New Spring Gear: Shoei X-12 Helmet and Alpinestars Supertech Boots

New gear for the new year. I have wanted the Shoei Daijiro Kato helmet for years, since it was first released as an X-Eleven ten years ago. I'm finally getting my chance with the X-12. Now, this helmet is personal, and honestly it's hard to believe that Daijiro-san has been gone for a decade. I do not know how to honor his memory more than to make the sign of the cross every time I see the number 74, and to wear his lid on my head.

I have to say that I have only felt that perfect fit of a helmet once before, and that was with an HJC RPHA 10. It's a euphoric feeling, a cerebral one, where all elements of the helmet's components fit your head just right. Like a glove doesn't even come close. And it's a feeling that not a lot of us experience from what I hear.

The numbers are staggering the amount of motorcyclists riding around with helmets that are all wrong for their head. Most of the folk that come into our shop simply do not want to bothered with fit, they just want to spend the least amount of money possible to beat the law. Sportbike riders and full-face fans are almost always an exception here, and most seem willing to want the helmet sized to their individual mellon. And this is the fun part, sizing the head, gauging a shape, determining if they're an Arai head, or maybe a Shoei head. Heaven forbid they're a Speed and Strength SS700 head, but it happens.

I noticed that this helmet is also not quite the lightest helmet I've worn. Both Arai and RPHA seem lighter on my head, maybe even balanced better, but this helmet has innate sentimentality tethered to it, like a piece of Daijiro's soul remains with us embodied within. And so I entrust my priceless head to Shoei and to our fallen hero Daijiro Kato for under eight hundred dollars.

While I suffer the effects of fatigue and exhaustion via spin class and countless treadmill miles, I must pass on a one-piece suit momentarily. However, at 36 years of age I believe my feet have finally, gratefully, stopped growing, and am going with a pair of Alpinestars Supertech boots.

Having tried on a regular customer's newest pair I was hooked the moment I laced up the inner bootie. Immediately I felt comfortable in this boot. Walking is weird and while not uncomfortable, it's not something you'd want to power walk in. This isn't news. This boot is designed to slow down potential injury to your foot and knee, and the technology built into this boot is beyond my necessary comprehension; it works, Casey Stoner says so. Marc Marquez says so. I'm going to agree with champions...

However, I'll leave a full review of the boot until I get done my first ride. Right now, I'm in love. I have high hopes for this boot. I plan to tour in this boot, commute, and track day rides galore. I wear a 13 US shoe. I only needed the 12.5 boot, and even that felt roomy and comfortable. I'll update again in Spring, which by my calculations is only 90 cold and overcast days away oh god please go by quick I hate this...

A Wasted Life in Motorcycle Shops: Dead Heroes

Not entirely wasted, per se, but a far cry from the life I had imagined for myself. One living and riding and documenting motorcycles and their rides in the pages of Bike magazine or Schiller-era Fast Bikes or Performance Bikes in the UK. Riding knee-down alongside the now long-gone Gus Scott and Ronnie Smith on Fireblades or pulling wheelies with Shakey and Jimarillo on 916s in the South of France.

...Instead I was treated to a life behind a dusty Parts Department counter slinging spark plugs in between flipping through pages of the aforementioned hallowed British motorcycle magazines on a Yamaha bar stool.

After fifteen years in the motorcycle retail industry I can say now that I appreciate every moment that's come to pass. While I anticipated the (prospected) coming fortunes of being a bike journo in England, I lived out everyday with abject apathy for my current life. I was simply passing the time until I could get to Peterborough or London and make a name for myself. I'd have my own column and be sent to exotic locales to test the hottest new bikes and people would sit back and say wow, that was a good story...now I've got to go for a ride!

...Instead I made a name for myself here at home as the oft-inept Parts guy who crashed motorcycles in his spare time. But I am going through some hell of a renaissance currently, spinning in a whirlwind of deja vu. It all started much like this back in the late '90s. Now, with Ellicott City Motorsports, I'm enjoying myself like never before. Sure, the temple-twitching headaches come as standard in every Parts Department in America, I'm just enjoying myself like it's 1999. I'm riding again; obviously I've mentioned this before. I'm only drinking less.

I've experienced a breathtaking range of emotions in these shops, from jubilation at purchasing that 1999 R6 in Cycle World to staring down a half-severed right foot at the ankle behind Pete's Cycle in early 2007. The utter shame of blowing lines in a Service Department bathroom certain mornings, and the thrill of kicking some old man and son's ass with Alan Nelson one chilly evening. Working for various Baltimore-area motorcycle dealerships has changed my life, for better or worse. I have become a motorcyclist, tried to my damnedest to leave it all behind, and come back again.

My born-again infatuation with these magazines has reacclimated me to the motorcycling community of 2013, but has also served to make me awfully nostalgic. I have this burning and yearning, intensely passionate desire to write for these publications - pick one - but I am riding on a straight, boring and lonely road to futility in between two cul-de-sacs and I know it. It's quite apparent. There's an underlying shame to all of this, which is I am still dreaming and not achieving.

I DO NOT LIVE IN ENGLAND

This one simple fact will most likely keep me from working for either Future or Bauer Media Group and it's all really shitty honestly. I don't have Fagan's scythe-like prose prowess and I can't match Gary Inman's dramatic tone. I've often tried, unsuccessfully, to emulate Dan Walsh's epic, cultured and angst-ridden style (without the anti-American sentiment, mind you). Rupert Paul, one of my favorite Bike contributors, is done after a decade and now solely with MCN Sport, has an uncanny ability to speak right to the reader - in this case me - and pluck you from your reading chair (or toilet) and plop you right in Blighty.

Full disclosure: I'm not fast, which is my primary reasoning for undertaking some serious riding schools this coming spring (see California Superbike School). So, as you can clearly see, I'm far from spectacular and would make an illogical choice to ever be a paid staff writer/motorcycle journo, especially one who would need work visas among many other things to be sure. I believe in order to be approved for a work visa in the UK I must be qualified and capable of performing a job better than anyone else applying for said position, especially those native to England. Just wouldn't make a lot of sense, would it, to bring in some yankee because he has a heaping of desire and a motorcycle license? And yet these pangs are still there, beating away inside my chest like some obligatory motorcycle engine metaphor. I suppose I'll have to be content with reading these books and settle for being a fan. Which is all well and good, but not quite my idea of success.

Or perhaps not.

I think it's fair to say I'm going into training mode. I'm going to relearn how to ride a motorcycle, fast. I should complete a couple of schools this coming year (see also Schwantz School and Texas Tornado Boot Camp). There was a time when I thought I was a spectacular writer. And then I sat on a vampire novel I had started in 2003 that only up until recently had I edited/revised. It's plain to see the drug-induced haze I was in at the time. What then gave me goosebumps with excitement after a particular scene came together was now embarrassing, sorrowful realization. I'm not half the writer I thought I was.

But for all of the dreaming I have done the motorcycle shops I've worked in have always provided me with small comfort. I worked around motorcycles everyday. There were test rides galore and I still felt like I was in the same industry as my heroes, albeit on a very low ladder rung. Think WERA club racing to MotoGP. Shane "Shakey" Byrne went from being a largely inconspicuous but extremely talented road test editor to multiple British Superbike Champion. His success is now legend. Luckily for me I have always looked up to Shakey. I have a hell of an inspiration for measure. I'm (re)starting a bit late, but better late than never...

Texas Adventure

Adventure. That's the reason I began this blog, to document adventures, both away from Baltimore and here at home. And that's what drew me to motorcycling as a kid. Now my idea of adventure is changing, shifting towards travel. Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman's Long Way series fascinated me - I couldn't get enough. There are travel stories all over some Ducati forums I follow from time to time, including one guy's trip coast to coast on a Panigale. While my financing and career is a bit more conservative, I am still motivated to travel by motorcycle across the country. One day around the world. But, baby steps first.

My recent trip to Indianapolis on the 748 changed things. This is something that will not be a fleeting fad I'm going through. No, I have been developing into this person, this motorcyclist, since I picked up that first issue of Dirt Bike magazine at the 7/11 down the street when I was 8 years old. I was attracted to the noise, the smell, the wind in my face and the speed of riding on two wheels. And I liked riding farther and farther away from home. The barely containable excitement welling up inside me, eager to explore a new city or town - so like home, yet different. The faces change, their accents, and always the food.

While a trip across the country will take some time and planning for years in advance, and physically training for as well, I can continue to build up my saddle tolerance and experience smaller trips in the process. So I'm tentatively planning a return trip to Texas. Austin will once again host a round of MotoGP in 2014, and I plan to be there.

Route to Texas from Baltimore

1500 miles and over 22 hours. I'll give myself three days of travel, which will see me ride through Virginia, Tennessee, over the great Mississippi River, and Arkansas. Into Texas and down I-35 past Dallas I'll then arrive in Austin (via Ducati Austin, of course). The highlight of this trip, however, would be the Texas Tornado Boot Camp with Colin Edwards and his crew of Yamaha TT-R sliding instructors in Montgomery, just east of Austin and above Conroe, Colin's hometown. It should be held a couple of days after the MotoGP race for four days.

The boot camp is an instructional on how to control a motorcycle with less than optimal grip. Regardless that I'm too old to begin a career flat track racing, the school will help any motorcyclist learn to ride a bike better. And what I've realized the past few months with the Ducati is that I'm far from just rusty - I'm downright paranoid. I've lost whatever confidence I had, the five-year absence taking its toll on me to the point of trepidation when I put my head down and pull the bike on its side.

The opportunity to ride with Colin Edwards, hmm, how do I put it into words... This is the guy that put on one of the most amazing shows I have ever witnessed in road racing: Imola, 2002. World Superbike. Troy Bayliss (on the Ducati 998F01) and Colin Edwards, head to head - winner takes the championship. After swapping for the lead oh about half a dozen times, the American finally beat the Australian, and I swear it was the only time I've ever, ever rooted against a Ducati! There's a very good chance I pull a Bieber-fan and lose my cool in front of an American legend. He could have sat back and settled in behind Bayliss, second place was good enough to win it all, but his instincts threw caution to the wind and won the race and the gold. #Champion.

Locking bars and sliding bikes with Colin Edwards is worth the price of admission alone, but the opportunity to re-learn how to ride a motorcycle again and come away with some very real skills is priceless. Now I have every intention of putting something together for Sideburn magazine, Bike contributor Gary Inman's project centered on flat track racing and inspired motorcycles.

Motorcycle Road Trippin

I opened the garage Friday morning at 5am to a sight that sent goosebumps along my spine: a red 748 monoposto, leaning on her side stand, and looking sexier than any motorcycle has a right to. I took a moment to take it in its entirety. I had dreamed and fantasized about similar moments since the 916/748 was still a fairly novel experience, and here it was at long last. One scene of a thousand scenes we will share together.

I was headed for Indianapolis with some trepidation. There was a certain snowy night that lives on in infamy in this part of the country. Yes, I'm one of those people. Even while I was a wee toddler when the Colts up and Mayflowered it to Indy, and even considering that they have been in the Circle City for nearly as long as they were in Charm City, I still continue to look at Indianapolis as the town that kidnapped our football team. I had even placed on my bucket list the relieving of myself on something, anything, to do with the Irsay family. But alas I have become the better man and, with pride in my Superbowl 47 Champion Baltimore Ravens, scratched that one off the list...

But it was not for football that I had decided on this trip for my first travel adventure with my newly requisitioned Ducati 748. Nor was it for the Indy 500. MotoGP was back in the States, at Indianapolis Motor Speedway, and I wanted to see how the Italian and I would get along for an extended weekend alone.

The weather was cool this early in the morning and I packed lightly for the trip: enough clean underwear and socks to last two weeks, but only a few shirts and single pair of pants; iPad, Note 2, medicines, wallet, and paperback copy of Peter Egan's Leanings. No tank bag or pillion bag--just my pockets and backpack. I pulled on my riding jacket, Ben Spies replica HJC RPHA 10 helmet and Alpinestars gloves. I kissed my sleeping girlfriend and dog farewell. Theresa will be at work while I ride one of the world's greatest motorcycles across hundreds of miles of American farmland and country roads. Sorry 'bout your luck, honey. I'll miss you. Honest.

For a moment I feel tentative about pressing the starter button this early on a weekday morning. A tinge of apprehension swirls in my bowels for a fleeting moment, then it's gone. As the guttural Arrow exhaust claps to life on quick idle and the dry clutch rattles and rolls, the cold chills return, and I'm blissful. I'm eager for the ride, and curious how the duck will hold up.

Quickly I exit the beltway and land on Interstate 70, the main road connecting Baltimore with Indianapolis. I'm shocked by the speed of traffic so early in the morning. It's a rush as I was still waking up. The cold, dark morning sky quickly pulled away, revealing a bright blue and white horizon behind me. While the dawn settled wisps of low clouds atop trees in its wake, my nostrils were assailed with smells foreign to my city-developed olfactory system. Is that dung, or just fresh air?

My first stop came quickly. I arrived at a gas station in Hagerstown, less than an hour west of Baltimore, to stretch and drink some water and fill the tank. First 100 or so miles down and it was all smiles so far. My plan is formalized by necessity here, as an hour on the highway has killed my legs already: take the highway to get through the boring parts and jump off onto back roads when I'm cramped. Repeat for 10 - 11 hours. One way...

And then it hits me. Doubt. An itchy little fetus kicking in my gut bowls me over. Perhaps the duck and I aren't cut out for long-distance travel? Will my wrists and hands fall asleep and I fall off the road to my death? Perhaps the duck will snap a cam belt or some other catastrophic failure will ruin the ride. Or will I just give up another hour into the ride and turn around, tail between my legs, and watch the race on television? Then I remember that this is the motorcycle I had spent years fantasizing over in bike mags, wishing that it was me in the saddle, and now it was. For better or worse we were in this together. No sleep till Brooklyn style.

I-70 provided me with plenty of sweeping turns and a couple flowing elevation changes to enjoy with warm and grippy pavement. I kept the throttle pinned for most of the stretch into Wheeling, West Virginia, a beautiful little town on the Ohio River surrounded by lush mountainside. I was immediately captivated by Wheeling from atop the Fort Henry Bridge. I desperately wanted to explore this seemingly quiet town, but my itinerary pressed me for a 5pm arrival in Indy; Grand Prix tickets were with Ducati Indianapolis, and they were closed on Sunday. I made mental (and later written) notes to return to Wheeling, West Virginia.

Climbing into the mountains was smooth, and I inhaled deep breaths of fresh air as I cut a superbike-shaped swath through the clouds. The mood changed considerably at the higher elevation. Visibility was reduced to walking stick speeds, and provided the impression of riding into a forest fire. Thankfully that wasn't the case. It's just life in the clouds.

And then, Middle America. Doorstep to the heartland. Long stretches of flat highway with only trees or billboards to look at, and boredom set in. Traffic was sporadic and I was stuck in straight line riding hell. The odd car was heaven sent, as I would downshift and juke around it, giving the Michelin sidewalls some love and attention.

Only when I was an hour or so away from my first destination, Ducati Indianapolis, did I begin to feel this nagging restlessness in my neck, knees and wrists. The first bit of heavy traffic had me shaking my head and it was obvious that I was nearing the end of my endurance for one day. 600 miles. Nevertheless, I was impressed with myself and was equally relieved pulling into the dealership right at 5pm--minutes before they closed. In some sort of miracle my hotel was only a couple of lights down North Michigan Road.

I had plans for heading to the speedway for some motorcycle drag racing action, but instead I mapped out the closest Barnes & Noble and picked up a copies of Cycle World and MCN Sport. One of my favorite pasttimes is seeking out B&Ns wherever I may be traveling and pick up my collection of motorcycle magazines. Seemed utterly fitting and I relaxed in my hotel room with a bag of McDonald's and flipped through the pages until I passed out.

*

The highlight of the Indy road trip was the next evening, the AMA Pro Racing Flat Track at the legendary Indy Mile Saturday night. This is the perfect accompanying event for a MotoGP weekend (I'll go as far to say the true headliner), set inside the Indiana State Fair. With a beautifully pink setting sun the neon fair lights were brilliant against a twilight sky. There was something very cozy and intimate about the entire event. American flat track is grassroots racing and it really is the greatest motorcycle racing in the world. It's on tracks like this one that our road racing heroes began their careers. Kenny Roberts, Nicky Hayden, Wayne Rainey, Eddie Lawson and Freddie Spencer honed their craft sideways in the dirt. With American road racing currently in peril I looked around at the field and wondered who would take on the world in Grand Prix next. But I'm pulled out of reverie with the start of the Twins race.

The roaring exhausts of the big Harley Davidson V-twins hits like the compression of an IED explosion at a heavy metal concert. It hurts, but it feels oh so good. Then there's the smell of burning race fuel and exhaust which can only be experienced, but it acts much like an aphrodisiac. High on C12 fumes and excitement I strutted my stuff in front of an unsuspecting Shayna Texter in the pits. Being a guy around motorcycles does wonders for the libido, but then one look at her Pro Singles Crosley Radio Honda, and it occurs to me that she has bigger balls than I do.

*

GP race day started with a nice ride from Ducati Indianapolis, the Red Snake Ride. Dozens of Ducatisti were escorted by Indiana State Police straight to the entrance of IMS. The limited time I had spent in a BMW dealership as a Parts employee I had grown fond of the camaraderie that European (and Harley Davidson) motorcycle dealerships provide, and I found that Ducati is no different. The guys - and Maggie especially - at Ducati Indy were just awesome, and they put on a fantastic event. Staff were laid back and hospitable and friendly, and everything that I've come to admire about high level bike shops.

At IMS I had mixed feelings pretty early on. In a way the historic speedway is all wrong to host a MotoGP event. It's impossible to view more than a few turns at any given vantage point - granted this is practically reality at most races save for ovals - but the atmosphere was heartbreakingly underwhelming. Now, I only had the one prior grand prix experience, at Donington Park in England, to compare personally to this one, which may not be entirely fair, but I imagine places like Mugello and Silverstone to be just bonkers. The Ducati Grandstand wasn't even filled, for example, and I was embarrassed. I understand that the crowd was fairly large. Fans were just spaced sporadically enough that every single grandstand looked empty. Again, this isn't fair, but to television viewers it must look absolutely desolate. The only time I heard the crowd at all was when Marquez passed Jorge "The Villian" Lorenzo, and it was more akin to a golf clap than a cheer, even though the majority were applauding.

Some of this may be down to lack of an American to root for. Sure Nicky Hayden was a crowd favorite, but he is never going to win on a Ducati. Ben Spies looks like his career in MotoGP is over (update: it was immediately after the race). And Colin Edwards is holding on to something that I cannot understand. The sad fact to all of this is that there appears to be no single American hope for world championship road racing any time soon. There is a fundamental breakdown of training in this country and it looks like for the first time since before Kenny Roberts started winning championships that Americans may not be long for this series.

My weekend was quickly coming to climax. And with bottles of champagne being readied on the podium I suited up and headed out of IMS as Marquez completed his American sweep.

*

The ride home immediately after the checkered flag and Marquez win took no time to bring the pain. My body hadn't the opportunity to convalesce over the weekend and my joints and wrists and bum were aching within that first hour. Rain hampered my progress in the middle of Ohio. And I was only two hours from home while in Breezewood when I called it quits. My hands and feet were soaked and stiff and I grabbed a room for the night. I was too tired to lament not making it home by midnight. The weekend simply pushed me to the tip of exhaustion.

The 748 was utterly reliable. The ergonomics suited me much better than I ever would have imagined. Arms reach to the bars, head behind the windscreen, even legs on the footrests - nothing about the position left me uncomfortable or bothered, save for the extended time on the bike. I can imagine that a human rump starts to hurt whether sitting on a superbike or a couch for 12 straight hours... The drone of the V-twin (okay, L-twin) was pleasant for the most part. The Arrow exhaust never quite got old, whereas the whine from an inline four would have probably become annoying, I imagine. The Desmo just sort of softly hummed away beneath me, sending only slight vibrations through my butt and hands.

As far as handling is concerned, while I didn't push the 748 in any way, the bike went where I aimed it, always heading for whatever line I was staring at and stayed there with gentle input to the bars. Resting either my gut or left arm on the fuel tank, the smaller duck would tract like it was magnetized to the line, never any close calls on the shoulder or over the double yellow while one-hand riding.

Towards the end of the 24-hour (total saddle time) trip I noticed my body started to give a little. My back would resist my commands to give my arms a rest by using lower back muscles and stomach muscles to stay upright, and my neck was kinked and trying to drop my chin. And so I would fall into this lazy, half-race-like position where I leaned over the tank, reach shortened and butt all the way back, using my stomach to cushion myself against the bike. It was oddly comfortable when pain dictated another squirm.

MPG was almost spectacular. I was assuming that with my weight this bike would be fooled into thinking it was two-up, and the fuel mileage would suffer for it. But not so. The trip would display between 120 and 140 miles before the fuel light would flicker on. Sometimes I would shake my head in exasperation. When your goal is to hop off the bike and stretch with every fuel light and it takes seemingly longer and longer to come on you begin to aim lower. Perhaps a hundred miles, next time.

As I pushed the duck into the garage Monday morning I couldn't help but wonder what and when my next motorcycle trip would entail. A Daytona trip in the wake of the recent MotoAmerica takeover of AMA road racing, maybe. Or perhaps a trip to Wisconsin to visit the EBR Racing factory. For the time being, however, I'm going to enjoy what was a pretty epic motorcycle road trip. This was a seminal moment for me personally. I embarked on a motorcycle road trip that really tested me physically and mentally, and my girlfriend will tell you financially, as well. But for the health of me it was incredibly important. It was something that I had been missing for years without knowing it. The moment I picked up this 748 my mind was churning with possibilities, all revolving around motorcycling and not just the quick backroad blasts. Are tickets on sale for COTA yet? Austin is only 1500 miles from Baltimore...

Indy Adventure

I finally visited the Lone Star state. I recently traveled to Texas for the Tucker Rocky dealer show in Frisco, just north of Dallas. While there I got to mingle with manufacturers from the dealer distributor and see some new gear. I realized that, much to my chagrin, my Baltimore Orioles were in Arlington for a weekend stint with the Rangers, which we swept, and I met some very nice Rangers fans as a bonus that cooler-than-in-Baltimore Friday night. The next two days was all business, but I learned some things about running a Parts Department in a motorcycle dealership that I had never taken seriously or thought of before, so the trip paid for itself twice over.

My next adventure away from my own personal Charm City is westward to Indianapolis. The Circle City for flat track and MotoGP action. The duck and I are taking the ride alone (lone rangers?) and the trip materialized as a desperate last attempt to publish something with Bike magazine in the UK.

Bike magazine is straight and proper motorcycling adventure issue-in and issue-out. My recent rejuvenated lust for the magazine stems back to my early days yearning to own a Ducati. I would sit in Barnes and Noble staring at the incredible photography and read of editors taking mind-numbing trips to faraway fairy tale places like France and Germany, and all over lovely England herself, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and riding, yes--actually riding. 916s, R1s, GSs, whatever. Bike magazine is legitimately the only publication on god's green earth that instilled a magical desire in me to live the motorcycling life. And it was only when I was blessed with the opportunity to purchase a new Yamaha R6 that I was I able to live the life I had only read about in the perfect-bound motorcycle literature of Bike.

The motorcycling-traveling adventures I so dreamed of have evaded me since. The trips to faraway lands eluded me while owner of that gorgeous deep purplish blue metallic R6, and even still on my Honda CBR600RR. It was not for lack of wanderlust. Maybe it was cash. Or balls; not having guts to even lose my virginity until well into my twenties, you can imagine the lack of focus I had at living the adventure lifestyle...

That's all about to change, however.

Baltimore to Indianapolis is roughly 600 miles. I plan to leave at first light Friday morning so that I arrive at Ducati Indianapolis before they close shop for the day. Pick up a shirt and race ticket, sit on a Panigale, and head to the hotel for some R&R. I pray that my body can handle 10 hours on the 748's ergos. Perhaps I should've gotten in shape before this little trip?

Saturday will be a day in the dirt at the Indy Mile. And on Sunday I plan to return back to Indy Ducati for their ride to IMS.

Obviously I'll post again after race weekend. The lord willing and Daijiro Kato riding pillion (will he care that I have a monoposto??), I plan to have a safe adventure and return back to Bmore.

England, My England

While preparing for my trip to Indianapolis in August for the Red Bull MotoGP race on the 748 I began to reminisce about my first grand prix... It's been somehow nine years since my first trip to England. This trip is one of the more proud experiences I will have, I'm sure, when my life is said and done. With only a hiking backpack and a single-person tent I flew into Heathrow airport in the summer of 2004 and quickly disregarded my transfer to Manchester, instead occupying a seat on a coach up through Coventry, Birmingham, and finally arriving somewhere in Derby. Or was it Leicester? Who knows... Arriving at BMI, which I would get all too familiar with in the coming days, I somehow found my way to Donington Park. I simply followed the miles of motorcycles heading into the campgrounds for the weekend. I was amazed at the undulating motorcycles parked on every square foot of land. It was quite simply endless, at least to my jet-lagged and euphoric senses. I was still riding a high that existed by the mere fact I was so far from home and on my own. Me, the guy that couldn't even hold his own apartment before having to high tail it back home to mom's, and I was here in England!  These were the dark, lonely days before social networking, keep in mind. Sure, I had email, but I actually had to find phones on which to call home in the evenings. But all of that seems irrelevant now. Somehow I made this trip work. Eating rolls and cookies rather than traditional English breakfasts, and generally living like my comrades in our London hostel, which is to say like the homeless transient guests we all were. Tiego from Portugal, David from Hungary, Isabel from France, Revvy the Aussie whose real name was Trevor, and the crazy good-looking Italian footballer, the Pole, the Spaniard and Jeff from Canada who shared a joint with me in Hyde Park after our jaunt around the British Museum. I will never forget the intoxicating freedom of those summer afternoons drinking our national beers on the front lawn in a circle, enjoying the friendliness and curiosity we all shared of each other's lives and backgrounds. And the hugs as I said goodbye.  But I had to catch the British Grand Prix before I had these London adventures. As the sun was quickly setting on Castle Donington I searched for my campsite. Surprisingly there wasn't much space available, but as luck would have it I didn't need much room. I had just the little old single-sleeper tent. All around me the campground was becoming livelier. Fireworks, music, jubilant conversation and two- and four-stroke motorcycle engines were an enjoyable hum in my ears and a glare in my eyes. I began to stretch infinitely into a calm automated labor of walking, walking some more, and finally coming to a stop what seemed miles away from the track, and tossed off my backpack. My camp was claimed like a flag staked in the earth. While struggling to erect my small, uh, tent, locals took a minute to admire and scoff at my digs. But quickly their ire became admiration. One particular camper took a liking to me right away. She was stunning and immediately I knew I liked her. Had I had half a ball I would've gotten to know her, as she handed me a beer and a smoked potato on a woodcut with a knife. We talked about my trip and she confused my writing with riding (presumably a motorcycle, and she seemed excited as she asked if I liked to ride hard). But I blew it. Instead I slunk into the confines of the larger group, a full fire roaring before us as a gentle rain fell. The wind picked up soon and the tent hangar was dropped and the fire wasted. In the earliest morning light I heard the campers awakening. They were talking about me. One was in awe that I'd traveled from the States alone just for a MotoGP race. The other remarked how tired I must be. Before long I pulled a clear hooded poncho over my head and headed for the track. The paddock was just coming alive with the guttural revolutions of the new four-stroke engines. I lamented for a moment that I had missed the 500s. Those beastly two-strokes must've made the maddest sounds... The race itself was somewhat hard to enjoy, considering the gloomy weather and the difficulty in locating a prime view for maximum enjoyment, and so I became antsy and strayed from my location between McLeans and Coppice and wandered until I found a fish and chips truck. Now, it's important to understand how culturally aware of ourselves we had become in those few years after 9/11 we Americans were, and this was also some years before I would find Anthony Bourdain--who would not necessarily change my thinking about food but definitely helped me to experiment when traveling--and thus I was forced to order the burger and fries, instead of fish and chips. Simple choice to be sure but one I knew I had made, and served to further impress upon me the fact that I still had a lot of growing up to do. I sat down near the fence around Melbourne Loop, trying to enjoy both the bland burger and the racing before me. I took the time to appreciate how utterly fucking cool it was watching Rossi and his M1 only feet away. After the race was won and Rossi pulled a huge standup wheelie past me, realization that I had nowhere to be suddenly occurred to me. What to do? Where to go? Across from British Midlands Airport I found a nice if not extraordinarily expensive hotel. Thistle was gorgeous if only for the hostess and the maid (though she was barely a woman age wise; nonetheless my fantasies of bedding her down immediately took hold of me, her dark pantyhose on her barely lighter skin made a stark contrast on the bright white sheets I imagined) but I forced myself out of such a debauched reverie and headed downstairs. My mouth was parched and my stomach was rejecting that bad burger, and so I entered the kitchen dining room and settled at the bar. The details evade me to this day but very soon the quite peacefulness was gone, replaced by dozens of people. Their conversations on the MotoGP race, and suddenly standing beside me at the bar was Jerry Burgess, Valentino Rossi's crew chief. And he and I would barely separate until past 2am. Jerry was absolutely easy to speak with. Sure we spoke of the Italian racergod and what he meant to the sport, but we also spoke of Australia and America, beer and women. He too seemed quite impressed that I had traveled from the States by myself just for a race in England, that my love and passion for the sport was so great that it pulled me clear across an ocean. And I felt immediately a kinship with the man. Like extended family I was meeting for the first time. I shared this relationship-like experience with a few folks from Northern Ireland. This beautiful brunette woman whose name evaded me even then, and her friends. Perhaps one of them was her boyfriend but she showed little to no affection to any single one of them while we all spoke the night away. Nearly seven hours and ten Budweisers later and I was done. Ready to collapse from fatigue. I was famished, having ordered a club sandwich hours earlier but having to neglect it while in conversation with these stimulating people I knew I would never hear from again. But finally we said our goodbyes. The Irish beauty kissed me lovingly on the cheek. Jerry Burgess and I hugged and for a moment and I thought I'd cry. I was so entirely happy to have met these people. Looking back on it I regret heading to my room so early... But that's life. And it went on for all of us. Come morning I had over slept and my beautiful maid once again was in my room. She was trying to tell me that checkout was three hours ago but I wasn't comprehending it. I was ready for London. Perhaps the same coach/driver had returned me to London and dropped me off at Piccadilly Circus. It was after 2am. I'm wearing a backpack the size of a wookie on my back--obviously a tourist, and as such the con men and drug dealers came out of the shadows and settled right into my face. I knocked on doors and was at a loss for a cheap room for the night. Finally a black cab escorted me to a hostel not too far from Hyde Park and I was in a bed as the sun was coming over neighboring buildings. I spent my first day walking those ancient streets of London with a goofy smile on my face. And for the next week I would experience London without itinerary, which is perhaps the best way to experience any new city or country. No map, no schedule, no appointments, just a gut instinct.  One thing I was not expecting was the carbon mockup of an American city with Georgian and Victorian architecture scattered about. The same American fast food joints had somehow made the trip across the Atlantic Ocean with me and I was shocked somehow. In retrospect it was naive of me to think that Capitalism was somehow only an American economic entitlement, but there was something unnerving about the rows of Burger Kings and Subways and McDonalds, etc., that pock marked London.

I Always Wanted to Be Luke Dodge

I wanted to be Luke Dodge. Fleeing down back roads on a red Ducati 916—monoposto, of course—messenger bag around my shoulder. I even had a similar plaid jacket the character wore during the chase scene. Running from Cubans with guns and menacing pencil staches, however, is still completely unnecessary…

I, like most of the motorcycling community in November 1993, was caught completely blind-sided by the debut of the 916. It was unlike everything before it—we knew it then and we still know it now. Odd that I can stand beside one and admire it for some time and still find her strikingly beautiful is obvious testament to this fact. (How is this bike still so goddamn gorgeous?) It is only just now beginning to show its age, but the 916 is still more than capable on street or track. Although I won’t be telling you anything here that you don’t already know about this bike, or its little brother, the 748, regarding their place in history. Bike magazine, and every other motorcycling magazine the world over, has already done that countless times before. And if you’re not a Stephen Baldwin fan then I will abandon all further references to him and/or Fled from here on out. The point is, if I’m making one at all, is that I lusted after this bike for a very, very long time. And only until recently has my journey come to an end. Or at least it remains on extended sabbatical. My journey ends in a quiet little New Jersey town, but it began in my heart… And in a dealership.

Cycle World in Rosedale lost their Ducati franchise shortly before I took a job in the Parts Department. I would hang out in the showroom on occasion just to sit on floor model 916s when the place was busy, so as to not get yelled out for bothering bikes I had no intention of actually purchasing. But this was one small, insignificant interaction with an object that would begin to define me as a motorcyclist, as a person.

The 916 or 748 eluded me at every turn. On 9/11, for instance, the day I had decided to contact Speeds Cycle and purchase a new Duck. Before I could even turn on the television I was on the phone with the owner, first thing in the morning, and just minutes after our own jets were aimed down at our own people. My dream was squashed then and there. That day had scarred me beyond my wildest dreams, and I failed to call the dealership again. The Ducati of my dreams would have to wait.

I spent the late 1990s and early part of the new century in the pages of (especially) British motorcycle magazines. I had it all figured out: move to England, purchase Ducati 916, and write for Bike magazine, or Fast Bikes. This was my aspiration and nothing else mattered. I gave up everything to try to realize the dream. I even sold my 1999 R6 to visit the UK in the summer of 2004. Spending a weekend at Donington Park for the British Grand Prix only helped to reinvigorate my desires. A sea of motorcycles, of which there were dozens of ultracool Ducati 916 variants, parted for me to enjoy my one-and-only MotoGP race. However, I blew perhaps the opportunity of a lifetime by not meeting up with then T.W.O. editor Bertie Simmonds after the race.

Spending the past two or three months actively searching for available 916s practically everywhere east of the Mississippi eventually brought me to a Cycle Trader webpage for a red 1998 Ducati 748 in New Jersey. Just a tick over 8,000 miles and garage kept. Perfect. Two grand cheaper than the big brother Duck I wanted to spend (and on a fifteen year old motorcycle), I knew it was the one the moment I saw it.

my 748

One of the best road trips my girlfriend and I (and our dog) have taken in years... The Duck was red, monoposto, and in miraculous shape. Headlights were free of dings and chips--a telltale sign that it has seen little highway riding; handlebar controls were free of sun-fade, as was the bodywork. My only concern came from lack of Service history. Considering how genuinely gorgeous shape the bike is in I didn't fear it was overly abused.

So, my plan for the 748 is to have the engine out immediately. Cam belts replaced and rockers inspected for chrome flaking. Alternator nut and rear wheel axle inspected and tightened. Electrics/connections checked and replaced if necessary; regulator/rectifier wiring replaced with thicker gauge wire. And hopefully I can do this without the huge cost of taking the bike to a Ducati dealer. Working in a bike shop has its perks...

Now I have realized the dream, at least one of them anyway. I’ve become my own Luke Dodge (sorry, couldn't help it), taking to the road on my very own Ducati. I'm grateful to finally ride the motorcycle, in one form or another, which I invested over a decade of love and adoration into. My life, in a lot of ways, has come full circle. In lieu of one dream I failed to obtain—writing for British bike mags—I have achieved another, equal dream. I am finally Ducatisti. I am Luke Dodge.

But then... the journey will continue again one day. In the not-too-distant future, perhaps there will be a 916 motor swap. And then, then, everything will be just perfect. Then I will go chasing shady Cubans in Lincoln Towncars into the sunset.

Summer Tour

My lack of college education has always been a black cloud hanging over me, and was/is a primary catalyst for my traveling, from the very beginning. It was like a small trump card I carried in my back pocket. Kind of the same reason I decided to skydive. I'm replacing intellectual accomplishments with visceral ones.

I've planned several trips for this summer that I plan to query to various magazines. Ultimately I'd like to write a book describing how failing to earn a degree has impacted my life, for better or worse, but I'll take it one trip at a time. Some of my planned trips away from Baltimore this summer include, but are not limited to, are:

I've been planning an epic, week-long+ bike trip since 1999--the year I got my first bike. I used to read, dreamy-eyed and full of wanderlust, all of the traveling articles in Bike magazine and imagine my own solo jaunts around the country that I would take. One possible destination this summer includes Colin Edwards's Texas Tornado Boot Camp in Texas. Learning how to slide a motorcycle while drinking beer and firing rifles--not all at the same time, unfortunately--is my first choice.

Another ride would be the MotoGP race this August in Indianapolis. Or maybe I could combine the two rides. My first goal, however, is to find the perfect Ducati 916.

The Duke of Bologna

The Ducati 916 changed my life. I won't go into how this bike changed the motorcycle industry here; it's been written about in every motorcycle magazine the world over for nearly two decades. And it's effect on my motorcycle affinity very much revolved around this particular bike. It appears that I've finally found the one. My first 916. It's almost too much too handle.

The obligatory baseball road trips should include a trip west on I-70, to St. Louis, Kansas City, and maybe even a jaunt over to Cincinnati. Summer does not exist any longer without a trip to at least one unfamiliar ballpark. Fresh from the tap Budweiser beer, Kansas City BBQ, and the land of Slaughterhouses are all there for the experiencing. Combining this baseball road trip with a road trip to see Dave Matthews Band is very much in the realm of definitely maybe.

One way or the other I'm beginning my foray into Private Pilot's License training this year. I had planned on taking the introductory flight somewhere in Baltimore, but there is a flight school in Princeton, New Jersey that offers a one-hour introductory flight as opposed to the half-hour flights locally.

Over the past several years I have increasingly become more wary of flying during travel. I'm assuming that this has something to do with the fact that I am not in control of the plane, and I'm curious that if learning to fly in the cockpit of a small plane can help me with my traveling in some way. We'll see.

T's brother is planning a sailing trip to Martha's Vineyard this summer and I've been tentatively invited. I've never sailed before, so I find the possibility of sailing up the Atlantic Ocean intriguing.