wiring and Ken’s bike was back running by the end of the day…except from that day on, I called him “Fireball.”

From where I sit, I can see a trophy labeled Second Place. That day, Ken was First. He’d raced Pro when younger and I was always pumped if I could keep him in sight. That’s him, #68, in the lead photo, working the outside line at Willow. Two weeks ago, Ken and I were talking after practice and he mentioned borrowing some parts, years ago when he was a kid, from a man who’d packed up and left before Ken could give the parts back. Ken telephoned the AMA and asked for the loaner’s number. Sorry, he was told, we can’t give out that information. Ken wouldn’t accept that and kept talking until the other party put him on hold, looked up the number, swore Ken to secrecy and told him how to find the other guy. Ken called and was told, “Heck, kid, thanks for the effort, keep the parts.”

“And there I was,” Ken told me, “in my mom’s kitchen, running up the long-distance bill.”

That’s the man Ken Barrow was, and I use past tense here because the doctors held out no hope for recovery and the family believed that keeping him alive artificially made no sense, nor would it be what Ken wanted, so the plug was pulled.

What this means to me is, my wife’s birthday is on the 1st. My daughter-in-law has pointed out that if we want people at the party, we’d better have it on Saturday the 2nd. Okay, I said, and soon as I did, the club moved our next race from Sunday the 3rd to Saturday night. Summer came early this year.

Sorry to miss it, I’m maybe third in class points. But I have a prior commitment.

I was losing my mind after a week of sitting still. Knee surgery rendered me gimpy and limpy, but after seven days of elevation and ice, I had to drop the leg on the ground and hobble out to my hobby shop. Inside was still parked the Trail 90 I recently picked up. Oil had been leaking since the day I bought it (and before then, in fact, judging from the mung) and I figured the 20 minutes it would take to pull the head and replace the cam-chain tunnel seal would be better for the mind than it would be hard on the knee. Plus, I have an old office chair that allows me to roll freely around the garage, using my good leg as motive force.

A few weeks ago, I’d finally sorted out tuning and got a little road trip in (8 miles). My initial experience with the little yellow motorcycle had been positive, and while starting was easy and power decent, I’d had nothing to compare this 89cc machine with in my recent riding history, so I really didn’t know how it should sound or how it should run. But as I motored down the road at a friendly 40 mph, I heard the sound of a rattling piston for the first time.

I rode home and tried to ignore it. I knew I was going to be laid up for a while and couldn’t ride the bike. Perhaps it would heal in the meantime. The sound it made was a little misleading because the engine parts are so small–it doesn’t have the same deadly rattle as, say, a 500cc Velocette’s 86mm slug. It’s such a little sound in the 90 that it surely couldn’t be catastrophic, could it?

So there I was with the aluminum head in my hands, looking at the cylinder and knowing that if I took it off, I wouldn’t be scooting around on the 90 anytime soon. But there I was, there, so I gave it a tap and removed it. I’ve never seen so many scuffs. Okay. Parts are scrubbed a bit. Cam looks good. Piston is standard and says HONDA on the side under the pin. Bore measured with my caveman tools 1.969 inches, while the piston 3/8-inch from the bottom of the skirt was 1.957. Fairly distant numbers, especially for such a small bore, leading to that cute little rattle.

Powroll in Oregon makes a high-compression 11.5:1 piston that increases displacement to 104cc on bore alone. They would like to get $269 for it. Then I have to machine the cylinder and get all the seals and gaskets. So I went with an oversize “normal” piston from Champion Motorcycles, our local Honda shop, and will use my friends at Q&E Machine who have thus far successfully provided holes to fit Triumph and Velocette pistons.

It occurs to me after writing that sentence that I am a bad judge of machinery. I am not mentioning the ’66 Jaguar Mk. 2, which had some piston troubles, nor the ’73 Yamaha RD350 and its mechanisms of injury. If I think on these things too long, I am going to have to fire myself as purchasing agent in the Business of Mark. But as long as I still have the job, I’m having fun fixing things.

I’ve always wondered what the big deal was about Confederate, the (now) Alabama-based maker of high-end, fashion-forward motorcycles. After all, in 16 years they’ve only put 500-600 motorcycles on the road (the uncertainty is because factory records were destroyed in 2005 by Hurricane Katrina), yet for some reason they receive media coverage way out of proportion to their production numbers. A quick look at the press section on their newly redesigned website [www.confederate.com] reveals dozens of large articles in numerous magazines from all over the globe. For a company that builds such a small number of machines, there’s a large and active in-house PR department busily getting the message out about what are admittedly some beautiful, innovative and exciting products. Why would the company devote so much of its resources to publicity when it already has a waiting list for the few dozen machines they painstakingly build each annum?

I decided to get an answer straight from Confederate. Matt Chambers is the lawyer-turned-bikemaker who used his cut from a large police-brutality lawsuit settlement to found Confederate in 1991. The fledgling company has had a rocky path, with limited production, a restructuring in 2000 and then the destruction of the New Orleans headquarters in ’05 by Katrina. I called him up to find out just what he thinks he’s doing.

I discovered that Chambers doesn’t want to flood (sorry) the highways with his interestingly styled motorcycles. Instead, he “would like to have an influence” on the motorcycle industry by pushing designers at other companies to use more radical and exciting ideas in their finished products. And he says it’s working; for instance, he holds that Harley’s new Nightster has a similarity to his Hellcats. He also claims he’s building a bike for Honda R&D.

His motorcycles are “not meant to be mainstream,” he says. Instead, they are intended as handmade luxury items, limited-edition works of rolling art like Aston-Martin or Rolls-Royce automobiles. There is no dealer network, either; all sales, parts and technical support is done from the Birmingham, Alabama, factory. Even with prices starting around $55,000, it’s clear nobody will become rich selling these bikes in such low volume.

It’s equally clear to me that Chambers wants to make his mark on the world not by being a motorcycle-building magnate, but as a trend-maker who can command the attention of an entire industry by not just dreaming, but by actually building mold-breaking machines. So I guess I can put up with a few more Confederates on covers, if it means motorcycle design is pushed away from stodgy, lowest-common-denominator styling and engineering.

Gets pretty slow around CW offices for the art department between monthly issue deadlines. Fighting fires for a solid week only to spend the other three staring at a lonely inbox. While editors are out testing, I check e-mail, surf the Internet, stare out the window and submit blog entries and polls for this website. But when a friend loaned me a copy of the made-for-television documentary “Long Way Round” the other day, I spent seven hours watching that instead. It’s the story of movie stars Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman’s epic motorcycle trip across Europe, Asia and North America in 2004.

If I was loafing, the “Long Way Round” guys were not. After months of training, instruction and marketing hype, what began for these two thespians as a boyhood dream soon becomes a larger-than-life production, documented every mile of the way, warts and all. Support crews wait at borders to grease authorities but otherwise the lads are on their own. As long as they meet PR commitments along the way, an unfortunate necessity when leveraging star-power.

It’s hard to travel light on a 20,000-mile adventure. Especially your first time. The two BMW R1150GS (three if we count the cinematographer’s) adventure-bikes are stout but overloaded with every item and luxury imaginable. Bikes groaning under a mountain of sponsors’ free gear, catastrophe appears imminent. When you’re an admitted fancy-boy like McGregor, it’s hard to leave the hair gel at home. Can he prove to us (and himself) that he’s more than a pretty face?

A more experienced rider, best mate Boorman assumes leadership early on, setting a fine example for young Obi Wan. Picking him up, cheering him on, pushing him forward. Hitting rock bottom in a bog on the Road of Bones, the lads finally begin ejecting cargo. Wearing thousand-mile stares and numb with exhaustion, vanity stripped away, it’s a moment many of us can relate to. The pivotal moment in any great moto-adventure is when the rider lets go of preconceptions to begin sharing responsibilities with fate, blissfully throwing himself into the unknown. With a second wind and drunk with liberation, the boys finally settle into the journey they originally had in mind. Relishing hardship and immersing themselves in local culture, they prove their mettle and find freedom at last. Compelling stuff.

Both men are professional actors and exhibitionists by nature, but often seem too aware of the camera. It’s like asking a dog not to lick itself, but ease with a spotlight is necessary for a good storyteller and humor becomes them. Even at the worst of times, their chins remain jauntily forward.

A tastefully integrated soundtrack courtesy of Coldplay, Blur, Stereophonic and others compliments deft camerawork by third man Claudio. Radio communications between Ewan and Charley are a useful addition to helmet-cam footage.

Boorman and McGregor are about to embark on another ride, this time from the top of Scotland to the bottom of South Africa. They will be releasing the video chronicle of that trip, “Long Way Down,” in September, assuring me (and many of you) of future loafing aids.

Don’t hate these lads for having the cash to live out their dreams in high style. Applaud them for having the imagination to do so.

Some meals, like many things in life, are more memorable than others. Do you recall the cheeseburger that you rammed down your gullet yesterday while sprinting through an airport? What about the bag of chips that disappeared during last weekend’s AMA Superbike TV broadcast? Me, neither.

Suffice it to say, I will remember my recent visit to the award-winning, Ted Balestreri and Bert Cutino-owned Sardine Factory located on Cannery Row in Monterey, California. In the seaside town made famous by John Steinbeck for the launch of the 2008 KLR650, I, along with a dozen other members of the moto-press, was the guest of Kawasaki at this famous eatery.

We had the good fortune to dine in the private-party-only Wine Cellar, which is located in the lower reaches of the restaurant and decorated with antiques and artwork in the styles of Napoleon III, Queen Victoria and Louis XIV. Centerpiece of the room is a 25-foot table (hewn from a single slab of Big Sur redwood!), which runs parallel to the wrought-iron-gated wine “catacombs.” According to white-gloved Cellar Master Giovanni Sercia, a 32-year-employee, more than 30,000 bottles of wine, including an 1870 Chateau Lafitte Rothschild Pauillac priced at $10,000, are stored there—under lock and key, of course.

Crab ravioli with truffle cream sauce
Salad of Endive, Hearts of Palm with goat cheese and red wine

Choice of entrée:
1) Poached halibut with prawns, Manila clams, herb risotto and tomato nage
2) Grilled USDA prime ribeye steak
3) Seared duck breast with raspberry demi glaze, basil polenta and sautéed vegetables

What an experience! We even had the pleasure of meeting the man responsible for that excellent cuisine, Executive Chef Jacques Wilson. I suggest you make reservations for July’s USGP weekend now. You won’t be disappointed…especially if someone else pays the tab.

If you live in Orange County, California, how would you like to ride dirtbikes inside a historic blimp hanger right in the heart of the O.C.?

Hanger 29—18 stories high and big enough to hold six Goodyear-sized blimps—was built in Tustin in 1942 to house U.S. Navy blimps used to patrol the West Coast during World War II. It’s one of the largest wooden structures in the world. In 1969 the entire 1600-acre facility became Marine Corps Air Station, Tustin, a helicopter airfield (the U.S. Navy stopped using blimps in 1962). As a result of base-closure programs initiated in the early 1990s, though, the Corps moved its helicopter facilities and closed the base in 1999, ending 57 years of service.

The City of Tustin took on the task of redeveloping the land for residential, public and commercial use, and the work is proceeding at a rapid pace. Although Hangar 29 a registered historic landmark, there is a provision that allows the city to demolish it if there is no economically viable proposal to utilize the facility. What can you do with such a huge building? Enter Lance Brown and Jeffrey Immediato of Dome Development Group. They want to turn Hanger 29 into a motocross country club complete with shops, a gym, restaurants and even a medical facility. The plan includes trails and hillclimbs as well as a motocross course and supermoto track. Hey, sounds like a perfect solution to me, but as you might guess not everyone is so enthusiastic.

In February, I attended a Tustin City Council meeting where Immediato and Brown pled their case. But somehow the council couldn’t see how providing a place to ride MX smack dab in the middle of the largest concentration of off-road riders in the country would generate enough revenue. Huh?! They spoke of how much preserving a historic landmark meant to them, but cited “economic viability” as the bottom line. Apparently a 2000-house subdivision makes more sense. So they voted down Dome Development Group’s proposal, and three others. In fact, the mayor of Tustin described Dome Development and the other plans (none of them involving housing tracts) as, “The worst proposals I have ever seen addressed to the city council,” according to a story in the Orange County Register.

Here’s where things get a little screwy, not to mention suspect: The City of Tustin redevelopment agency stated in a staff report that they recommended the council to “concur with the findings of the Navy and the State Historic Preservation Officer affirming that there is no economically viable reuse submitted for the Hangar 29 complex,” and reject all four of the proposals. But Immediato told me, “The Department of the Navy and the SHPO confirmed (to him) that they never did a study on the economic viability of our project or any of the finalists. The statement made in the staff report to the city council is a complete and absolute fabrication and a lie.” Further, he also believes the council is prejudiced against any moto-economic activity because of “the workings of two individuals who have publicly said that they don't like or want motorcycles in Tustin.”

Seems like a stacked deck. Is there still a chance to make an indoor motocross track in the heart of Orange County a reality? Yes! There is a five-year window of opportunity—the time it will take to remove the toxins from beneath the site—to resubmit a proposal. I think a facility that offers unique recreational activities and preserves a historic building is a great idea. If you’re in Orange County and want to see an indoor dirtbike park a short distance away, visit the Dome Development website at www.domedevelopmentgroup.com for more information and to learn how you can get involved.

How long is your commute? Mine is alternately very short—10 feet from my bedroom to my home office—when I’m working from home, or extremely long, 420 miles to be exact, when my physical presence is necessary at Cycle World’s lavish offices in Newport Beach. It’s not a big deal in a car, with satellite radio and air conditioning, but Editor Edwards wishes to use my editorial corporeality to put miles on CW’s testbikes. This means plenty of saddle time; I project 19,000 miles a year just going to work.

Since I’m usually in hurry to get home or get to the office, I brave the straight, boring expanses of I-5 to shave time off my trip. So I need something to keep me entertained during the five or six hours the trip consumes. As I’ve been commuting like this for the last two years (my previous job had similar travel requirements), I’ve had a satellite radio to keep me company. Sirius satellite has my favorite NPR programming, plus comedy, classic rock (because I need to hear “Sympathy for the Devil” 10,000 times) and even old-time radio shows. After listening to “Talk of the Nation,” “Car Talk,” a couple of hours of Led Zeppelin, “The Green Hornet” and dirty jokes, I’m practically at my destination.

I’ve also been getting into podcasting. It’s got to be one of the best entertainment bargains of all time. There are thousands—maybe millions—of hours of free programming out there ready to be downloaded to your MP3 player or iPod. I’ve been using my wife’s five-gigabyte Creative Zen Micro that I bought for her birthday a few years ago (she replaced it with an iPod I got for a gift last year), which I plug into a Starcom1 amplifier unit I got from Aerostich (not to be confused with classic rock band Aerosmith) Rider’s Wearhouse. I can listen to exactly the content I want when I want to, without worrying about missing anything when the antenna loses sight of the satellite, or having to endure discussion of a topic even more boring than my own thoughts (“Next on ‘Talk of the Nation’: Do sandals cause back pain?”).

So there I was, cruising up I-5, listening to someone talking about farm subsidies or polecat infestations or something when the voice was cut off mid-sentence. I thought just resting the Zen in its grippy silicone cover on my tankbag would be sufficient to keep it in place, and it did for about 50 miles. Looking in my rear-view mirror, I could see the rapidly receding black dot of the unit sitting helplessly in the center of the left-hand lane. No problem; I just needed to make it back in time before it was run over.

I didn’t make it. My poor little Zen, which had given us so much faithful service (and cost almost $300), was ruthlessly squashed by some heartless four-wheeler. The next day, I went to a megastore to look for a new MP3 player and found myself the beneficiary of the benefits of consumer-driven market competition. My new player cost about $90, will hold 40 hours of music and podcasts, and even plays video on a small but sharp screen (I had to promise my mom I wouldn’t ride and watch videos). And truth be told, I was secretly coveting a new MP3 player but couldn’t justify spending any money on a new one, as the old Zen (which was 94 in consumer-electronics years) still did the job in a perfectly acceptable manner. So the pain of seeing the Zen crushed in the middle of I-5 has been replaced with the joy of having a new gadget to play with.

Sixteenth-century Brit James Howell was on the right track when he wrote, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” But, as I recently learned from photographer Christian Pondella, work and play can be one in the same.

Knowing that the Thursday evening prior to the GP at Mugello would be our only opportunity to take in nearby Florence, the capital city of the Tuscany region, our host for the weekend, Red Bull’s Jordan Miller, mandated that our little band would motor into the city for dinner and a look at the night life. It was there, deep in the heart of this ancient city, where Pondella’s ability to mix work with play became clear. Scarcely had we emerged from our turbo-diesel VW wagon than Pondella whipped out his camera and was shooting the daylights out of everything within a 200-yard radius–buildings, food, statues, women. Judging by the broad smile on his face, it was obvious that Pondella was enjoying himself.

When he arrived in Italy with Miller, Podella had already been on the road for more than a week, having photographed the spectacular Red Bull X-Fighters event at Ireland’s Slane Castle and spent time at the Swiss home of freestyle motocrosser Mat Rebaud. Nevertheless, the native Californian had no problem revving up for his second-ever MotoGP race. Rain or shine (we experienced plenty of both), he was always ready to roll early and game for stretching his “work” day in the wee hours of the night. I wish I had his energy!

Shortly after returning to the States, I received a disk from Pondella loaded with images from Italy. Here are the highlights. You tell me: Does this look like work?

I rarely find long-term love with my motorcycles; I keep a bike about two years on average. Recently, I had a 2003 Triumph Speed Four that was almost perfect for me. It was comfortable, fast (enough), handled very well and possessed a Japanese level of reliability and build quality. But love is fickle; lucky for us moto-gadflies, there’s Craig’s List for when we tire of our mechanical mates.

Started in 1997 by San Franciscan Craig Newmark, Craig’s List is now one of the most heavily trafficked websites on the World Wide Web; it’s ranked 42nd worldwide and seventh in the U.S, according to one website rating service. And that’s just for the San Francisco site; there are also sites for hundreds of other cities all over the globe. The motorcycle page is especially vibrant on the San Francisco Craig’s List with 4600 listings for bikes, apparel, services and more than a few colorful rants. It’s like TV for bored motorcyclists trapped in their cubicles, and may be the best way to sell a motorcycle I can think of.

I took pictures of my bike, wrote the Craig’s List ad, and the next weekend a guy came from San Jose to take away the Triumph. I hopped back onto Craig’s List to see what was out there for the wad of greasy Benjamins I held in my slippery fist.

I’ve always wanted a 1991-98 Ducati Supersport. A 1995 CW thumbnail review of the bike, written by Hunter S. Thompson (“Song of the Sausage Creature”), is the pinnacle of motojournalism: “This motorcycle is simply too goddamn fast to ride at speed in any kind of normal road traffic unless you're ready to go straight down the centerline with your nuts on fire and a silent scream in your throat.” How could you not want one?

They’re getting rare, but fortunately the Bay Area probably has more old Ducks per capita than anyplace outside Bologna. A search showed four Supersports in my price range. Of the four bikes, there was one that stood out; it had just 14,000 miles on it, with new cam-timing belts and a recent valve adjustment. A test ride revealed soggy suspension, roached steering-head bearings and tires that were well-worn reminders of a simpler, pre-9/11 world. But even with all these issues, the bike felt perfect to me. The seat and reach to the bars fit me just right, the midrange pull was everything I hoped for, and the sound from the Staintune mufflers was like hearing music for the first time. We haggled a bit on the price, but we both knew I would buy the thing.

And there I was riding a bike I had always wanted along the 101 freeway through Marin on the way to the Superbike races at Infineon. The bike felt solid at high speeds, the motor singing sweetly through my earplugs. It had been a long time since I had ridden a bike with so much character, and it felt like the bike was enjoying it, too. My nuts did not start blazing and I felt no need to scream, but it was grand all the same.

It’s been a month, and I’ve got new tires, rebuilt suspension and I even smashed a finger replacing the steering head bearings. I can tell this is going to be an expensive relationship; it “needs” an upgraded front end, the SP aluminum swingarm, a 5.5-inch rear wheel, 41mm FCR carbs and I’d like to powdercoat the frame red.

I’ve been to the Grand Canyon on numerous occasions, both the North and South Rims. I’ve visited there in a car, camped there in a motorhome, ridden to the edge on a motorcycle, ridden down into the Canyon on a mule and hiked from the South to the North Rim. It’s one of those places that never fails to fascinate me no matter how many times I see it.

I had one of my most memorable visits to the Canyon during a recent ride with a group of BMW executives. I and two other motorcycle magazine journalists (Jimmy Lewis, Editor of Dirt Rider and former CW Off-Road Editor, and Clement Salvadori, long-time contributor to Rider magazine) were invited to join Dr. Herbert Diess, worldwide president of BMW’s motorcycle division, Pieter De Waal, head of sales and marketing, Arturo Piniero, VP of BMW in the U.S., and several other BMW principals for a three-day mostly off-road ride in Arizona, Nevada and California.

As part of the itinerary, BMW made arrangements with the Hualapai (pronounced WALL-uh-pie) Indian tribe to allow the entire group to ride motorcycles down into the Canyon, all the way to the Colorado River at the bottom. As far as anyone knew, it was only the second time that bikes had been allowed to make that trip. The Hualapai even set up a small tent at the bottom and provided us with sandwiches and drinks upon our arrival. While we “dined” right at the edge of the Colorado, flanked by the sheer walls of the Canyon, several groups on rafts drifted silently past, seemingly puzzled at the sight of more than a dozen motorcycles parked along the shore.

Unfortunately, I did not return home with photographs that come even close to depicting the grandeur of that ride. No official photographer accompanied us, and I didn’t take along a camera. This trip was intended only as a fact-finding mission to let BMW’s executive team experience a variety of off-road riding conditions in the U.S. Southwest first-hand, and the only photos taken during the ride were unplanned, unorchestrated snapshots clicked off by a few support people.

Good photos or not, it was a superb ride. I was aboard an R1200GS that proved a decent mount for the route, which consisted mostly of graded dirt roads with an occasional narrow rocky section and shallow stream crossing thrown in just to keep us focused. Really, the most difficult aspect of the route was the spectacular scenery that all too easily diverted everyone’s attention away from the task of riding. But there were only a few harmless tip-overs, and everyone made the entire round trip unscathed.

The Hualapai also own and operate the new Grand Canyon Skywalk, and the tribe arranged for us to visit this remarkable horseshoe-shaped, glass-floor structure that juts out from the rocks at the west end of the Canyon, some 4000 feet above the Colorado River. Visitors are not permitted to take photographs on the Skywalk for fear that someone might drop their point-and-shoot and chip the expensive glass, so the images you see here came from the Internet. It is an interesting experience to look down between your bootie-covered shoes (you are required to wear little disposable booties over your footgear so as not to scratch the glass) and see the stark canyon walls thousands of feet directly below.

As impressive as the Skywalk was, though, the highlight of the trip for me was the ride down to the Colorado. I probably will return to the Grand Canyon at some point, but I’m not likely to ride to the bottom on a motorcycle ever again. I’m just thankful I got to do it once.

Last year’s “Duel at the Docks,” the Troy Lee Designs-sponsored finale to the AMA Supermoto season, was extraordinary in many ways. One was the presence of the Asterisk Mobile Medical Center. This sports-medicine clinic on wheels—sponsored by the Asterisk knee-brace company and donations from riders and other concerned parties in the motorcycle world—tends to injured racers at every AMA Supercross and outdoor motocross national. It’s been a regular feature for the past six years. The AMA Supermoto event in Long Beach, California, was the first supermoto event the unit attended.

Although the huge trailer filled with clean, gleaming equipment is very impressive, it would be worthless without a team of professionals to staff it. Tom Carson heads up the logistics. He’s director of motorsports for Asterisk; he also attends each event to make sure his sponsored racers are well cared for. Other key members of the mobile medical unit include 52-year-old Dr. John Bodnar, an ER doctor and avid motorcycle enthusiast. When he’s not manning the trailer, Dr. Vodnar is taking care of business in the emergency room of Sharp Hospital in Chula Vista, California.

“We have a mini C-arm fluoroscope that can take a 360-degree X-ray of an injury, which can be seen in real-time,” said Dr. Vodnar, discussing some of the trailer’s equipment. “We can make a diagnosis and go from there. We can set and cast broken bones, reset separated joints, stitch riders up, do taping, and we even have a Game Ready device; a machine that circulates cold water through a pressure wrap, reducing swelling on the spot. We can also administer medication to stabilize a patient’s condition.” Another team member, Eddie Casillas, is a sports-injury manager. “After an injury occurs, I figure out the rehabilitation process that will safely get riders back on track in the shortest amount of time,” he said. At least one nurse is always on hand to round out the staff for the events the Mobile Medical Center goes to.

The latest rig—a twin-turbo Kenworth and 53-foot trailer—debuted at last year’s Millville outdoor motocross national. It has a lounge with a restroom, two gurneys, a defibrillator, an operating table, oxygen and a supply of bandages, crutches and, of course, Asterisk knee braces. Treatment is free to racers, mechanics and crew members at the events.

As a racer at Long Beach, it was reassuring to know these well-trained professionals were on hand and within minutes could take care of most mishaps. Thanks to Asterisk and its generous support, the new black-and-red tractor-trailer will be a regular sight in the paddock for years to come. If you happen to see these dedicated individuals at the races cruising in their red Kawasaki “Mule-bulance,” give them a thumbs-up for keeping your favorite racers fit and in the fray; better yet, follow them to the rig to make a donation. You can also donate by contacting the Women’s Motocross Foundation.

Under the heading “D’oh! Why didn’t I think of that” is eBay. Started almost on a whim in 1995, the online auction house’s first sale was of a broken laser pointer, for which the buyer paid $14.83. Today, there are millions of items on offer each day and the company is worth billions. A recent search of eBay Motors, the company’s car/boat/plane/motorcycle spin-off, showed 12,925 bikes for sale and 127,014 motorcycle-related parts and accessories.

Among the bikes on the block were these gems, found in the always-entertaining “Custom Built” section:

Described by the seller as a “stunningly beautiful, custom-built, one-of-a-kind 1968 TriBSA,” we have a salmon-and-cream creation that combines what appears to be—for better or worse—a BSA Super Rocket frame with a 650 Triumph Bonneville motor.

“This bike has been painstakingly built over the course of the last two years; no part of this bike has been untouched,” confirms the owner, apparently a master of the understatement. “This is not a typical British custom…I guarantee, you will not see another bike like this one, a true British custom with an American touch!”

For all of this over-the-top handiwork, the owner was willing to accept bids starting at $26,000. Shockingly, there were no takers…

It’s done well on the professional show circuit, too, winning or placing in eight major events, including nabbing the prestigious Editor’s Choice award at the Easyriders Charlotte show. It’s been featured in three magazine stories but apparently Garn is ready to move on to other projects, so “Flattie” is on the block. The buy-it-now price is a reasonable $20,000 (just try to have something like this built for that kind of cash), but with one day left in the auction it had been bid up to only $9100. Finding two or more competing bidders who like your style and appreciate the effort that went into the build can be tough.

How long should you race? A good question to consider at some point in your life, and a subject my friends and I discuss frequently. I'm 45 and there are reasons that not many 45-year-olds run at a national or world level, be it family pressures, old injuries, other interests or a more refined sense of managing risk.

My wife's wise father, Gene Perez, advises readjusting the arduousness of your activities as you add years, and many "seasoned" racers find that racing with the American Historic Racing Motorcycle Association is exactly the readjustment needed. The pace is slower, the pressures lower, the atmosphere rewards participation over race wins. It isn't hard to find racers in their 60s and even 70s.

I attended the 2007 AHRMA Works Performance Historic Cup Roadrace Series at Daytona this year, there to race the Ducati/NCR "New Blue" for a Cycle World story. The event was run flawlessly, at least from this racer's point of view. Events were on time, announced well and safely carried out. The riders' meeting was run by racer Will Harding with well-organized information (including several maps, schedules and great tips, such as, "Glance down at each boot on the long straights to check for oil."), a strong respect for the racers, a bit of humor and clearly enunciated do's and don'ts. Harding even talked slowly so the contingent of Australian hand-shift racers could understand!

Jimmy Filice and I raced each other in AMA 250 GP in the '90s and we both gave everything we had each race, but Jimmy raced a Honda 750 at Daytona this year with a different outlook. "Hey," the 45-year-old said, "it isn't about winning here. It's about enjoying these historic bikes, running with guys like Springer (Jay Springsteen, 49). We're going good, but it's about the bikes and the people."

Thad Wolff has a Suzuki GS1000S similar to what he raced back in the day and told us, "I've got a wife and family, and I've got to go home tomorrow and make a living, so that tells you how we look at these races. Yeah, we're riding these things hard, but not pushing everywhere like we used to." Wolff had just finished a fantastic second to Springsteen's Harley and the pits buzzed with how great the race was, not just about who won it.

Some great final advice came from 58-year-old Dave Roper, a racing legend here and on the Isle of Man. "It's about getting old gracefully, keeping your limitations in mind. For instance, I'm done racing at the Isle of Man now." Roper smiles through his beard and adds, "Getting older might just mean racing older and smaller bikes."

Sound Off: How has your riding changed as you get older?

While cruising the web trying to hack the Yamaha Japan website for information on a new model not yet available in the U.S, I stumbled across some other cool stuff. My favorite is the motorcycle origami Yamaha calls “Paper Craft”—free pdf file downloads with instructions and detailed color (or black & white) patterns that you print, cut out and then assemble. The website is fun and easy to use, although building a “super-precise” MT-01 model—which has hundreds of tiny parts—sounds masochistic.

To experience it for yourself, go to Yamaha’s entertainment website by clicking here. After you get to the website, simply click on the Paper Craft project you want to attempt, then download the assembly instructions and the project itself—you will need both. After you have the project on your computer’s hard drive, print the pages and start cutting, folding and gluing.

There are plenty of helpful hints on the site: Be sure to use stock that’s heavier than regular printer paper, and have a sharp hobby knife on hand. Do not jab it in your eye. An awl is useful for making creases, and regular white glue is fine. There are even demonstration videos to help you if you get stuck (figuratively, I mean, if you get stuck to the glue, hope it’s water soluble).

I haven’t personally assembled anything yet, but once I learn some patience I plan on building Stefan Evert’s GP-winning YZ450F. Who’s got some Ritalin?

Ten minutes after bidding goodbye to CW Associate Editor Mark Cernicky after our track-day 2x2 shootout with the Suzuki GSX-R750 and Triumph 675, my cell phone rang with an offer to race a 675 the following day in a WERA regional event on the Classic Course at Las Vegas Motor Speedway. “Chris Clark is in bed with the flu, the bike is here and you should race it,” fellow Freddie Spencer High Performance Riding School instructor Jeff Haney explained. “You love to race, and we need the testing time; this thing has only had a few laps.” I knew my buddy Chris Geiter had prepped the bike for the Pat Clark Motorsports team, and few tuners have Geiter’s talents. Sign me up.

Unfortunately, my Sunday-morning signup put me at the back of the second wave in each of the four races I entered—somewhere around 40th position. By the end of the day, though, I’d run several 1-minute, 20.7-second laps (in constant traffic), while Jason Perez won the 600 Superbike class with a best lap of 1:19.2. In other words, with a better grid position, I may not have contested the win but I would have been in the fight for third through fifth. My best finish for the day was fourth in Senior Superbike (old guys on fast bikes).

Here’s what the PCM team of Geiter, Haney and Ken Hill did to get the 675 and a 45-year-old journalist to within 1.5 seconds of Perez’s Yamaha R6. Geiter installed Triumph race-kit stainless-steel one-piece valves, degreed the stock cams and bolted the engine together with a thinner head gasket to create a dynamometer-verified 124 horsepower and 53 foot-pounds of torque. A race-kit ECU and wiring harness went in, and a Ti Arrow exhaust went on. Sharkskinz bodywork and CFM clip-ons and rearsets completed the chassis mods. Gearing was stock, using Vortex sprockets and a DID 520 chain. To quote AMA veteran Ricky Orlando: “That thing’s fast. My Kawi runs good, but you pulled me pretty hard.” A horsepower advantage is a wonderful thing.

Haney and Hill teamed up on the suspension setup, and their initial findings helped Cernicky and me dial-in the stock 675 at nearby Spring Mountain Motorsports Ranch the day before. The fork tops were flush with the top triple-clamp, and the legs had Race Tech Gold Valve internals with 9.5-pound Race Tech springs. The Öhlins shock was slightly shorter than stock, and I felt with the 12-pound spring it was oversprung. Due to time restraints and a good base setup, we made few changes on Sunday, just adding compression and spring and reducing rebound at the front. My wish list at the end of the day included a more effective steering damper, a slipper clutch, a quick-shifter, an 11-pound rear spring…and more laps! Haney, Hill and Clark did a great job of getting this thing race-worthy. It was a joy to ride. Chris, I’m sorry you were sick but not that sorry!

Sound Off: Is the extra 75cc cheating?

I hate to admit it, but I’ve spent more time sliding along pavement at high speeds than your average guy, even more than your average motorcyclist. In fact, I’ve spent enough time pavement surfing that it’s a familiar sensation. I immediately go into survival mode when it happens; relaxing my limbs (curl into a ball and you’ll tumble, try to get up and you’ll fly like a bird) while waiting to stop moving so I can carefully get up and out of the way of other racers, riders or 18-wheel trucks, depending on the situation.

That’s what was going through my mind a couple of Saturdays ago on I-5 somewhere between Los Angeles and Sacramento. I was tooling along on a scooter (not just any scooter, but a 500cc Kymco Xciting that’s capable of 100 mph), of all things, when a chain of events triggered by an SUV suddenly pulling onto the roadway resulted in me slamming into a Chevy Malibu at 70 mph.

All I remember was seeing a very large trunk lid and then skating down the road on my back, the heat from the asphalt warming my butt. I felt no pain, only embarrassment that I had crashed on the street, on someone else’s bike, and that I was somehow to blame. It seemed like I was sliding for a long time, and I somehow flipped over onto my stomach so I could see oncoming traffic, which was thankfully far enough away that I could safely get off the road.

I wasn’t bleeding and I could walk and breathe just fine, although my ass and back were starting to feel sore (luckily, I always carry ibuprofen with me when I travel). I unzipped my one-piece Aerostich riding suit and saw that although the heavy Cordura and ballistic nylon had worn all the way through to the Gore-Tex liner in spots, the suit held together and I didn’t have as much as a square inch of road rash anywhere on my body. Bruises, on the other hand, were quite impressive, due to my lack of a back protector.

After filing a police report and exchanging information with the nice folks I had hit, I gathered up my belongings and got back on the road. I had another 150 miles to go with my shredded Aerostich and swelling lower back, but I could still ride (and walk!) after a 70 mph street luge on my ass. People ask why the Aerostich is so expensive; I never do, not after two crashes.

On the way home, I saw plenty of motorcyclists. It was a balmy Labor Day weekend and great motorcycle weather, which means I was the only rider I saw wearing anything more protective than street clothes and a seemingly hard coating of optimism. Particularly horrifying was a young couple on I-580 that passed me on a GSX-R1000 at about 95 mph. He was wearing jeans and T-shirt, she was wearing shorts, a cute top of some kind and shoes my wife has a colorful name for that advertises the sexual availability of the wearer.

I didn’t think I was going to crash that Saturday morning when I left Newport Beach. Why would you get on a motorcycle if you knew you were going to crash that day? But from now on I’m going to dress like I do; boots, gloves, jackets, pants and when I find a lightweight, comfortable back protector I can easily transfer from garment to garment, I’ll wear that, too. Full-face helmet? Is there any other kind? Not if you ask me.

Sound Off: How protected are you every ride?

Ever go on vacation or a weekend getaway, only to discover that the place is crisscrossed with awesome twisty roads? Then you remember you didn’t ride there on a motorcycle. I’ve been tortured by this dilemma on multiple occasions, and every time I end up pondering, “Why I didn’t just take a bike in the first place?” It usually has something to do with my girlfriend packing too many pairs of shoes to fit in the panniers or something like that. At least that’s my excuse.

However, if you’re on vacation on the Adriatic coast of Italy, just leave the bike at home, because there are bike rentals scattered all over seaside resorts like Rimini. Being that it’s Italy, we’re not talking about just cruisers or scooters, either. This hotbed for racing, with the Misano and Mugello racetracks short drives away, is ripe with sportbike enthusiasm. Within 20 feet of my hotel in Rimini—where I was visiting the Bimota factory—there were two such rental stands. Lined up right next to the typical beach fare of bicycles and those goofy four-wheeled pedal cars were GSX-R1000s, R1s, CBR600RRs and even cooler because we don’t get them, Derbi 125 two-stroke racer replicas.

During my week in Rimini, I had wonderful bikes like Bimota’s new DB6 Delirio and DB5 Mille at my disposal; I wasn’t exactly in the above-described jam. However, I thought it was pretty freakin’ cool that Italians can just show up at the beach, helmet in hand (although you can rent a helmet, too), and take a ride into the Tuscan hillsides on current or late-model repli-racers. Better yet, they don’t have to hear their significant other moan about the lack of trunk space. Oh, to be Italian!

Sound Off: Have you rented a motorcycle in a foreign land? Why can’t we rent sportbikes here in the US of A?

The internet is a miracle. I searched for “nothing” the other day and got 516,000,000 hits. Not bad for the null set or, as one site put it, “a lovingly crafted vial of emptiness.” What I’d really needed, though, was bore and stroke information for my Honda 90. It could not be found. I hit up my brothers in the CW Classic and Antique forum and nobody there could help either. Thank goodness Velocettes are better supported, digitally speaking.

In fact, there are so many noise generators out there shotgunning Velo info onto the web that you can find out about anything you want. Bores, strokes, wheels, chokes, the light and insight glows brightly, like a finely polished alloy timing-chest cover. I bring this up because for the past several years I have been getting my repair info and specs from that great information power cable that costs me $40 a month. Really, it’s worked out great, and with the wireless setup on my laptop, why, I can take the computer right into the shop.

But nothing beats a beat-up Haynes manual. I have owned this manual for as long as I’ve owned the bike, which I guess is running on four years now. And yet I haven’t seen it once during most of that time. Somewhere along the way it was lost, and no matter how many searches I made of my cluttered little house and boxes of books, I never could find it. Then, right there the other day it appeared in a stack of magazines in my office. I was confused, yet elated. This book is a gem for many reasons, one of which is that such manuals are hard to find these days. Better, though, is that like most of the Haynes manuals, it is written in irrepressible British style. Funnier still is that although this Velocette Singles book is about the MAC and MSS pushrod engines and associated cycle parts only, it seems to be thicker than the one for my Jaguar E-Type, which really should need more pages. But Velos have their quirks, and there are many fussy steps for all the exciting procedures contained therein. My copy, used since the ’80s by the bike’s previous owner, is quite shopworn, and its color suggests saturation with cigarette smoke.

It makes great bedtime reading, even if my fingers take on the aroma of a 53-year-old crankcase. And now I don’t have to drag the computer to the shop.

What about the Velocette keychain? Well, as my friend Bill Getty pointed out, Velocettes really didn’t have keys. Why, it’s a keychain for…nothing. Maybe I should put the Honda 90 key on it.

Sound Off: Is the Internet better than a repair manual?

I don’t know which part to tell you first; the part about how a few genuine motorcycle people pitched in to put a race weekend together, or how I got pitched onto my head in the California Speedway parking lot. The latter I’m still feeling the effects of, but what will last is the memories I’ll take away from the weekend that for me started late Thursday afternoon.

CW Road Test Editor Don Canet, who runs STTARS—the local supermoto series that helped rekindle the sport—was in Spain on assignment for the mag, so racer Gary Trachy, a decorated supermoto veteran and father of two, finished the track for Don. Gary also runs SuperMotoX School and held a class Friday kicking off the second round of the STTARS series at Fontana’s California Speedway in conjunction with the AMA Superbike races.

I was at Up-Tite Racing Husqvarna in Santa Ana getting a valve adjustment and oil change on our street-legal 450 SMR. Up-Tight’s owner George Erl and I got to talking, and I found out he had never been to a supermoto race. When I left “The Erl” he was race-prepping my bike and I was on my way to San Diego to borrow a 5-inch rear wheel from GP Motorcycles’ Paul Lima to use for the weekend.

Early the next morning before work I was at Erion Racing picking up the latest in Dunlop supermoto rubber. Tracy was at Fontana teaching supermoto newbies the ropes and Canet was back from Spain and scooting the last haybale into place.

On Saturday my lap times steadily improved, and my new crew chief Erl gleaned all he could from GP Motorcycles’ factory Husqvarna team as we progressed. We started the Saturday race from the fourth row and ended up 11th in the Unlimited class after getting stuck behind two fallen riders in the narrow dirt section. Not a great result, but we had fun and learned more about optimizing our 450 SMR’s setup.

During the Sunday-morning practice the bike worked a lot better. We’d gone from 14/42 gearing to 13/46, and as Lima suggested we keep the wheel as far forward in the swingarm as possible. Using a larger rear sprocket (which means the rear wheel needs to be further forward to maintain proper freeplay in the chain) achieved this. This and other changes, as well as new Dunlop tires, worked great in my 450 heat race.

Lining up for the main race I was ready and got a good start, but on the third lap going into Turn 1 I had the second-biggest high-side of my life. I was sliding the Husky down to the apex of the corner when someone hit my side numberplate. The bars were hard against the steering stop and I tried to hold it down, but the suspension fully compressed and then unloaded, pitching me high and far off the track. Luckily for me I landed on my Arai-covered head, although I also landed on my hand, which broke my wrist and tore my rotator cuff, putting me out of action for months.

Motorcyclists’ paths cross sometimes for better, sometimes for worse…that’s racing.

Sound Off: Have you done any supermoto?

One of the biggest races on the 18-round MotoGP calendar, the Gran Premio d’Italia Alice, takes place this weekend at the legendary Mugello Autodromo Internazionale. Prior to my mid-week flight to neighboring Firenze, I pointed my browser to the circuit’s official website (www.mugellocircuit.it), which describes the weekend as, “A three-day party...where to enjoy without damaging people attending the event.” Uh…okay.

Reading farther, I discovered security has been upped this year, and “it is not possible to enter the circuit with vehicles and/or objects that could create loud emissions that overcome the law’s noise limits.” What, no hollowed-out megaphones broadcasting the deafening shriek of high-rpm internal combustion, piercing eardrums from one end of the circuit to the other? Guess I won’t need my earplugs.

In terms of race news, Valentino Rossi is shooting for his sixth MotoGP victory at Mugello (he also won the 125cc event in 1997 and the 250cc race in 1999). While I would never bet against Rossi and tuner Jerry Burgess, current series points-leader Casey Stoner, riding the Bridgestone-shod factory Ducati, already has three wins (out of five) to his credit this season, and Mugello ( a point-of-view lap of the circuit can be found here) has the second-longest straightaway on the calendar, with a very fast, final-turn run-up. Top speeds are projected to be around 210 mph!

On the American side, Rossi’s Yamaha teammate Colin Edwards is riding well, as is Rizla Suzuki pilot John Hopkins, whose teammate Chris Vermeulen earned his first MotoGP win in rain-soaked France. Reigning number-one Nicky Hayden really needs a win (or at least a top-three) to bolster his title defense. Team Roberts, hoping to emerge from possibly its worst start ever, has enlisted the aid of former AMA Superbike winner Kurtis Roberts, the youngest son of team principal Kenny Roberts, to help lead rider Kenny Jr. sort out the Honda-powered KR211V.

Mugello also represents the second round (of seven) of the Red Bull Rookies Cup. Three Americans–JD Beach, Cameron Beaubier and Kris Turner–are among the 23 teenagers scheduled to compete on identically prepared two-stroke KTM 125s. Now that’s what I call pressure!

There was, for starters, a posting charging me with being a pinko commie libber and anti-motorcycle to boot, all because I made fun of Governor Arnold's clumsy attempt to spin his lack of a motorcycle operator's license.

That didn't bother me much at first; the shortest political discussion will prove that I'm on the neocon side of libertarianism and anyway, the Governor has lately become an Easter egg—that is,
he's painted himself a mix of pink and green.

Then came a reader who cannot stand my style. He reads until he deduces it's me, he blogs, and then he turns the page. My feelings would have been hurt except that I just read a quote from Kingsley Amis, who says if you can't annoy someone there's not much point in writing.

I mulled that for maybe two seconds, and said “Me too.” And I bet it's the same for you.

The posting that hurt came from a friend of the magazine, a man I met on a backcountry tour. He reported that he'd been told I'm the H-D guy on staff, have written history books on the subject, which is true. He described me as weathered, also true.

The punchline? I arrived for the tour on my elderly dual-sport Honda, quote, the very last motorcycle, unquote, he expected me to ride.

What makes us think that when we see someone on, say, a sporting 600, a full-dress tourer, a classic Single or whatever, we know all about that person?

How can we instantly define, and by implication judge, another enthusiast on the basis of a moment?

Outsiders, sure. The 85 percent of the population that won't ride a motorcycle for any reason at any time, defines us all as nut cases. This has been true for a century and it won't stop and I don't much care.
Nor do I deny there are racers scared to ride on the street, and a cruiser crowd that can't manage the 10 miles from Daytona’s Main Street to Municipal Stadium. That's their call and not the point here.

Nor do I understand the hundreds of thousands of motorcycle owners who carve the canyons or cruise the boulevards on Sunday and don't ride to work on Monday; they can't bring themselves to admit that motorcycles are practical and I can't fathom why but again, it's their call.

My gripe here is preemptive judgment, putting round people into square categories.

My first motorcycle was a Harley 74, a junker three years older than I was, chosen because it was the only bike I could get for $50. Next came a BSA Bantam, given to me by a teacher at my school, who said if I could fix it, I could keep it. (I couldn't, nobody could have, but I kept it anyway.)

I stuck to the street until one of the guys at Cycle World lured me onto a Yamaha DT-1, the first true dual-sport. I was part of the off-road revolution, you could say, and I've had a dirtbike in the barn ever since...and why exactly does writing books about yesterday's Harleys mean I can't ride today's Hondas?

Most of the motorcycle nuts I know are the same way. A man who recognized my XR-750 rides a Buell, restored a vintage Yamaha and races motocross. My flat-track club has members who also belong to Bologna’s Club Red & White. Mr. Editor Edwards has a garage full of vintage showbikes but deep down he's still the motocross kid he was when he got into this...sport.

That's the word that fits. All motorcycle riders share an interest, and that's why being typecast ticked me off. We are us, so to speak, and non-riders are them.

All we know, when we see the slammed V-Twin, the cluster of supersports slicing through the mountains, the couples with matching suits, helmets and touring rigs, the drivers of trucks hauling race gear, is that they like motorcycles.

You’re motoring on a multi-lane highway in the far left lane, slightly faster than the flow of traffic. You’re just cruising along, scanning the horizon for The Man and other road hazards, thinking about some little noise coming from your transmission or who’s going to win the next MotoGP when suddenly some nut-job is blasting past you in the lane to your right. It startles you and you scream some choice insult at the car’s rapidly disappearing taillights. What’s their problem?

Reality check, folks. The problem is you. In every country, in every state I’ve driven in, the left lane is for passing. Do you hear me? Passing. It’s not for cruising in, it’s not your private freakin’ lane, it’s there to provide a safe and clear stretch of road to safely overtake slower traffic. Once you pass the slowpoke(s), you move back to the right until you need to pass someone again.

Now, I know it’s mostly cars and trucks that are the main offenders, and my home state of California is filled with drivers who for whatever reason don’t understand that the left lane is not their personal right-of-way. Those folks I have written off. If a guy in a giant plumbing supply delivery van is in the left lane, talking on his phone while about 60 cars are tailgating him, it is clear that he is so far beyond the scope of simple human courtesy that Attilla the Hun wouldn’t want him for a roommate. But when I see a guy on a late-model sportbike clicking along at exactly the speed limit in that “fast” lane while a minivan driven by a suburban housewife is right on his tail, I really have to wonder what’s going through this guy’s mind.

I’m not the first guy in the world to complain about this, nor will I be the last. But there’s a group of concerned citizens who are doing something about it. Left Lane Drivers is a “diverse, very loosely affiliated group of drivers who share the common objective of reducing the left-lane congestion on our freeways and multi-lane highways by politely encouraging slow drivers to move over.” The main weapon in their arsenal is the sticker you see in the lead photo, available on their website for $29. I asked if they had one for motorcycle windscreens; they responded by sending me an email asking what size would be good for motorcycle windscreens; 12 or 14 inches? You can email your thoughts to jat@leftlanedriver.org.

Just think: if they have 100,000 rolling two- and-four-wheeled ambassadors of proper left-lane usage, perhaps we can change driving behavior, or at least make people start thinking about how they use that coveted left lane.

In the meantime, keep your eye on the mirror and let the fast-movers move on past.

Sound Off! Do you cruise in the left lane?

What Formula One taketh away, MotoGP giveth back! Less than a week after it was announced that F-1 cars would not be returning to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway in 2008 comes the announcement that MotoGP bikes will race at the world-famous circuit next year.

The Red Bull Indianapolis Grand Prix will take place Sunday, September 14, on a new 16-turn, 2.6-mile motorcycle road course that will feature the riders traveling counter-clockwise, the same direction as the facility’s oval events. The 125 and 250cc classes also will compete as support series during the weekend.

“We welcome the excitement and passion of MotoGP racing and its fans,” said Joie Chitwood, IMS president and chief operating officer. “The very first motorized race at IMS was on two wheels, so it’s only fitting that motorcycles are returning as we approach the 100th anniversary of the track. Fans of MotoGP know just how thrilling this form of racing is, and our new road-course configuration will create even more side-by-side action and passing opportunities.”

Knowing a second U.S. MotoGP event was a distinct possibility, I attended the Indy F-1 race in June.

I was born and raised in Lafayette, Indiana, about 60 miles northwest of Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Of the 12 months out of each year, 11 were devoted to basketball. May, however, was all about racing. Forget Monaco and Le Mans, as far as I was concerned, the Indianapolis 500 was indeed “The Greatest Spectacle in Racing.”

Based on what I saw this past June, the Formula One race that IMS hosted for the past eight years had little in common with the 500 and the Speedway’s other big event, NASCAR’s Brickyard 400. More than one person I spoke with remarked that, “F-1 has a different vibe than the 500 or the Brickyard.” Indeed. English remained the dominant language, but German, Italian and Spanish were prominent. Fitted shirts with fancy embroidery replaced tank tops, and Euro-fave Puma was the shoe brand of choice.

Access to the paddock was closely guarded. MotoGP now uses hand-held screening devices to verify credentials; F-1 employs nifty electronic turnstiles. In the hospitality area behind the garages, I met Britta Roeske, PR person for Red Bull Racing, who whisked me into that team’s garage for an up-close-and-personal view of practice.

While the drivers must demonstrate they can extricate themselves unaided from their respective vehicles in less than 5 seconds, once belted in, they remain there throughout the sessions. Tires are limited each race weekend to 14 sets of “dry weather,” four sets of “wet weather” and three sets of “extreme wet weather.” With Michelin’s exodus after the 2006 season, Bridgestone is currently the sole tire supplier. I asked Road & Track Senior Editor Jim Hall if the Japanese company plays favorites. “You hope not,” was his reply.

Later, in another stroke of luck, I watched qualifying from the Scuderia Toro Rosso garage. While U.K.-based Red Bull Racing runs Renault engines, the second Red Bull team, out of Italy, has Ferrari power. As the cars were pushed backward into their individual stalls, crew members aimed weed-eater-engined blowers at the blazing-hot composite brake discs. Once the cars were up on jacks, electric fans were lowered from the ceiling and clipped to the individual wheels.

As they were shuttled past me, just-removed tires gave off exceptional heat—like a sheet of freshly baked cookies removed from the oven. Neither Vitantonio Liuzzi nor his American teammate Scott Speed survived qualifying’s do-or-die initial 15-minute cutoff, and they started the race 19th and 20th, respectively. “I like coming to America, but I think this track is too easy,” complained Liuzzi. “The car makes more of a difference than the driver.” That’s what I would say in his position, too.

On race day, the crowd was big. Not Indy 500 big, but impressive nevertheless. Fans had apparently gotten over the much-publicized tire debacle of two years ago. Two weeks earlier, when I attended the Italian GP at Mugello, yellow—in recognition of home-country-hero Valentino Rossi—was the dominant hue. In Indianapolis, it was red. I’ve never seen so many Ferrari owners in one place. Everyone wearing a Ferrari cap or shirt or waving a prancing-horse-crested flag owns a Ferrari, right?

Thirty minutes prior to the scheduled race start, the cars were sent off one by one for a single screaming lap. It was odd for me to see cars running clockwise at Indy, though none of that mattered when the lights went green and the field tore toward Turn 1. F-1 cars are lightning quick and transition from one corner to the next with breathtaking agility.

Braking, however, is truly awesome. Top speeds down the front straight were more than 210 mph, yet none of the drivers appeared to slow for low-gear Turn 1 until somewhere between the 100- and 50-yard markers. Impressive.

Twenty-two-year-old F-1 rookie Lewis Hamilton won the race, his second in a row, all the more impressive in that he’d never before set foot inside the Speedway. He appeared genuinely excited, as did the fans. I can’t help but think that Nicky Hayden, Rossi and Casey Stoner will enjoy a similarly strong reception at the Brickyard.

“Now this is more like it,” I chortled as I headed north on the I-15, cruising in the number-three lane with a metric V-Twin on my right, another Sportster ahead to the left and a yowling 600 Four in the fast lane, “this is what we should see every daily commute.”

Then I reflected that this was the largest pack of motorcycles I’ve been in since the Harley Century party ride four years ago. This makes no sense, I was about to say, until I remembered that everything makes sense (in its own way) once one admits that we are a species driven by our own quirky logic.

As in, here we are with gas at record prices and traffic at record crush and motorcycle ownership at record highs, and we don’t ride to work or school or even shopping—not a lot of us, anyway. My theory—completely unconfirmed by science, I might add—begins with the wisdom of the late Dan Hunt, creative force behind Cycle World’s early success.

What he meant is that we in the developed world can afford cars, comfy vehicles with air conditioning and heaters and roofs and (now) DVD players for the kids in back.

The clearest possible evidence is that motorcycles make up a fraction—two or three percent—of the traffic stream. Doubters are invited to stand on any bridge across any urban highway at rush hour and count passing bikes. You’ll see one every minute or so, versus hundreds of cars and trucks and SUVs, all carrying one person.

My theory became proof when Peter Egan reported he has friends who bought trucks when trucks were cool and then went ballistic if he suggested putting cargo in the cargo bed. The new owners weren’t driving trucks, they were making statements.

In parallel, we cyclists have moved from not needing our motorcycles to denying that the motorcycle is practical transportation. (As a segue here, check your bookstore for a volume titled The Perfect Vehicle by Melissa Pierson, who makes my point far better than I can.)

For another parallel, I read that one of Europe’s top models was widely admired for arriving at a photo shoot in motorcycle gear...but the cheers stopped when the paparazzi revealed that she was so equipped because she rode motorcycles—if it's function, it ain't fashion.

I have seen with my own eyes a gym with valet parking. I wish I had made that up.

For the sake of fair play, I admit that riding a motorcycle every day requires commitment. It’s a bother, putting on helmet and jacket and gloves, knowing when you get to work or stop at the store or run errands, you’ll have to peel it all off and put it back on. And we must plan for weather, and figure ways to transport stuff and supplies.

But my guess here is that we are subject to what social scientists call meems. It's from the Greek, and it means a notion, an idea, a mindset that somehow lodges in our minds without permission...and takes over. Examples? One day most of the population went public in athletic shoes. One day men's clothes got too big, and women's too small, as in display of lingerie, and we all needed to tote little bottles of designer water while going to the opera in baseball caps worn backward. I could go on and on, but you can think of examples without my help.

Just as hauling things in a truck cancels the truck’s fashion, just as hard work with a purpose means it doesn’t make you fit, just as plumber butt is now a woman's problem, so will practical motorcycling spoil the fun. When I began this rant, I intended to belittle Ride To Work Day, which this year falls on July 18. I planned to point out that riding to work one day a year is sentiment, because posing as a responsible person once annually excuses us from having to save money and time and resources every working day.

But then I recalled my classic education, as in Aristotle's advice that never mind if you aren't virtuous, pretend you are, act as if you are, and doing the right thing will become a habit.

On the way home every afternoon, I pitch into the on ramp at sporting speed, hang off the inside the way Fast Freddie taught me and slice through the traffic like Hayden and Rossi, grinning ear to ear.

On occasion, I like going to various sporting events. I mostly like going for the atmosphere: $5 hotdogs, the throngs enjoying their favorite game, or just a chance to experience something different. Few weekends ago, I went to my first professional soccer game; a match between Los Angeles Galaxy and Chivas USA. I came away most impressed by the fans; everyone wears their team’s colors and there are even organized cheering sections with drums, songs, confetti and flags. The Home Depot Center where the game took place was jammed, with what looked like twice as many people as when the X-Games were there last year.

Soccer may have better fans, but motocross has the toughest athletes in the world. From what I saw, soccer players—said to be extremely fit professional athletes—are babies. When they tripped and fell or bumped into another player, they would lay on the field appearing to be hurt, trying to get the referee’s attention. It usually didn’t work.

The sport of motocross is nothing like this. When a rider falls, he usually hits the ground hard moving a lot faster then soccer players run. And what does a MX rider do? He jumps up and runs, limps or hops over to his bike so he can get back into the race. There’s no downtime, no faking, adrenaline is pumping and MX riders have to do what it takes to win, sometimes taking the checkers with broken bones.

Pity the poor chopper. Its day is done. Again. And for the same reasons the original long bikes fell from favor a generation ago. The g.d. things are a right royal pain in the arse to ride—quite literally. Somewhere out there is a pothole waiting to pound your aging vertebrae into dust.

Friend of mine, an intense watcher of the custom scene, verified the neo-chopper’s recent fall from grace. “It’s like someone turned a light switch,” he said. “One day, it was choppers; the next, everyone wants baggers.” Another friend, a custom painter, conveniently wet-sanding a Harley saddlebag when I dropped by, seconded the motion. “Hey, we’re all getting older,” he said. “Rear suspension, a decent seat and a little wind protection come in handy, especially if you want to ride, not just pose.”

Which brings us, not coincidentally, to Harley-Davidson’s big-news bike for the 2008, the FXCW Rocker. No, it’s not a café-racer as the name suggests, but neither is it a mere bar-hopper as its rigid-look rear end might lead you to believe.

The front end’s kicked out at a 36.5-degree rake, sure, but that 49mm Showa fork should handle anything you run over short of a railroad tie. Out back we have the familiar Softail setup with twin shocks secreted away beneath the engine/gearbox, now with the (no doubt patented in triplicate) “Rockertail” treatment. This has the rear fender hovering a fraction of an inch above the 240mm rear tire, normally a no-no on a suspended bike. But here the fender is attached directly to the swingarm so it moves up and down with the tire as the suspension cycles through its 3.4 inches of travel. You get the looks of a slammed rigid, the ride of a Softail and can take your chiropractor off the speed-dial. Cool deal.

VIDEO: Some good action footage of the Rocker and 105th Anniversary bikes in this Harley video.

This was a first for me. As always, I was scheduled to cover the AMA Superbike races at Infineon Raceway in mid May. As it’s close to home, my wife Emily comes with me. Normally I disappear into the abyss that is bikes, racing fuel and tire choice, and see her at lunchtime and then at the end of the day. Infineon is also one of my favorite tracks to visit, and not just because of the Sierra Pale Ale at hand afterward!

This time it was different. This time, she assisted me, with a photo credential and everything. So for the first time since I started covering the AMA racing series, I was able to give her an inside, front-of-the-fence view of what it's like to be a part of the racing business. Watching her face light up as Mat Mladin burst into view around a protective haybale was great.

The real high spot came on Sunday as I left Emily behind the fence, with one of my Cannon 1DMK2s and a 200mm f2.8 lens. Following a brief and somewhat short introduction into the world of racing photography, with instruction on how to focus, frame and so forth, I simply said, “Take some pictures and we'll see how you do.”

I wasn't disappointed! At the end of the weekend and with editing well under way, I came to the images that she took from her vantage point just beyond Turn 2. Good depth of field, composition and a super capture of the race start! I was thrilled and very impressed.

Back in February of this year, Indianapolis Motor Speedway officials were poised to announce that the famed facility would host a round of the MotoGP World Championship in 2008. By June, however, nothing was confirmed. To learn more, I traveled to Indy for the eighth—and possibly, final—running of Formula One’s United States Grand Prix.

At the time, negotiations with Dorna, MotoGP’s Spanish rights-holder, were still ongoing. One idea would use a modified version of the 2.6-mile F-1 circuit, possibly running in the opposite direction. As far as bikes are concerned, the greatest obstacles of the current layout are Turns 12 and 13, which are part of the 2.5-mile oval used for the Indianapolis 500 and Brickyard 400, and entirely without runoff.

When asked about this, Scuderia Toro Rosso driver Vitantonio Liuzzi, a Suzuki GSX-R owner and track-day regular, told me point-blank, “If there are walls, I think it is too dangerous for motorcycles. Here, if you crash, you go into a wall at 180 mph.” To avoid that catastrophe, there’s been talk of a new left turn after pit row, connecting to the infield course.

There are other factors besides safety to consider here. Dorna badly wants to grow MotoGP’s presence in the U.S., and IMS knows how to put on a large-scale event. Every aspect of the massive facility is first-class, and in typical Midwest fashion the city of Indianapolis is welcoming. Unlike in the smaller, higher-rent towns that surround Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca, currently MotoGP’s only stateside stop, hotel and restaurant prices don’t skyrocket, and getting into and out of the track, even in an automobile, is hiccup-free. Decades of practice in these areas have paid great dividends.

After months of speculation, on Wednesday of this week IMS officials sent out a press release stating that on Monday, July 16, a “historic announcement will be made.” Reportedly, the top-class four-stroke MotoGP bikes will be joined by the 125 and 250cc Grand Prix two-strokes.

Dorna has not released its ’08 schedule, but it is safe to say that an Indy date will be on it.

Sound Off! Going’ to Indy?

Maybe more than any other Japanese bike-maker, Yamaha “gets” cruisers, or more to the point, gets what makes cruisers so popular—nearly two out of every three new streetbikes sold in the U.S. is a cruiser, after all.

At first, this was difficult for the Big Four to get their minds around. The industrial history of Japan, after all, is of constant refinement, of pushing performance, whether we’re talking cheap transistor radios or high-end luxury automobiles. How could Milwaukee’s hoary old air-cooled, pushrod motor with part numbers running back to 1936 be handing them their, uh…lunches in the cruiser market?

Cruising, of course, is about a different kind of performance, one not tied to stopwatches or dynos or even (gasp!) magazine road tests. Cruising is a tactile experience. How does a motor feel, what vibes does it throw off—literally and cosmically?

There’s also the ownership experience, the man-machine involvement. Stock Harley? There’s really no such thing. Virtually every one has been customized, made better—at least in the mind of the man or woman behind the handgrips.

Yamaha realized this latter aspect of cruising, and did something about it. The Star division now has a host of accessories, everything from go-fast bits to dress-up items. In-house customizer Jeff Pahlegyi fuels the fires with his super-clean show machines, often seen on the pages of Cycle World. And then there’s the Star Calendars, where private owners get to showcase their pride-and-joys.

Is your Yama-cruiser ready for its close-ups? Calendar candidates are canvassed on the Star website and culled down to six per year. Then ace lensman Dave Bush, one of the best moto-shooters to ever stop an f, and his merry crew of assistants seek out appropriate locations, bring in the light boxes and fire away. Here’s the results from the last two years and a smattering of the best from the previous eight:

It's odd. I've never been a person who has asks for autographs. I thought long and hard about it, though, while shooting Nicky Hayden, on hiatus from MotoGP, and “His Airness” Michael Jordan, now a roadrace team owner, at the recent AMA Fontana event.

On Saturday morning I asked my wife Emily to go grab my book. It's the book I cart around everywhere to show people, kind of a "living" copy of my work. I had decided that I was going to ask Nicky to sign it; life only passes you by once.

There I was, handing over the working copy of my 2006 book to this extremely talented individual. Even though I had just turned 45, in my mind I felt like a little kid, more so than usual. I asked Nicky if he wouldn't mind signing the cover and the full-page picture of him at Laguna carrying the Stars-n-Stripes and screaming to USGP fans, inside the book.

Emily came prepared with her Sharpie. Nicky signed the cover and then I directed him to the desired page. He looked at the picture and said to me in his drawl, "I haven't seen this before. I like this." I told him that I cover the AMA racing series and a number of MotoGP events each year. He carefully signed the page to the right of the image and then studiously went through the rest of the book, page by page, occasionally casting a glance at the timing screen before him, keeping abreast of his brothers’ lap times.

For that brief moment I was lost watching Nicky enjoy what I had created. His face changed, I realized that somewhere deep inside his psyche something had touched a chord.

Maybe that's why I love what I do. For a few days every month, I get to be a little boy, shoot imagery, make some money and meet truly talented people.

I have my Google Alerts set to “Motorcycle” and so I get a daily e-mail from Mountain View filled with motorcycle-related stories, usually about fatality crashes. Three or four a day. Sometimes I just delete it, because it’s depressing; I already know people die on motorcycles. So? They die in cars in much, much greater numbers.

But one story I couldn’t ignore. On Tuesday, August 13th, a man named Craig Hightower—aptly named, as his stature and accomplishments in our local motorcycling community are in fact towering—was on his way to work when a 33-year-old man in an SUV “brushed” Craig’s bike, causing him to swerve into a parked car. He was thrown from his ’99 Honda Blackbird and killed.

Craig, a 46-year-old Alameda, California, resident, had a happy and interesting life, thanks to being able to pursue all his passions whether they involved two wheels, kayaks, photography or his many, many friends. To see a great example of a life really well-lived, go to Craig’s website and be amazed by his narrative; as an electrical engineer, as an amateur roadracer, as a passionate dual-sport rider, as a moto-journalist.

What shines through it all is Craig’s commitment to motorcycling. Like many in the San Francisco Bay Area’s motorcycling community, Craig started riding as transportation, then got into sportbikes to have fun on the local twisty roads, and then got into AFM roadracing when he grew too fast for that. The racing was followed by an interest in dirtbikes and adventure-touring, and an eight-year career as a writer and editor for Independent Biker, one of San Francisco’s free motorcycle publications.

Hmmm. It sounds a lot like my life, and losing Craig as a pillar of our little group makes me consider my own mortality to an uncomfortable degree. Not enough to consider abandoning motorcycling or even altering how I ride—that would really piss off Craig—but just enough to feel very, very sad.

What do you think racing is? In movies we see Hollywood’s version: Two race cars duke it out down the straight. One driver, his throttle prudently limited to, say, 55 percent, is outdone by the other, who surges ahead on a foolish, risky, but gutsy 60 percent.

“Oh yeah? We’ll see about THAT,” replies the first driver, gritting his teeth as he advances his throttle to 62.5 percent. Now he, in turn, surges ahead.

And so it goes, until one or the other of them goes too far in his dicing with speed (and therefore death) and runs off the road with predictable hospital consequences. The next scene is in the trauma ward, where the glamorous girlfriend entreats the plaster-encased Fallen One to accept a middle-management position in her daddy’s insurance company.

In actual fact, every racer opens the throttle—at every moment on the track—as far as tires, chassis, suspension setup and personal style will permit.

This doesn’t go over with the entertainment industry, or with “fans” far from the facts of racing life. They require that a gutsy rider, on garbage tires and a misfiring motorbike borrowed at the last minute can by pure heart overcome all the rest to win. Sincerity trumps ability? Yearning trumps judgment?

This is why so many voices can now be heard, calling for the electronics on current MotoGP 800s to be banned. They think this will bring heart, hot blood and big balls back to the winner’s circle. Real men, on real machines.

I would like those voices to count racing’s current blessings. There are more brands involved in MotoGP than at any previous time—five. There are more riders on the grid capable of winning than at any previous time. MotoGP racing is faster (racing is about being the fastest) than at any time previous. The high-side accidents that formerly injured so many 500cc two-stroke GP riders have become extremely rare. What’s not to like?

Electronics, the voices insist, will transform MotoGP into a colorless contest of engineering technique. Toni Elias and Valentino Rossi, colorless? Marco Melandri, carried into the Laguna pressroom with his brow visibly furrowed by pain, having finished third with an ankle injury, colorless? His remark that, “I get into a good rhythm and I think maybe I can make a good race,” was the dramatic understatement of the whole USGP weekend. The resounding push-and-shove between mega-tire rivals Bridgestone and Michelin, colorless?

Racing has changed—that I readily admit. My fear is that the yearning of traditionalists for “racing in the raw” will just mean a return of the numerous high-side accidents that caused electronic control development to begin in 1989 in the first place. Must riders fall and be injured to please the Luddites who long to replace the computer with the carburetors and magnetos of old?

The USGP circus was about to invade Laguna Seca, Cycle World was testing Kawasaki’s hot new Concours14 sport-tourer, and I needed to transport myself and my girlfriend, Rosanne, to the MotoGP races. There are miles and miles of fabulous twisty roads between Newport Beach and Laguna Seca (well, after you get out of the Los Angeles megalopolis, anyway), including the scenic Pacific Coast Highway, and I was eager to see how well the Concours14 handled them two-up.

That prospect also had great appeal to Rosanne (“Ro” to her friends), who must have been a GP racer in a former life; she is utterly fearless as a passenger and actually encourages me to attack as many backroads as I can find. So the three of us (Ro, the C-14 and I) rode north, headed for the squiggliest lines on the map between Newport and Monterey.

By the time we railed through the first three or four sets of fast corners, I knew we were in for a fantastic ride. The big Kawasaki was amazingly agile in the turns, arcing through them with an ease and neutrality that belied the considerable weight of the entire package. The bike itself is no lightweight, squashing the scales at a mighty 658 pounds dry; if you add my fully dressed weight (225 lb.), that of Ro (about 130), the 30 or so pounds of “stuff” we had in the spacious saddlebags, plus a full tank of gas (about 35 lb.), we’re talking about a nearly 1100-pound lump of bike and cargo.

Despite that, I was astonished at how light and responsive the bike felt. Kawasaki apparently has uncovered a few secrets regarding the physics of mass centralization, centers of gravity and steering geometry, because the fully loaded Concours flicked into, through and out of corners like something weighing hundreds of pounds less. Not only did it surprise me, it must have dumbfounded some of the solo sportbike riders we carved past on the Coast Highway, sparks flying from the footpeg feelers and black stripes marking our line. Combine that with a 1352cc engine that can rocket the bike down the road like someone pushed the “Fast Forward” button, even in its fully loaded “supertanker” mode, and I felt as though I was riding a size-XXL roadracer.

Our return ride wasn’t as exciting but did demonstrate the Concours 14’s terrific versatility. Ro was scheduled to have arthroscopic knee surgery shortly after our return from the USGP, and the combination of a day-and-a-half ride to Laguna and all the walking she did while there had aggravated an already painful condition. So we decided to take the shortest, quickest route home by simply droning down Highway 101, a freeway in most places and a four-lane open road in others. The Kawi handled that straight-line ride with aplomb, cruising effortlessly and smoothly while keeping both of us comfortable and content. I arrived home feeling fresh enough to have immediately turned around and done the entire 400-plus-mile ride again, and even Ro said she felt just fine except for her aching knee.

Clearly, the Concours14 is an exceptional performer that threatens to shake up the rankings in the sport-touring realm. A comparison test down the road will settle that matter, and I can’t wait to be part of it. Meanwhile, if you want to read more about the C-14, there’s a WebRide on the bike elsewhere on this site, as well as a Kevin Cameron-penned “First Look” technical analysis. And the October issue of Cycle World, scheduled to hit newsstands on September 4, will offer a full test of this sport-touring beast, complete with performance numbers and dyno results. If you have even a passing interest in sport-touring, you owe it to yourself to check out these stories.

By the way, I apologize for the use of stock photos here rather than pictures of our ride. I had intended to snap photos along the way with my trusty Canon Elph point-and-shoot; but early in the ride, the camera worked its way out of a pouch in the right saddlebag and rattled around enough to shake something loose inside. After that, it refused to work. Sorry ’bout that.

Forgive the Britney-ism, please, but Oops, I’ve done it again. Spied on eBay last weekend was this blue-and-chrome beauty, a 1960 Triumph Trophy TR6, a period custom from the early Sixties.

"Was purchased from the original builder," began the item description. "Bike won the Mild Custom class at the 1962 Boston World of Wheels show. Has been in storage for years."

They call that provenance on PBS’s “Antiques Road Show.” Here was a survivor showbike, unmolested as most of them were by a succession of ham-fisted owners. Besides a chromed frame, other of-the-era touches included tank and fenders treated to the Wonders of Bondo, with heavily sculpted surfaces. Odd is a kind way to describe the twin stacked headlamps, not to mention the antenna protruding six inches forward from a tunnel in the front fender. How very Jetsons!

“Chrome pieces have surface rust that cleans up but not perfect,” disclosed the owner. “Magneto has been rebuilt, and I’ve cleaned up the carb, tank and gas lines. Bike starts right up, sounds great and has excellent compression. Transmission works fine.”

With a day to go in the auction, no one had bid on the Triumph. Next day, with four hours remaining, still no action. Obviously some cagey eBayers were lurking, waiting to snipe in at the last second. Lord knows, I don’t need another project but the owner’s opening-bid amount seemed reasonable, less than half what a TR6 stocker would go for, so I bit, offering the minimum amount.

Darn if that wasn’t good enough! In fact, there wasn’t one other bid, proving that either 1) I’m a true visionary when it comes to recognizing the latent value in early American customs; or 2) my taste in bikes is just as bad as the guy who built the thing 45 years ago.

Sometimes it pays to be me. I was very fortunate to have good friends extend their hospitality to me and my wife at this year’s Laguna Seca MotoGP. On the Wednesday before Laguna, we started the festivities early with a visit to Nicky Hayden in Santa Monica to wish him well on his attempt to bring home the hat-trick of three victories on home soil. The whole Hayden family was there at the Huntley Hotel for lunch as part of a kick-off for the week’s events, as well as a book-signing party for Nicky’s biography.

Megan and I look forward to the July GP all year, and we try to make the most of the time, from the ride up the coast to morning walks on the beach. We love the races and catching up with people, some of whom we haven’t seen since the last GP. Almost unlimited access at the track doesn’t hurt. We didn’t get in the MotoGP pits but we were able to establish a home base at the CW Turn 5 hospitality chalet, cruise through the AMA paddock and enjoy a walk around the circuit back to the Jordan Suzuki track-view terrace. And that was just Friday during the day.

Saturday night was spent at Andy Leisnser’s world-famous cocktail party on 17-Mile Drive, but Friday evening was my favorite of all the weekend’s activities; the Yamaha dinner at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.

On Sunday, we watched the race from the comfort of the Red Bull hospitality suite with Hayden’s high-school friends…who were all devastated by the Turn 2 turn of events. We turned our hopes to Roger Lee’s results.

It was over all too soon. I showed up for work the next day still wearing my passes around my neck, looking for the girl in the little black dress to fetch me a cold drink. No such luck!

Think you have a great gig? Guess again. Award for top job goes to Randy Mamola. Okay, so the ex-500cc GP front-runner works weekends, but his mobile office is a Ducati Desmosedici!

Mamola is point man for Ducati’s two-seater project—a.k.a. the “world’s fastest rollercoaster ride.” Ride-alongs are offered at most GPs (13 this season) and generally reserved for VIPs—actors, musicians, ex-racers, corporate types. Of those, some have extensive street and track experience; others have never thrown a leg over a motorcycle. Regardless of his passenger’s two-wheel know-how, Mamola always delivers the same result: a mile-wide smile. To date, he’s given more than 600 rides.

Based on the race-winning 989cc GP6, the grab-handle-equipped two-seater has its own dedicated factory-trained mechanic and engineer, and is said to make 235 horsepower at 16,500 rpm and 74 foot-pounds of torque at 14,000 rpm. Claimed dry weight is 326 pounds. Top end, two-up, is more than 165 mph. A whole lotta motorcycle, in other words.

I had the opportunity to join the gregarious Mamola for two laps of recently repaved Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca prior to MotoGP qualifying for July’s Red Bull USGP. “This isn’t a Disneyland ride,” he warned his passengers-to-be in the pre-ride briefing. “It’s the real thing. It’s the closest you’ll come to riding a real GP bike.” Asked if the bike is equipped with traction control, Mamola smiled and pointed to his right wrist. “No,” he said softly. “This is my traction control.”

I’ve only ridden on the back of a motorcycle a few times (hating every moment!), but I really enjoyed this experience. I was ready for the breathtaking acceleration (Mamola wheelied half the length of the front straightaway), vertigo-inducing lean angles and ear-splitting exhaust note, but nothing could have prepared me for the claimed 1.4-g braking afforded by the carbon Brembos and gummy Bridgestones. When Mamola dropped anchor for banked Turn 5, my butt left the seat and my boots floated off the footpegs. Hey, nice handstand!

For years I have put off some of the more simple projects on the Velocette. Piston seizures are quite distracting, so polishing the paint or fitting new tires goes to the back burner. Finally, I have taken action. The collection of “easy” parts to be applied to the motorcycle had piled up enough to reach critical mass, so now the MSS is occupying its proper place of attention in the center of my garage.

The best single application of parts was for making electrical power. Since I got the bike, there has been no charging system. There was an electrical system (wires running to and fro on the bike), and I was able to have lights for some portion of an evening if I charged the 12-volt sealed battery I bought at the local electronics store (which I hid it inside the faux-hard-rubber 6-volt battery case).

But that is not stylish, even though it was pretty reliable. It is way more stylish to get a rebuilt 60-watt Lucas generator and a new wiring harness, and to put your faith wholly into making your own Direct Current on the fly.

The previous owner fabricated his own harness (he was a construction electrician), and God bless him for using red and black wire, rather than just one color for everything, which I’ve seen. But it wasn’t too pretty in a vintage sense, and it wasn’t set up for a voltage regulator, so starting fresh seemed best. The new harness fit just right, and was Lucas-style rather than the original Miller that the bike would have come equipped with.

This was just fine, because I had a wiring diagram for a later bike that used Lucas, so wire colors were perfect and easy to figure out. After a pretty heated crimp-vs.-solder debate on our Classic and Antique Bikes Forum regarding some of the old-style bullet connectors I had to terminate a few wires with, I got it together, flicked the light switch and not one ounce of smoke leaked out of the harness or battery.

Better still, I fired up the bike and the new/old generator cranked out an easy 8 amps on the reproduction Miller ammeter, although I’m not sure of the figure because the gauge reads +2 amps even when the bike’s not running. Sweet. Don’t tell the purists I’ve got a solid-state voltage regulator hidden in the toolbox, or that the belt drive for the generator uses a Kevlar-reinforced toothed belt and modern, machined cogs. How long will it work? Hard to say, but what could go wrong?

Reason for a weekend road trip? Well, I’d seen a gleaming white gas tank dangling from the rafters in a photo taken at Brown’s Cycles in Paso Robles when I was on assignment touring California on Cycle World’s long-term Yamaha FJR1300AE. Hopefully, the tank would improve the resale value of a certain ’89 Yamaha XT600. I ask for some time off to go get it.

“You can have Friday off if I get a blog entry out of it,” the boss tells me, “but I’m not paying for a room this time.” Fine. Somewhere along the California coast was a fire pit with my name on it.

But first the tedious escape from the ominous catacombs of Los Angeles County. NPR blares through the speakers. “Gas prices soar… Iran wants nukes… War goes on… Ozone depleted…” Two hours later, when Santa Maria’s KXFM greets me with Rush’s “Tom Sawyer,” my smile broadens for the drive through central California.

“That’ll be $20 a night,” the pretty park ranger tells me at Pismo State Park. “Two nights please,” I respond with no hesitation. The Honda XL250 comes off the Ford and we go in search of chowder. Hustlers, 1-percenters, unemployed and the newly retired crowd the claustrophobic sidewalks down Pismo’s Main Street. Another dirty beach town littered with tattoo parlors, taco stands and surf shops. Ah, feels just like home.

Back at camp, I meet the neighbors. Shaggy is a real humanitarian; his big dream is to score a license to sell medicinal pot. Until then, his girlfriend Gabby (the quiet one) and their friend Andy (a malnourished Goth) are looking for jobs and a cheap apartment. Around their fire, topics range from Yellowstone’s inevitable eruption to neo-Nazism to other dim world views. With nothing to add, I return to my blue nylon domicile, which glows like a candle in the blackness of night. Eucalyptus filters the gusty ocean breeze, the ground is soft under my bag and I peacefully fall to sleep while dreaming up big plans for tomorrow.

The sun rises at my feet as Nature greets the day in a symphonic crescendo. A swift kick wakes the Honda and we storm Grover Beach trying to stay upright in the silty drifts. After setting up a few photos in the sweet morning light, I load the Honda back into my Ranger and we’re on the 101 to Paso Robles. Since they’re closing soon for racing, I have to get to Brown’s early.

Shop guy David sets me up with the tank, and off comes the XL250 again for local exploration. But only yards from the shop, “snap” goes the throttle cable. Back at the counter, David is sympathetic but realistic. No suitable cable in stock and no salvage XLs on the lot. I get the same response at Miller’s Honda down the highway. Only slightly disappointed, I return to the beach and explore the dunes like an avatar in the computer game “Second Life,” piecing together some kind of web story to satisfy the boss.

Back home Sunday night, I discover that the tank picked up at Brown’s is for a 1990 XT rather than an ’89. An awkward fit but, hopefully, close enough.

After one ride (and crash), by default I’m the staff monowheel expert, so it was only natural that my friend Todd Eagan sent me a link to the J. Wood & Company auctioneers website (www.jwoodandcompany.com), where I found this one-wheel oddity up for bids. According to the item description:

“This MV Augusta 60cc Monomoto Superleggera is the experimental machine ridden by a wealthy young Italian by the name of Luiggi Bandini. During practice for the 1954 Milano-Taranto roadrace, Bandini tragically lost control in a misty mountain section while waving to a pretty spectator. His grief-stricken father, Count Enzio Bandini (also known as “The Falcon”), never again permitted anyone to ride or even view this advanced design. Knowledge of its whereabouts faded. Eventually, rumors of this fascinating machine reached the motorcycling bon vivant Todd Fell. On a trip to Naples, his quest to find it was rewarded at the Bandini country villa, where in 2004, fifty years after the tragic accident, the late Count’s family was persuaded to part with the treasure."

When the hammer came down, a new owner had paid $17,500 for this unusual and historic machine. I’d love to give it a try but I couldn’t guarantee this beautiful one-of-a-kind one-wheeler would be returned in its present pristine condition. Come to think of it, I probably wouldn’t be, either. Still, it’s an important and little-known bit of moto-history.

The biggest motorcycle racing event of the year in the U.S. always brings with it new product launches, special events and a lot of fanfare. Laguna Seca’s 2007 MotoGP event was no exception. Walking around, I found two examples of how different companies attract attention to their latest products.

Among the special events was the launch of Project H apparel, a new line of officially licensed Honda riding jackets and casual wear designed by Bruce Parker of Parker Synergies. If you want to draw the attention of the over 50,000 spectators in attendance, you really have to do something special. Parker Synergies’ trick was to suck the masses over to the giant Honda vendor display for the unveiling of the Project H CBR1000RR built by Robert Fisher of Roaring Toyz.

Fisher is known for his super-clean and sometimes over-the-top custom sportbikes, so he was an obvious choice when Project H’s need for attention arose. The CBR features a trick custom swingarm fabricated by our friend Gregg DesJardins of Gregg’s Customs in addition to his trick turnsignals and mirror block-off plates. Beautiful Performance Machine Contrast Torque wheels with a whopping 8 x18 inch rear hoop are shod with Pirelli Diablo tires, a brand-new 240mm job in the rear. Performance Machine radial-mount front brake and rotors handle stopping duties. Candy Apple Red frame, dash and fork lowers highlight the Project H paint, which was sprayed by Ryan Hathaway from RT. It did its job; the Honda tent was packed!

The bike isn’t just a pretty face, however. It features a Cycle-Logic Motorsports turbo and a custom-machined billet airbox. The engine is good for 240 horsepower running 8 psi of boost, which it passes to a lock-up clutch with a clear cover and internal LEDs so you can watch the unit in action. Exhaust is a Roaring Toyz unit.

Meanwhile, on nearby Ducati Island, Ducati Marlboro team riders Casey Stoner and Loris Capirossi demonstrated that there’s a lot more to being a big-name MotoGP pilot than just showing up at world-class racetracks and riding around in circles. Between free practice, qualifying and then the actual races, these guys spend much of their time doing public relations for the team and their many sponsors.

In the case of both Stoner and Capirossi, they share a common sponsorship by Oakley sunglasses. The Southern California-based company produces an entire line of licensed Ducati-branded eyewear. On Friday, Oakley and Ducati co-hosted a function on Laguna’s Ducati Island, with both team riders signing autographs and singing the praises of their trendy shades.

While the MotoGP stars were scrawling their John Hancocks on posters, Oakley took invited media-types like me into its high-tech mobile testing demonstration rig. We were given multiple demos, including two different high-velocity impact test procedures. Impressive? Let’s just put it this way: If you ever happen to put your eyes in the line of fire of an eighth-inch-diameter steel ball traveling at 150 feet per second, you’ll want to be wearing Oakleys.

Do Nortons make you horny, baby, do they? I’m randy for one, too. They have that certain, as the French would say…oh, I don’t know what. Smashingly shaggelicious, yeah! Mojo amundo.

Boffo ad campaign, too. My chums at Cycle World (decent sorts, for Yanks) tell me that Norton Girls ran on the prime inside cover of almost every CW and Cycle magazine from 1970 through mid-’74, when the brass at Norton-Triumph canned the crumpets in favor of tech-oriented ads, daft bastards. Today, the adverts would cost about $3 million, give or take a few quid. Crikee!

Some of the early ones are a bit saucy. “The Norton Experience,” with hiked-up miniskirt and cheeky wordplay (“Long before your eyes laid her…”) is just too-too. But for the most part, good taste prevailed. No overblown jubblies poking you in the eye, just an all-natural British bird, posed ever so fetchingly. Some (“Uncomplicated Sophistication” and “Fulfilment”) show less skin than your average girls school communion.

Wait a tick! Just noticed “Go Far Faster’s” naughty belt, with its hands clasped suggestively. Oh, behave!

Personal fave-raves? “Beautiful” certainly is, kicking off the Norton Girl ad campaign and setting the fashion tone with that groovy paisley-print frock and leather knee-highs. Cor, I’d have her back to the shagpad for a sensual massage quicker’n Bob’s yer uncle! I proudly stand up and cast a vote for “Freedom,” too. Satin hot-pants and suede go-go boots, yeah, baby! (Shame ’bout that bike, though).

But my pick for Swingingest Norton Chick Of All Time has to be the altogether shaggadellic “Superplus!” Hip-huggers and a halter top? A Commando 850 between her legs? That’s a bit of all right, baby, oh yes!

You never know what historical nuggets you’ll trip over when wandering in a motorcycle-makers’ factory. On a recent trip to Italy, visiting the Bimota factory in Rimini, I had quite a lot of time to wander around the facility and see what this small boutique bike-maker had hidden behind closed doors.

Among the historical bikes littered throughout the lobby and backrooms, a few stand head and shoulders above the rest, like Anthony Gobert’s Bimota SB8R. This is one of the most important bikes in Bimota’s bumpy but storied history, as Gobert won the first race of the 2000 Phillip Island World Superbike Series on it. Not only did he give the company one of its most famous race wins, he did it in style by crushing the field by over 29 seconds in the rainy race. Most of the bikes on display are runners, but unfortunately I wasn’t able to hear the howl from the Suzuki TL-powered Superbike as it has a cracked cylinder head.

Those of you with a sharp eye will also notice the 500 V-Due parked just behind Gobert’s ride. There were actually a handful of the fuel-injected 500cc two-strokes on site, the bike that arguably bankrupted the company in 2001. With the dream of building its own engine far in the past, Bimota is now back in the business of stuffing tried-and-true powerplants into innovative and stylish chassis’ of its own.

The coolest bike, parked right in Bimota’s front lobby, is Davide Tardozzi’s (currently the Xerox Ducati team manager in WSBK) YB4 R on which he won five races in the World Superbike Championship in 1988. Tardozzi narrowly missed out on the championship in what was the series’ inaugural season, finishing third behind American Fred Merkel who took the title ahead of Fabrizio Pirovano in second. Bimota also missed out winning the manufacturers’ title that year to Honda despite more wins and 15 podiums to Big Red’s 16. Other historic bikes on display included a KB1 and Tesi 1D EF equipped with a rear-facing camera and video monitor. What’s really neat is the fact that they all run (except the SB8R) and have been transported to various rounds of the World Superbike championship this year to help commemorate that series’ 20 years of competition. Here’s to hoping that Bimota is back on solid ground and can continue to innovate for years to come.

The guy was pissed, to say the least. And big. Like 6-5 or 6-6, obviously muscular and in the neighborhood of 300 pounds. “What the @#%& is it with you and those *#%!*&%$ headlights? If you don’t stop flashing them on and off in my mirrors, I’m gonna stuff ’em up your %@#!”

“Uh, I’m sorry, but this isn’t my bike,” I replied apologetically. “I’m just testing it, and there’s something weird...”

“I don’t give a #$&% whose bike it is or what problem it has,” he interjected. “If you don’t stop with the flashing, you’re gonna have the problem.”

“Gotcha,” I said, which seemed to appease him enough that he squeezed himself back into his Honda Accord.

I was on an on-ramp to the 405 freeway here in SoCal, mired in painfully slow stop-and-go traffic caused by an overturned 18-wheeler just up ahead. The big rig had all five lanes blocked, and the California Highway Patrol was only allowing one car at a time to pass the crash scene by driving slowly on a narrow part of the right shoulder that wasn’t blocked by the truck.

I was riding the Benelli TnT 1130 testbike we had just decided to add to our long-term fleet, and it has a bizarre “feature” that causes the headlights to go out when the fans on the dual radiators kick in while the engine is idling or running at low rpm. The fans sometimes come on for just a few seconds and then turn off, making the headlights switch on and off with equal frequency. That was what so incensed the defensive lineman in the Accord.

And that was not the first flashing-headlights incident. A few minutes earlier on that same on-ramp, a guy in a Toyota trying to merge from an adjoining ramp cut into a tiny space right in front of me that was about two feet shorter than his 4Runner. Thankfully, the traffic was stopped, and he just missed the TnT’s front wheel by a couple of inches. When I blew the horn and yelled at him, he got out of his car, walked back to me and started apologizing. “Jeez, I’m sorry,” he said. “When you flashed your headlights at me, I thought you were telling me to pull in front of you.”

“No,” I said, “It’s just the goofy electrics on this bike. The headlights turn off when the cooling fans kick in, then turn back on when the fans shut off.”

“I hadn’t thought about it until now,” I said, “but you’re right—it could be very dangerous if people in cars misinterpret my intentions with the headlights.” Little did I know that only a few minutes later, that misinterpretation would put me face-to-face with the Incredible Hulk.

Benelli’s engineers came up with this ridiculous idea as an “energy-saving” feature. The two cooling fans draw enough amperage that the charging system cannot compensate for the loss at or near idle, so a circuit in the headlight relay turns off the lights when the voltage drops below a certain level. Apparently, flashing your headlights on and off in Italy doesn’t prompt the same kinds of reactions it does here in the States.

As soon as I can find a way to wire around this feature, it’ll be history. Too many car drivers already seem to have it out for motorcyclists. I don’t need to give them any more reasons.

Spinal-cord injuries can happen to anyone. It happened to motocross world champ Heinz Kinigadner’s brother Klaus. Ten years later—with cruel irony—Heinz’s son Hannes suffered a similar fate at a spinal-cord-injury awareness event, of all things.

With his family stricken twice by tragedy, Kinigadner decided to do everything in his power to get his loved ones and other injured riders back on their feet. So he started the Wings for Life Foundation, a non-profit organization geared toward the furtherance of medical research and treatment of the spinal-cord injuries that result in paralysis.

Recently, I was looking through some old files that reminded me of my experience with the Wings for Life. To promote awareness Kinigadner held the Battle of Kings on Ibiza, an island off the southern coast of Spain. The event—which hasn’t been held since 2005—was an invite-only competition sponsored by Red Bull and organized by the Kinigadner family. When I participated in 2004, the contest consisted of five races: canoes, quads, supermoto, watercraft and YZF-R6-powered buggies (the second-best use for an R6 motor). Nicky Hayden was supposed to be a part of Team USA that year but his racing obligations kept him away, so I joined the American team and had a blast as a second-string King. Besides me, Team USA was composed of Suzuki MotoGP Star John Hopkins, factory America Honda rider Jake Zemke, and KR Racing’s Kurtis Roberts.

The KTM Supermoto race was rained out but my second-favorite event was the “Buggy Battle.” I made the final but my race was over when my mud-caked buggy’s throttle stuck wide open, I hit a gnarly bump, spit the chain and broke the engine case. A wild ride! Multi-time World Supermoto Champion Thierry Van den Bosch won that round.

During the quad competition, I didn’t know who to cheer for. One of the friendliest athletes I met was former 125cc World MX Champion—and now AMA West Coast Lites champ—Ben Townley. It was a great race; Townely narrowly edged out hard-charging Hopkins to take the victory.

But whatever battle you’re fighting, please remember the best cure is still preventive medicine when it comes to all types of injuries. Prevent injuries with awareness, fitness and proper safety gear. Protect your magical gift of mobility, and find out what you can do to help by going over to www.wingsforlife.com.

It’s called Euro Lust, defined as an unreasonable longing for a motorcycle not sold here in the U.S.—ironically, one that we almost certainly wouldn’t buy even it if was! Yep, it’s two-wheeled, internally combusted proof of the Grass Is Always Greener concept. How come the pencil-necked unworthies Over There get all the good stuff, huh?

Ironically, it’s not the European-made models that are motos non grata in America. We get pretty much everything BMW, Triumph, Ducati, etc. make. It’s the Japanese companies that send the salivatory glands into full-drool mode (see the photo gallery for a rundown of their many Euro-only models).

I’m susceptible to bouts of EL disease. My current unrequited love is for the Honda CB1300 Super Bol D’or. How can a bike with that name not be cool? Pretty simple piece, really: Big honkin’ four-banger, mondo torque generation, all dressed up in a retro styling package that rings deep and true with men d’un certain age such as myself.

So, why not just crank up the production lines and send this stuff to American dealerships. Not so easy. If the motor/exhaust system powering the bike is different from ones already homologated by our EPA, new certification has to be done. To be sold in California, the gas tank has to be retooled to include fuel-evaporation plumbing, and a charcoal canister has to be mounted somewhere. The DOT has its own ideas where reflectors should be mounted, how far apart turnsignals must be, and so on. American-spec brochures need to be printed up, spare parts stocked, line mechanics trained, sales people educated. Figure an easy $100,000 per model, a lot to be made up for on the sales of probably less than 1000 units.

See, we Yanks like our cruisers and our repli-racers but the track record on anything out of the ordinary is pretty poor (Yamaha TDM900, Honda GB500, et al). Of course, you or I would have the good sense and fine taste to buy something like the Super Bol D’or, right? Then again, I didn’t go for the TDM or GB when I had the chance. You?

Increasingly, I find myself in conversations with others of my generation who are despondent about professional roadracing.

“Technology is killing our sport. It’s taking the racing out of racing. Brakes and engine electronics and tires—they’re all so good now that all the bikes run the same. So there’s no passing. There’s no racing.”

“What’s happened to the excitement? I watch a procession of bikes move through a series of turns—all perfect, all in line, all at record speed. Something’s missing.”

I hear this so often that I have to take it seriously—even if these people sound eerily as though what they really miss are crashes.

One of these men then told me a story that sheds bright light on this concern. It seems conditions at some long-ago regional dirt-track were so bad, with exposed steel posts and concrete around the track, that the riders nearly went on strike. Then they had a better idea, one with the added appeal of enabling them to be paid. They would stage a fake race—ride around the track in a pack at speeds just enough slower than racing to be pretty safe—and then “play grab-ass.” They would pass and re-pass, get spectacularly sideways and recover. In short, they would play riding games on the track.

The spectators loved it. They said they’d never before seen such close racing, such exciting action. They would be back next weekend, they said, for more of the same.

Spectators and racers have completely different interests. Racers need speed and control to get paid and remain employed. But those qualities are boring abstractions to spectators, who instead want surprise, randomness, unpredictable action.

This dashes the scales from my eyes, and I see at last that we have racing exactly backward. As riders rise through the ranks, they gain skill and access to more controllable, faster machinery. This combination of skill and technology is killing racing.

Therefore our national and international events must at once switch to presenting Novice club racing—the classes that are richest in what spectators yearn to see: Action! In Novice, the wobbling, fairing-bashing and piling-up are continuous. Novice is often a veritable two-wheeled demo derby. This is the future. This is serious TV material.

What shall we do with the top riders and teams? I haven’t quite worked that one out yet. If you think of something, let me know.

When the poet wrote, "You had to see it not to believe it," he had something else in mind, but for me that's the perfect description for the AMA's Vintage Motorcycle Days.

Friday, opening day, it's dark o'clock and pouring rain. We hydroplane through the town of Lexington, Ohio, get to the track gate...and we're already in a long line. To our right, acres of parking are already filled and over the rise is the swap meet, also spanning acres, already mired in mud and swarming with buyers and sellers and lookers.

The AMA and its historical interests are close allied with AHRMA, so it followed that the historical celebration has been joined by vintage racing, one reason VMD is located at the park-like road course. There's a theme every year. For '07, it was the 50th Anniversary of Harley-Davidson's Sportster and the model’s ancestors and derivatives. I was invited to lead seminars 'cause I've written two Sportster histories and know the true facts, as we say in the newspaper business.

Which is why we were in that line at dawn. The AMA claims 40,000 people will go through the Mid-Ohio gates during the three days and I for one believe it. After being overwhelmed by the sheer mass of enthusiasts, we crept through the pits and paddock and were overwhelmed again by the number of roadrace entries. Our sport has segments, and I think of the segments as circles, with roadracing and motocross smaller circles inside the racing circle.

So? So VMD is an eccentric selection of these circles. The swap meet covered acres of ground and never have I seen so many “project” bikes, tired and complete next to rollers surrounded by piles of tanks and fenders. Eccentric because when I signed on for this voyage, I knew it was an XL celebration. I have a set of XLR engine cases that need engine internals and I have a rolling early XR-750 chassis. Seemed to me a swap meet at an XL celebration should offer some of what I need.

Wrong. The Hodakas outnumbered the Harleys. I traded a book for a tire but that was the only find. There were some Big Twin piles and there was a Sportster show but there was diddly-squat in between.

Well. The roadracers practiced and competed despite the rain. There were parades and when it was too wet for demo rides, the stunt teams kept the crowds entertained. Meanwhile, my Sportster history seminar drew—I'd guess—40 people. I am neither an accomplished nor a comfortable public speaker but the attendees were polite and attentive.

Soon as we could, we headed upstate for the Vintage Half-Mile at the Ashland County fairgrounds. I had my first XR-750, which had been on the street for 10 years. All I did was take off the lights and attach number plates. Tech inspection was no problem and then we waited out the crew drying the track, soaked by the morning rain. Practice was discouraging. The XR wouldn’t pull WOT, I guess because too much too soon flashed the plugs, spares of which I didn't have with me.

Then things got worse. Huge dark clouds. We ran the heats and I had the new experience of running wide open—Bang! Pow! Lurch!—as the other chaps whipped past. They posted positions for the mains, with me 11th out of 15, as we were hit by a classic Midwest summer storm. The lightning flashed and the thunder roared and the rain hit, all barely this side of total dark.

Dirt track is the autistic stepchild of AMA and AHRMA; we can accomplish amazing feats, we have unequalled skills in some things, but we lack social graces and we don't always play well with others. On this occasion, though, VMD had laid on a dinner ride, from Mid-Ohio to the fairgrounds. We had a good crowd and I suspect the VMD didn't want to let them escape until they'd seen (personal view here) what real racing is all about.

Except that four years ago, a man on one or our rides was killed by lightning. Wives remember these things. Mine said, "I don't want you out on that wet track." The secret of a happy marriage, from the husband's point of view, is a firm, manly "yes, dear." So we packed and left. Good move, as it happened; they cancelled later in the evening.

Again at dawn, from the highway, first thing in view was an ant hill, a swarm of vintage motocrossers. They had more heroes, more former champions, than I can list here and the banks around the track were solid spectator. At the same time there was constant motion, from the motocross to the roadraces to and from the swap meet and the concessions stands and the seminars. Inside the road course was more of the same: parades and club meetings. I realized the secret was, there was more to do than could be done, while at the same time there was always a place to park, thanks to the skill and courtesy of the organizers, track staff and local law people.

The unhappy ending here is that a family situation required us to get home in 39 hours, which we did although it meant I cancelled the last seminar, disappointing one-tenth of one percent of the attendees. The happy ending is that if you like old bikes and gloriously scenic country and vintage racing and finding, oh, an engine cradle for your Champion frame, VMD is one of those things to do before you die.

The USGP returned to Laguna Seca, and for me, this event always gives me a chance to catch up with some of my colleagues who cover the MotoGP series, to make new acquaintances and to see how two totally different racing series (MotoGP and AMA Superbike) come together for a weekend. This year it had some added bonuses besides the proximity to my home just an hour’s drive up the coast.

Last year we had scorching-hot weather, and people were still reminiscing about that and other track issues that were lurking in the background and threatening to make a re-appearance, but fortunately those concerns didn’t materialize. Instead, we had mild, comfortable weather and fewer of the snarls and snags that frustrated thousands of fans in 2006.

For me, though, the highlight of the weekend was watching some riders that I routinely cover here in the States get some moments of glory--especially Chaz Davies and Roger Hayden, who were the stars of the weekend. Chaz has become a good friend, and I almost felt like a proud dad watching how well he performed over the weekend at such short notice. Both he and Roger had very little seat time on their MotoGP machines, and Chaz had never ridden at Laguna Seca--let alone ride a bike with all the bells and whistles. Yet despite being forced to pit because of a stone that mangled his sprocket, Chaz went back out and really put his heart into it. And Roger simply rocked.

But the real beauty of a race weekend at Laguna Seca is quite simply being able to cover a race, perform my artistic and documentary duties, and at the end of the day take a 40-mile drive home and sleep in my own bed.

Homer Weber, 61, rode his motorcycle to the Honda Hoot in Knoxville, Tennessee, from Cuba City, Wisconsin, a trip of about 800 miles. He’s going home by another way and all told, he’ll cover 2200 miles on his trip. Not all that remarkable, given how good today’s touring bikes are—people do it all the time. But Mr. Weber is taking this trip on a motorcycle that’s nearing a half-century old, a 1965 Honda Dream, and that is remarkable.

“I stay away from the Interstates and ride the secondary roads mostly,” says the plain-speaking Weber. “I cruise along about 50 mph or so; it could go faster but that’s as fast as I like to take it.” And just like the Melanie Safka song of his generation says, he “don’t go too fast, but he goes pretty far.” Indeed, when Weber bought the bike in 1966 for $480, it had 5000 miles on the clock. Since then he’s ridden it another 184,000 miles. That’s a lot of zeroes to put on a bike with a 300cc engine.

Not that the bike hasn’t needed some attention over the years, and Weber, being a mechanic and welder, has done all the work himself. “I replaced a rod bearing and a main bearing and I’ve done the top end three or four times,” he says proudly. “I’ve got two more of these Dreams at home, one I use for parts and the other runs real good but it’s not a dresser like this one.” I looked at the “dresser,” and liked this man all the more for his obvious pride in his handiwork. He has created his own aftermarket touring accessories, and say what you will about the aesthetics of this motorcycle; he loves it, it runs great and he rides it a lot. I’m not sure that can be improved upon.

I asked him why he has this love affair with this particular motorcycle, and he tells me that there’s just something about the looks of this Dream that he likes and that “it’s fun to see how much people like to talk about this bike.”

After we chatted for a while, Weber told me that he’ll take a side trip on the way home and go to Enon, Ohio, to see an observed trials meet. I told him that it’s nice to see someone who likes to watch trials, because it’s not such a popular sport. “Oh, I’m not just a spectator,” he says calmly, “I compete in lots of events on my Gas Gas trials bike. I won’t compete at Enon because I don’t have my trials bike with me, but I was thinking of towing it here on a trailer.” I opine that, yes, it would be very hard for his 305 Dream to tow a trailer carrying another motorcycle.

“Yes,” he answers matter-of-factly, “that’s why I tow the trailer behind my Honda Pacific Coast.” And with that he smiled, started the Dream and rode away, his motorcycle purring sweetly and evoking a hundred memories. I watched him go, waving to other well-wishers who enjoy meeting a gentle and eccentric man as much as I do.

If an army marches on its stomach, motorcyclists roll on theirs. My favorite part of touring—and I’m just being honest here—is eating. At breakfast, I talk about where we’re stopping for lunch, at lunch I’m planning dinner, and as I drift off to sleep I’m thinking about breakfast. A steadfast reader of my “work” may deduce that I’m mostly in the motojournalism biz for the lavishly catered press intros and other events. I can neither confirm nor deny that.

But you may be the same way. You might remember touring roads not for their snaking turns or scenic vistas, but for the hot crispiness of the onion rings or smokiness of the barbeque you consumed next to your parked bike. In fact, you may see motorcycles as two-wheeled excuses to sample as many new menu items as possible.

I’ve got just the TV show for you. “Feasting on Asphalt” is all about motorcycles and road food. I missed last season, where Alton Brown—famed TV personality, restaurant chef and author of a best-selling cookbook—and his crew saddled up on BMW adventure-bikes and headed across the USA, taking backroads and stopping at the kinds of restaurants, diners and small holes-in-the-wall that you usually see only locals frequenting. They rode from South Carolina to California, sampling barbeque, burgers, ice cream, biscuits, fried chicken and even a pork brain sandwich. When they’re too far from an eatery, Alton prepares meals with whatever he finds or has on him, like bean-and-bacon soup in a 12-volt crock pot. Now, that’s road food.

This season, Alton and his crew are traveling from the Gulf Coast to Minnesota, following the banks of the “Big Muddy.” The season ends September 9, so you’ve missed him eating gator and other Bayou favorites, but there are plenty more gustatory treats in store as they roll north. Lutefisk!

So be sure to check it out. Just don’t watch it hungry! You can get more info, including pictures, maps and video clips from the Food Network website.

We’re a lean staff here at Cycle World.com, which means some of us must venture out of the bunker and take on additional duties. So opportunities for enjoyable extra-curricular activities crop up fairly frequently. Recently Editor Edwards gave me the nod to head south for the American press introduction of the Kawasaki Versys. He made sure to remind me that this would be my first intro, “So ride smart, be professional and for God’s sake don’t wreck a press bike!”

Cruising down Highway 1, en route to the Paradise Point Resort and Spa where the intro took place, my mind lingered on multi-purpose motorcycles. I’ve put over 13,000 miles in six short months on my personal KTM 950 Adventure and haven’t had a problem yet. It’s been to Baja, on extended road trips and serves as my daily commuter. “I couldn’t ask for more,” I reminded myself.

One hundred miles later, I arrived at the hotel and hopped off my 950. After that ride, the Versys had a tough act to follow. After all, the Katoom is fast, smooth, handles great on pavement and is fun to ride. How could a bike costing 40 percent less beat it?

The tech briefing that evening was short. We learned that the name Versys is a derivative of the words “versatile” and “system.” The engine—borrowed from the Ninja 650—has seen some major improvements, and the suspension was inspired by Kawasaki’s Supercross championship-winning KX450F. An odd coupling indeed.

After glossing over my notes early the next morning it was time to jump on the bike for a 160-mile ride. My reservations about a cramped cockpit and limited wind protection were quickly dispelled. The Versys sets the rider up in a comfortable, yet aggressive seating position. My 6-foot 4-inch frame was comfortable and reasonably covered by the minimal windscreen. In fact, even though I looked like a trained bear on a tricycle, I was comfortable. I wished I could say the same about the borrowed boots that were two sizes too small for my size-14 grape-stompers.

To keep with the versatility theme, Kawasaki ran us through the mountains on Highway 78. It was a dirty, bumpy and nasty stretch of tarmac—one that perfectly suited the Versys’ chassis, suspension and engine combination. The brakes, power and suspension worked well on the varied terrain. “Maybe I’ve found my new bike,” I thought to myself.

Stopping for lunch in Julian, most all in attendance had a smile on their faces. We spent lunch discussing the machine and re-hydrating after riding in near 100-degree temperatures. Dicing it up with these moto-journalists was fun, but the logjam of e-mails crowding my Blackberry’s inbox reminded me of my second life back at the magazine.

It wasn’t long before I was back on my own bike and headed up the coast. Back to my cubicle, e-mails and updating the website. But the trip home let me think about how great a well-rounded bike—like my KTM or this new Versys—is. Touring, commuting or strafing a bumpy, twisted canyon road, these bikes do it all.

The custom show at this year’s Honda Hoot was a good-natured and fun show, not the serious stuff of arenas and high promotion. There were only 17 motorcycles entered, metric cruisers only. Mostly, the bikes were like Elvis impersonators; none of them look like the original, but they all look like each other. Except for one: an exotic red-and-gold custom Honda GL1100 sitting on the end of the row of show specials. I recognized it; back in the day it was the king of the show circuit. Ah, but that was a long time ago. Now it sits in a rally show almost as an afterthought.

This old campaigner sitting out in the bright Knoxville sunshine is showing its age. Even though it has only a thousand miles on the clock, the years are evident in small ways; chipped paint here, cracked bondo there. But worse than that, it looks old fashioned and that’s death in the show ring. The custom-bike-show world is as trend conscious as the cover of Vogue magazine. Fashion is always transient, and coffin gas tanks are as passé as bell bottoms. This show is a people’s-choice affair but the spectators pause only briefly to look at the Wing, as if it were an antique, a curiosity.

The bike is now up for sale, and the owner, Phillip Wallace of Knoxville, Tennessee hopes he can find a buyer for it who will love it as much as he has these 26 years. He worked at Shelly’s Custom Bike Shop in Franklin, Kentucky where the bike was built in 1981.

“A guy came in with a new 1100 Gold Wing a week after he bought it,” says Wallace, “and asked if we could build a custom out of it that would win shows. This is what we turned out for him.” The actual designer was Dave Shelly, who, for this particular bike obviously took some design cues from Arlen Ness, apparent in the squared-off, narrow tank, sculpted fenders and the gold-leaf paint scheme.

Immediately upon completion the bike went on the show circuit and for four years won every show it entered. But those days are gone. One day the original owner came moping back to Shelly’s and asked if anyone would like to buy it; his wife’s divorce lawyer was in a feeding frenzy. He didn’t want her to get the bike and besides, he needed some quick cash. So, Wallace bought it and showed it for another three years. But the wins became less frequent and eventually—inevitably—stopped. Time had caught up with this sleek GL and for 20-odd years it has languished silently in Wallace’s garage.

And now Wallace has to sell it. So he dusted it off and prepared it for sale. He pulled the carbs off and had them rebuilt, replaced the cracked timing belts and did some other small maintenance things. Now it’s ready to ride. “It’s a screamer,” he says laughing. “It’s so fast, it’s scary.”

I waited around to see how the old bike fared in the competition, but when the top five bikes were wheeled out to the center of the ring, the red and gold sweetheart sat quietly but proudly in place. The people had spoken. Wallace felt bad and so did I.

Phillip Wallace won’t enter the bike in any more shows to be humiliated again—it deserves better than that. He just hopes he can find a buyer who will take care of it.

Our 2007 Buyer’s Guide is filled with everything the motorcycle industry has to offer consumers. With the go-ahead to get a new long-term test bike to torture for 10,000 miles, I scoured the BG backward and forward. There are so many bitch’n bikes—and so many different (but all good) reasons to choose them—my brain’s overload switch tripped. I flipped on the TV to numb my mind. Yes! World Superbike from Brands Hatch was on, with James Toseland getting away from my man Haga in race 2. And it hit me. Toseland’s Team Ten Kate Honda CBR1000RR must be an awesome bike to ride, and if JT is getting away from Nitro Nori it must be the bike to have.

Gerrit ten Kate began his mechanical meddling on his father’s farm in Holland when he was 12. Now 48, ten Kate says, “I started messing with mopeds and scooters and found each one fascinating.” In his youth he went on to compete in motocross, and other racers were so impressed with his bike preparation that he was soon selling 50 to 60 bikes a year. In 1993 he was introduced to roadracing and now leads a 24-member team in an assault on the World Superbike title. His 600cc Supersport bikes won four consecutive world titles from 2002-05, and in 2007 his Hondas are leading the points in both WSB and Supersport.

The Hannspree Ten Kate (the team’s major sponsor is a Taiwanese consumer electronics firm) Honda CBR1000RR’s performance is up 45 percent over the showroom model with no official help from factory racing giant HRC. “We’ve done quite a lot of work to achieve this performance,” says ten Kate, “but the stock motor is so good it’s a great basis for tuning up to this level without sacrificing reliability and it’s still very rideable.”

The difference is in the “putting,” as in putting the power down to keep the rear Pirelli hooked up. Thanks to our electronic-aided age, a thumbswitch located on the left handlebar allows the rider to select between different traction-control settings—from a non-spin start to a late-race setting designed to combat tire wear. And of course all the telemetry data is downloadable to figure out what needs to be worked on. On the outside, there’s AFAM running gear, carbon-fiber engine covers, a full-titanium Arrow exhaust, WP suspension and PVM wheels. Inside the reworked high-compression cylinder head, ten Kate’s own connecting rods are pinned to custom two-ringed Italian-made pistons. Race cams—different for fast or lower-speed tracks—and an ATM slipper clutch smooth the power.

And I’m in luck! I can buy the same bike from Ten Kate Racing for a mere $140,000. I’m convinced I need it; now I just gotta work on persuading the boss.

How many bikes? My mind often picks the perfect collection, and I don’t mean like the Barber Museum in Birmingham or the “If I had an unlimited budget” question, either. I have more bikes at the moment than I can manage, and I don’t have very many bikes. There are three that are mostly assembled and predominantly startable, and one that is in many pieces. “Where’s the RD350 project?” asked a fellow editor recently. “Where isn’t it?” I replied. When I toss in the four-wheeled stuff, things get a little weirder and harder to get a grip on. There really are only so many hours in a day, and only so many hours in your life. How many will be spent riding the Velocette some place far away? How many worrying about whether there is actually the specified .004-inch of preload on the crank main bearings of said Velocette? So far that has all been completely out of whack, because I have spent much more time worrying about things being mechanically right than miles spent making things mentally right by riding.

Even with all this and so many work-on-it options that I don’t know what to do first, I still want more stuff. I recently started obsessing about Ariel Square Fours, not the bike for the faint of heart or short of time. The more people I talk to, the more I find out that these old British machines should be counted as project bikes, ahem, squared.

Which is why I have friends like Bill Getty. He’s in the Britbike parts business and to say he likes motorcycles is an understatement. He is one of the few people I can point at and say, “Look! He has more projects than me!” I rode my neighbor Perry’s late Square Four and went nuts for one, so e-mails to Bill followed, seeking his advice. He tried to talk me out of an Ariel for a lot of good reasons, then ended up buying one for himself, explaining that while it appeared that it was him trying to talk me out of the bike, he actually was trying to talk himself out if it. I am, right now, trying to figure out how to get it out of his hands. I teeter between making him an offer and waiting to see if getting the bike running breaks him, but I lean more toward the former.

Even though I appreciate the efforts of my friends to defend me from additional projects, for now the answer to the question of “How many bikes?” is “Just one more…” It is just a matter of time.

When you go to Road America in Wisconsin, there are a few things that I can guarantee will not disappoint. They are the weather (rain), the bike racing and sausages. Or should I say "brats" (pronounced braaawts)? Oh, and did I mentioned the super-friendly people?

The weather, well, it was certainly an up-and-down weekend weather-wise. Sunshine, warm days, wet mornings, sunny afternoons, humid, windy, thunder and lightning. Thank heavens for Canon 1Ds, L lenses and their environmental seals. The bike racing was, as always, enjoyable and varied—dry track, wet track, sopping-wet track and then sunshine and steam. It made for interesting qualifying and interesting racing. Yours truly was narrowly missed by Roger Hayden when he low-sided an out-of-control Kawasaki ZX10R Superbike. I also suffered the embarrassment of beaching a golf cart in the mud.

But high spot of the weekend? Sausages, or rather braaawts and my rather odd request. Currently I'm working on reducing some excess poundage, and to date I have lost a significant amount of weight. Racetracks are not known for their health food or low-fat dietary concerns, so in light of watching what I was eating I decided to have a braaawt but forgo the bread roll. When I placed my order with the woman at the window for a sausage and no bread roll, her reply was, "Do you mean a braaawt?" To which I replied, yes (I decided to ask for a sausage because with my English accent the braaawt doesn't sound like it should and confuses people). But judging by the look on the woman's face when I said "no bread roll," it looked like I had asked for her to sell me her first-born child.

"No bread roll?" she replied in horror. I said, "No thank you," politely, and from thereon ensued a series of offers to substitute something else—a Coke, a piece of pie or whatever---for the omitted bread product. All of which, in the effort to maintain my dietary integrity, I kindly declined.

This is my third trip to Phillip Island, Australia, to cover the MotoGP, and by now it seems like a covering a race there is almost like being in my old home town. In fact, visiting the Island is like a trip back to my British childhood, where there are little corner shops, people remember you and have actual manners—and let us not forget the Aussies drive on the proper side of the road.

The place has a similar feel to the Isle of Wight in the U.K. There are brick houses, fish & chip shops, small independent bakeries, an atmosphere of congeniality and the two isles both have a town of Cowes. Except Phillip Island has koala bears, wallabies and parrots flying around and of course, thousands of motorcyclists.

One Casey Stoner had a real homecoming, and a very special one at that. The local fans were there en masse to greet him. It was a little subdued, almost British-like (we Brits tend to not get too excited about anything) in the days leading up to the race, but on race day the fans that make Phillip Island such a great place certainly did it proud.

That’s it from me for Philip Island, next up: Valencia and the last motorcycle race of the season.

Behind door number one: Mangy Cours circuit in Nevers, France, for a round of World Endurance series followed by a test on BMW’s class entry. Door number two: Race an Erion Honda in the last round of the AMA 600 Supersport series at the newly revamped Laguna Seca Raceway in Monterey, California. What would you do?

I said au revoir and headed up the California coast. Waiting at the track was Cycle World’s 2007 Best Middleweight Sportbike, a Honda CBR6000RR race-prepped by Erion Racing. Once at the track, I hooked up with Chris Smith, my American Honda tech. We were unloading the Honda box truck when Joe Rocket’s Adam Fox handed me some bitchin’ new leathers; the weekend was off to a great start. I felt like a factory racer. Even when Kevin Erion stopped by, handed us a brake lever and said, “That’s your spare part for the weekend; if you crash you’re done,” my spirits were still high.

Chris Smith and Erion crew chief Rick Hobbs went over our checklist of mods: gearing, suspension, brake pads, tire compound, etc. Tire compound? The last time I roadraced, the only tire choice I made was whether I could afford new ones or not, but this time I had several choices of Dunlop rubber, front and rear. Friday I got a chance to do a couple laps of the resurfaced track on a Metropolitan scooter after we went over our qualifying strategy. Preparations made, our team went out to sushi for dinner.

Saturday at 2 a.m. I woke up sick, returning the sushi to the ocean the hard way. Still queasy in the 50-minute morning practice session, not soiling myself took most of my concentration, and chatter under braking due to the fork bottoming set my confidence back. We made changes to the chassis geometry before the qualifying session and ended up going 2 seconds faster using softer tires. Would they last? Dunlop’s Jim Allen said “Just trust it, it’ll hold.” Lap times went down and my bodily fluids stayed inside long enough to qualify 27th, for a seventh-row start.

Raceday started at 7 a.m. Chris changed fork springs and added some rebound, and in the 20-minute morning warm-up session we were able to consistently run close to our qualifying time, even with a heavy fuel load. Exiting the restroom to the sound of the one-minute horn, I made the start but was stuck right in the middle of the madness of a 35-rider field on screaming 600s riding like there was no tomorrow. Strong wind gusts didn’t help, especially on lap three, under the bridge before the entrance to Turn 6, when a styrofoam Geico insurance sign flipped up off the side of the track and nailed me right in the Arai as I simultaneously moto’ed over the sandbag that hadn’t hold the sign in place. Seeing stars, I made the corner and kept on the gas through the blind, crested rise of the Corkscrew only to find out I had no front brake. I made the steep descent down the Corkscrew in the gravel and re-entered the track hopping on my newly bent front wheel. But Formula Xtreme champ Josh Hayes’s bad luck was my good fortune when he took a dirt excursion to the outside of Turn 6 that brought the red flag.

After a good restart, the CBR worked flawlessly, assisted by a new front hoop shod with a grippier Dunlop. There were a lot of crashes that helped me move up nine spots to 18th in the final results. American Honda’s Jon Seidel summed it up with his usual enthusiasm; “What a weekend! We made the race and overcame numerous obstacles (food poisoning, suspension setup and being smacked by a wayward sign). We had a great weekend and we were very proud to experience it all with you.”

I’ve always dreaded bleeding brakes. Back aching and ADHD flaring, I’m literally bored stiff doing the one-man brake-bleeding drill, opening and shutting bleed screws and pumping the brake lever for what seems like hours. That’s probably why I never keep a bike much longer than the two years. It’s easier to buy a new bike than change the fluid, in my mind.

I mentioned this to my riding buddy Peter Mars, and he told me not to worry; he had a solution that would make bleeding brakes easy and even fun. I was wary; was I going to have to purchase some expensive breast-pump-like machine? Learn some exotic form of Eastern martial art? Whatever happened, I knew I would have to throw away at least one garment because of brake-fluid holes.

My ’95 Ducati 900SS CR “Cheapskate Edition” had a leaking front brake line caused by improper routing, so after buying new lines I headed for Peter’s shed. Once inside, I pulled my old lines off and carefully plumbed in the new ones. After checking for fit and proper routing, I snugged everything down and pulled the cap off the reservoir. I was ready for the ol’ bend-and-bleed routine when I realized I had left my special stash of 800-mg Ibuprofen tablets at home.

Not to worry. Peter filled the reservoir and pumped the fluid down into the system. There were bubbles galore (wasn’t Bubbles Galore a well-known exotic dancer in St. Louis?) down in those lines; how would we get them out of every nook and cranny of the front-brake system?

“Tap, tap, tap” is the answer. Peter tapped on the banjo fittings with a screwdriver handle as he pulled slightly on the brake lever. Amazed, I watched Don Ho-like as tiny bubbles started merrily emerging from the master cylinder. Could it really be that easy? Yes. He worked his way up, tapping the bubbles loose from different junctions and fittings. I kept topping the fluid off until there were no more bubbles and the lever felt firm.

Of course, there was still old fluid down in the calipers. The solution? Bleed from the calipers to force the old fluid out with fresh fluid from the lines. Of course, we would have to use the old-fashioned wrench-’n’-pump method, but since there were few bubbles in the calipers and none in the lines, it only took a few cycles on each caliper and that was that.

A quick ride revealed brakes that were still somewhat spongy from 12-year-old seals in the caliper and master cylinder, but had much more power and feel than before. We had it all done in less than 30 minutes, and I didn’t have to throw my pants away afterwards.

If you think we Americans know how to party at racing events, think again. Laguna Seca, Daytona, Loudon and Mid-Ohio? These racing events have nothing on the near-riotous scene I recently witnessed at the Bol d’Or 24-Hour at Magny-Cours in central France. Those Frenchies know how to party! Judging by the hordes of motorcycles headed south from Paris on Friday afternoon, I knew it was going to be a packed event. Groups of up to 20 bikes—almost all sportbikes and nakeds—were loaded down with tents, sleeping bags, beer and not much else.

On race day the beer tents opened early and thousands of spectators were completely blotto by noon. Not a good sign three hours before the real party even kicked off with the start of the race. Minutes after the Le Mans-style start and just laps into the race, the grandstands were emptied as the lines around the beer tents swelled to capacity.

As dusk crept in and the bike’s headlights started to come on, the spectators—many of whom I imagine had already gotten drunk, hungover and then started drinking again—started getting seriously ornery. Smoke rose from the campgrounds—where most of the fans stay for the weekend—as piles of tires and anything else in sight that would burn was set ablaze. The sound of fireworks was frequently interrupted by the howl of four-cylinder engines bouncing off their rev-limiters and the echo of a rock concert off in the distance.

On-track action at this point was at its most interesting. The fast teams barely slowed the pace as darkness crept in, and hanging out on the pitlane watching the tired crews swap tires, dump fuel and change riders in around 20 seconds was a blast. Occasionally the odd bike would appear out of the blackness at the access road at the end of pit line, its rider desperately pushing it in for repairs after a crash or mechanical issue somewhere out on track.

By 11 p.m. the smoke hovering over the track from the pyromaniacs in the campgrounds had gotten the best of me. My eyes burned and I wondered how the guys on track could see where they were going. I headed to my hotel to get some sleep, but almost felt guilty knowing that was something every team member had to put off for another day.

Back at the track the next morning, it was obvious there had been a lot of attrition in the night. Far fewer bikes were circulating and the majority that remained showed signs of off-track excursions. As daylight broke there were still eight hours of racing remaining; the Suzuka 8-Hours suddenly didn’t sound like an endurance race at all! As the race wound down, the pit stops got longer and riders started short-shifting and babying their bikes at an 80 percent pace. Then it was over. As the checkers flew, weary riders darted across the line, celebrating their survival with wheelies and burnouts in front of the once-again packed grandstands.

On the drive back to my hotel I was fascinated by the number of spectators lining the road. They packed overpasses and sat in lawn chairs on the side of the road not to get a glimpse of their favorite racers, but to watch all the motorcyclists trying to wobble their way home. You know a country is motorcycle crazy when spectators have their own spectators.

In 1971, Nixon was in the White House and U.S. combat troops had been in Vietnam for six years. AMF owned Harley-Davidson, Walt Disney World opened its gates in Orlando and the boob tube offered limited programming on just three major networks. A 22-year-old Peter Egan was mourning the loss of Duane Allman in a motorcycle accident and every man in America was falling for a gal from Tucson named Linda Ronstadt. The video game “Pong” was still a year away. Meanwhile, 37-year-old Dick Mann continued to be the man to beat in the AMA nationals.

In the March, 1971, issue of Cycle World, Publisher Joe Parkhurst asked readers to submit their visions of motorcycling future for a chance to win a $1000 credit from Suzuki. A lot of money back then, and the winning ideas were presented in the October, 1971, issue in a story titled “Project Future Bike.” Wankel power, fuel-in-frame, titanium swingarms, magnesium wheels, fiberglass body panels, monocoque chassis, anti-theft systems, hydrostatic transmissions, pollution control, two-wheel drive, cable steering. Some crazy ideas were offered. And some, not so crazy after all.

Contestant Joseph Ferraioli of Brooklyn, New York, said: “When given the opportunity to design a motorcycle of the future, one can speculate for a distant time or confront a closer projection. If the distant future is chosen, the conjectures of conditions and design factors become so hypothetical as to be unreal and irrelevant.”

I wonder what Mr. Ferraioli might think of the innovations we now enjoy 36 years into his future. Electronic fuel-injection, traction control, fuel-in-frame, monoshocks, ABS, GPS, digital speedo/tachs, radial tires, single-sided swingarms, 15,000-rpm redlines and sportbikes that can rocket right out of the showroom at 186 mph would seem like science fiction to the motorcyclist of 1971.

Evolution is a tedious result of trial, error, success and disaster. Ideas that work are cost-effective and deemed marketable survive only until another engineering breakthrough replaces it. It’s survival of the fittest and the winner is the man (or company) that stays one step ahead of the competition.

It’s always a bittersweet mixture of sadness and relief when the last round of the AMA Superbike series arrives. Truly. Through my viewfinder, I notice how people change, how their level of intensity increases when they're on the grid. I also get to see how teams and riders battle throughout the year, with the best rising to the top. I suppose I'm truly fortunate to be in this position. Documenting what is happening so that someday down the road these images will turn up somewhere and people will be able to look back in time and see a good honest racing series.

Nothing is ever perfect—if it was life would be terminally boring—but from where I stand, and with the access I have, I can say without reservation that all these people, from mechanics, truck drivers and support staff to the AMA officials, track organizers and PR folks—work their rear ends off.

I'm also amazed at the level of kindness and friendship, and as much as I hate leaving my wife when I go on these weekend junkets, I always feel safe with the knowledge that I have folks around me whom I can trust. People such as TV commentator Brian Drebber, renowned for his story telling and truly a lovely individual, or Joe Beth Miller of the AMA who is always there with a warm smile and a hug. Thanks go out to J.J, Perry and Neil of the Kawasaki team, to Jefferson, Oliver and Seamus of Yamaha, and I’m not forgetting Bree, Tim Saunders and the Corona crew who are always there at the end of the day with a cold one (not surprisingly) and who go out of their way to make me feel welcome in their respective camps.

There are so many people I have met on my travels who are now a part of my life that I feel I can go anywhere in the world and not be a stranger. Just as Laguna Seca is my home track, I am also at home in this sport of motorcycle racing. Thank you to all of those factory riders and privateers who make this all happen.

When Editor-in-Chief David Edwards asked if I would like to be the Cycle World representative for BMW’s annual Rider Training at Germany’s historic Nürburgring Nordschleife circuit, I said yes even before he could lay out all the details. Turns out, the trip was more than two spectacular days of instruction and track-lapping; it also included three days of sport-touring and sightseeing in the central part of the country, all under the auspices of “getting over our jet lag.” Call it what you will, this was my kind of overseas outing: great people, top-notch motorcycles, twisty roads, fantastic weather and excellent food.

Edelweiss Bike Travel’s Oliver Kraft and Manuel Taschner were our guides for the week. The knowledgeable, patient and smooth-riding Kraft has been with the Werner Wachter-led company since 1993; this was Taschner’s first tour. The Austrian-born Taschner is a fast off-road rider (and go-karter!) and the eldest son of another Edelweiss veteran, Christian Preining, a former national-level motocrosser and Isle of Man veteran with whom I’ve ridden many spirited miles over the years. Picking up the tab from BMW North America were Roy Oliemuller and Rob Mitchell.

We tallied approximately 450 miles over three days on saddlebag-equipped R1200S and K1200S models, taking in the region’s best roads as well as the Saalburg Roman Fort, the Limburg Cathedral (for which construction began in the 13th century) and the largely flat region’s highest mountain, 2188-foot-tall Donnersberg. We were even ferried across the Rhine River—twice. Off-the-bike highlights: wine tasting at Schloss Reinhartshausen, a medium-size winery located in Germany’s acclaimed Riesling and Pinot Noir-producing region, and the venison at Chef Franz Keller’s excellent restaurant, Adler Wirtschaft in Rheingau. “One more meal and I’ll have to set the ESA (adjustable suspension) to two helmets,” quipped Oliemuller as he pushed himself back from the table.

Looking back, I believe this was a trip that many CW readers would also enjoy. If you’re interested, log on to www.edelweissbiketravel.com, and let Werner and his crew know you would like to join them next year on an official tour. I’d be happy to come along!

Oh, to be a freshly licensed teenager once more, a mortgage-free, lactose-tolerant hormonal Vesuvius able to slip into a 28-inch waistband. If that were somehow true again, this would be my motorcycle, the new-for-2008 Yamaha YZF-R125.

When I first saw the photo, I thought it was some kind of one-off YZF-R6 concept bike. But no, any pimply-faced Euro-punk with 3700 euros in his pocket (about $5225) can ride home on the R125.

Credit (or blame) for this goes to the EU’s tiered licensing system, which is just about to get even tougher. In England, for example, 17-year-olds can ride motorcycles up to 125cc, but only if they have completed a Compulsory Basic Training course. Starting in October, 2008, to move up to a bigger machine riders will have to travel to test centers set up across the U.K. and Europe, where a written exam is administered, followed by a more stringent riding test than currently given.

In the test, a rider will have to expertly and confidently get the machine on and off its stand; wheel the machine around without falter; successfully attack a slalom course; complete a figure 8; follow a 30-kph circuit ride; pass a 50-kph avoidance test; come to a smooth, controlled stop; ride slowly without weaving; complete another 30-kph circuit; and nail the brakes in a 50-kpm emergency stop. Sounds like a usual SoCal ride to Starbucks to me...

Of course, when I was young (the Bellbottom/Love-Bead Era), we didn’t need no steenkin’ tiered licensing mandated by any nanny state. We did it naturally. You started out on a deathtrap minibike with a lawnmower engine, survived that and moved up to a Honda MiniTrail 50 or Yamaha Mini Enduro 60, then maybe a beater 100 or 125cc dirtbike before venturing onto the street. A 175 or 250 made a natural first streetbike, if only for cost reasons, then came the move to a 350 or 500. Really big bikes, 650s or 750s making maybe 50 hp, were just too much machine for a beginner to even consider.

Nowadays, any newbie with the bank to buy a 1000cc repli-racer and then afford the insurance (thankfully not many), can roll out of the showroom on something with three times the horsepower!

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