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.