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...
