It began as a “parts bin special”—cheaply developed and launched in 1994 with minimal fanfare. The first Speed Triple shared its 885cc engine and almost all other parts with other Triumph models. It looked fairly ordinary, in fact, with its low handlebars and single round headlight.

Three decades later, the Speed Triple has arguably been Triumph’s best loved model—having helped establish the firm as a maker of exciting, well-engineered bikes, and contributed hugely to its success. Revamped numerous times over the years, it has starred in Hollywood movies, frequently topped the firm’s sales chart, and spawned the hugely successful Street Triple family.

Triumph was a very different company when that original Speed Triple was developed, shortly after building magnate John Bloor had revived the brand in the late 1980s. In 1992, the new Hinckley factory’s second year of operation, it produced barely 3000 bikes (compared to almost 100,000 last year). The firm was still committed to a modular format that reduced costs by sharing most components of bikes ranging from 750cc triples to 1200cc fours.

Depending on your view, the first Speed Triple was either the existing Daytona 900 sports bike with its fairing removed, or a sportier version of the Trident 900, the naked triple that had been the most popular of the original six-model range.

The Trident’s responsive, 885cc triple engine had been much praised, but that model was a simple roadster, with conservative styling and basic suspension. By contrast, Ducati had scored a big hit with its M900 Monster in 1993 by combining a softly tuned V-twin engine with aggressive naked styling and high-quality chassis parts.

The Speed Triple followed a similar format. Its liquid-cooled, 12-valve engine produced 97 hp and, apart from having a five-speed gearbox rather than a six-speed, it was identical to the unit that powered the Trident and Daytona. The bike’s steel spine frame was also shared with the other models.

But like the Monster, the Speed Triple had superior cycle parts: adjustable Kayaba suspension from Japan and a front brake combination of big twin discs and four-piston Nissin calipers. Its cast rear wheel held a fat, sticky Michelin radial tire.

Styling was little more than stripped-down Daytona, with a single round headlight. But the retained low handlebars gave an aggressive look, highlighted by a memorable brochure image featuring a Rottweiler. And the Speed Triple name—inspired by the 1937-model Speed Twin that had been one of the former Triumph company’s greatest models—suited its café racer image perfectly.

That first Speed Triple struck a chord. Its zippy engine, responsive handling, and windblown riding position combined to give an impression of easy speed. Without a fairing and with much of its rider’s weight over the front wheel, it steered with appealing urgency and less of the top-heavy feel of other Triumphs.

After borrowing a bike from Hinckley for a test, I rode to the site of the old Ace Cafe, legendary North London haunt of the 1960s Rockers, which had become a tire depot. The leather-jacketed riders were long gone, and the traffic was much denser. But it was still fun to follow the classic lap down the North Circular Road, over the infamous Iron Bridge (scene of numerous fatal crashes), and back, just as the slick-haired Rockers did when attempting to return with a song by Gene Vincent or Eddie Cochran still playing on the juke box.

The Speed Triple was an excellent accomplice, and it proved a hit in 1994, becoming Triumph’s best-selling model—although in those early days that only meant 2683 were produced (including a small number of 750cc variants that were otherwise identical) out of a total bike production that by then had climbed past 10,000.

That was a good start, but the Speed Triple’s stroke of inspiration was still to come. By 1995, Triumph’s engineers and design team were developing the T595 Daytona—the 955cc, aluminum-framed sports triple that abandoned the modular format and would elevate the British brand to a new level of performance and sales on its launch in 1997.

In those days, much of Triumph’s development was based at the Northamptonshire workshop of John Mockett, the designer who had shaped many of the firm’s early models. At one point, while working on the Daytona, Mockett realized that the bike, with its distinctive tubular aluminum frame, looked good without its curvaceous twin-headlamp fairing.

“I said to Stuart Wood [chief development engineer] that we ought to do this without the bodywork,” recalled Mockett, who admired the aggressive streetfighter specials built by firms such as Harris Performance. “Stuart said, ‘No, we’ve got to get the 595 finished in time for the Milan show,’ so I said, ‘Okay, we’ll work on it in the other shed and see what we can do.’ John Bloor was always down there but we kept this thing secret from him.”

A few months later, Bloor arrived to inspect the finished Daytona T595. “We’d painted it and added decals by then and he said it looked alright—in fact he was very pleased. Then I said, ‘I’ve got this other one,’ and uncovered the naked bike. He looked at it and said, ‘F***ing hell, it looks like it’s been crashed!’”

The Triumph boss’s instinctive reaction summed up the naked triple’s appeal. The previous decade had seen the emergence of a biking subculture, especially in Britain, where Streetfighters magazine had become popular, highlighting the urban look that had grown up initially around twin-headlight Suzuki GSX-R750 and 1100 sports bikes whose fairings had been removed following a crash.

At that time, no major manufacturer had a model with comparable style. Bloor took some persuasion, but decided to put the naked triple into production alongside the Daytona. “He was so pleased with the Daytona that he accepted the other one on the back of it,” Mockett later recalled. “If it had been on its own he’d have turned it down, but the fact that it was on the coat-tails of the 595 appealed to him, because it didn’t need many extra bits.”

This new Speed Triple, initially codenamed T509 (until, like the Daytona’s T595, this was found to cause confusion), retained its predecessor’s 885cc capacity but gained a new bottom end, intake system, and exhaust. It produced 106 hp, with strong midrange torque. The aluminum frame was identical to the Daytona’s except for being painted instead of lacquered, and it held similarly high-quality suspension, brakes, and a single-sided swingarm.

As with the original Speed Triple, Triumph introduced it with minimal fanfare, almost as an afterthought. I was one of two freelance journalists allowed to ride a T509 that was brought along to the T595 Daytona’s riding launch in Spain. A blast on local roads and on the Circuito de Cartagena race track confirmed that it had an addictive midrange punch, and that its handling, braking, and roadholding were excellent.

The T509 Speed Triple’s 1998 arrival was perfectly timed, its price was competitive, and it was an immediate hit, selling almost 2500 units to become Triumph’s second-most popular model, behind the Daytona. And its success proved lasting, helped by Triumph’s decision to enlarge the engine to 955cc in 1999.

By the turn of the millennium, the Speed Triple had become a cult model, its bullish style and performance highlighting that Triumph was now a serious player in the motorcycle scene. It was boosted by vibrant paint schemes, including an acidic Roulette Green and even more corrosive Nuclear Red (in reality a bold pink, as ridden by Natalie Imbruglia in the movie Johnny English). Speed Triple appearances in The Matrix (ridden by Carrie-Anne Moss) and Mission: Impossible 2 (Tom Cruise) also boosted Triumph’s profile.

The firm did a good job of keeping the Triple’s essential look and character intact, while updating it every so often. One significant step came in 2002, when its output rose by 10 hp, to 118 hp, and its chassis was tweaked to quicken the steering and reduce weight. I also rode that model to the site of Ace Cafe, which, fittingly, had recently reopened as a nostalgia-themed motorcyclists’ meeting place; it continues to thrive to this day.

Another major update came in 2005, when a new, longer-stroke 1050cc engine increased maximum output to 128 hp. A new chassis contributed to a quicker, more agile bike that topped Triumph’s sales charts that year, with 8796 out of a total of almost 35,000. In 2011, Triumph was sufficiently confident to combine a sharpened chassis with non-round headlights—a controversial move that did not damage sales as some had predicted.

By this time, Triumph had ceased production of the Daytona 955i, leaving the Speed Triple as the firm’s sporting flagship. For 2012, the new Speed Triple R combined an unchanged, 133-hp engine with an upmarket chassis incorporating Öhlins suspension, Brembo Monobloc  brake calipers, and a sprinkling of carbon fiber. It was exotic, expensive, and took the trademark Speed Triple blend of naked style and punchy performance to new heights.

Triumph was now facing a dilemma, as the arrival of Aprilia’s Tuono V4R sparked a new class of fierce “hyper-naked” machines: stripped-down superbikes created in similar fashion to the original Speed Triple but producing over 150 hp and backed by sophisticated electronics. The challenge was to keep the Speed Triple competitive, without losing its familiar charm and accessibility.

Triumph took a sizable step in 2018, with an overhauled Speed Triple whose 1050cc engine contained more than 100 new parts, revved 1000 rpm higher, and produced 148 hp, an increase of 10 hp. Alongside the standard model was an upmarket RS version with Öhlins suspension and a sophisticated electronics package incorporating traction control and cornering ABS.

Three years later came an even bigger leap, with an all-new Speed Triple 1200RS. Its engine was enlarged to 1160cc and produced 178 hp—slightly up on Aprilia’s latest Tuono, if not on Ducati’s outrageous 205 hp Streetfighter V4. This RS was also sharper and 22 pounds lighter, helped by a new aluminum frame.

Not every Speed Triple enthusiast was a fan of the new lean and mean naked superbike, or of the stylish, half-faired Speed Triple 1200RR that shares most parts and is even more aggressive and expensive. That’s not surprising. Both models have more than double the power-to-weight ratio of the Speed Triple that started the family 30 years ago.

The Speed Triple is a different class of motorbike now. Its evolution has taken it away from the raw, streetwise, firmly road-focused models of the past. These days, even the middleweight Street Triple 765R makes 120 hp—more than the T509 that did the most to earn the Speed Triple’s cult following back in 1997.

All of which means that the Speed Triple’s days at the top of Triumph’s sales charts are probably gone for good. Its status as one of the Hinckley firm’s most important and fondly regarded models, on the other hand, remains beyond doubt.

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Some styles never seem to fully fade away, do they? With that in mind, Ducati brought two fresh spins on its retro-inspired, second-generation Scrambler model to the Bike Shed MotoShow in London last week. The 1960s desert-sled look of the Scrambler certainly served as the inspiration for these two in-house customs, but they have their own personalities. We like the direction this pair is pointing towards.

The two concepts, named CR24I and RR24I, put a fresh spin on the Scrambler, which has been a surprising staple of Ducati’s lineup since its introduction in 2015. The notes from Ducati don’t specify the powerplants on these concepts, but our eyes tell us it’s the same 1079cc V-twin engine that has powered the Scrambler since 2018. Both bikes were designed and built by Centro Stile Ducati, which means these two reflect the style and direction of the company, not some independent builder.

Let’s look at the CR24I first. Inspired by the cafe racers of 1960s Britain, this bike leans heavily on the street performance side with 17-inch wheels like the factory Scrambler Cafe model has, but the tank-mounted fairing and absence of the detachable rear seat give the bike significantly more of a business-only vibe. The shape is borrowed from the Pantah and the 750 SS models of the past, but with an eye on the future.

The RR24I draws inspiration from modern and even post-modern sources. A bare-bones, function-first look is simple to achieve, but it makes having a finished appearance challenging. To tie up loose ends and add flair with fewer parts, the aluminum pieces of the chassis are left raw to give a slight pop of silver without using fully chromed parts. This bike gives up that passenger seat for a small luggage rack that, combined with a tank bag rack, makes for a travel-light-and-fast feel.

With Scrambler sales significant enough that the brand has to take the model seriously, these concepts might be serve as a gauge of customer interest or a direction of what’s to come. If some of the features and feel of these bikes make it to production, Ducati might have a couple of winners on its hands.

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It’s a little more than ten years since Indian was reborn under the ownership of automotive giant Polaris. Since then, the famous U.S. motorcycle marque has grown its range to more than 20 models, increased annual production to over 30,000 bikes, and outclassed its old rival Harley-Davidson to win a sixth consecutive championship in SuperTwins, the top division of American Flat Track racing.

But the Indian story of the previous few decades was very different—a lot less smooth and far more dramatic. Until the brand was bought by Polaris in 2011, Indian had been making headlines for years. Not with new models or race victories, but with a succession of scandals, courtroom cases, and failed attempts at revival.

The fuss was easy to understand because Indian is one of the great names of American motorcycling, and it had fallen on very hard times. Founded in 1901, two years before Harley, the original firm from Springfield, Massachusetts, became the biggest U.S. motorcycle manufacturer by the early 1920s, promoted by the exploits of early board-racing stars and record-breaking long-distance riders including Jake DeRosier and Erwin “Cannon Ball” Baker.

Models including the Powerplus, Scout, and Chief kept Indian healthy into the 1940s. The firm also built an inline four, after taking over Ace in 1927. But a move to parallel twins proved disastrous, sales and profitability fell, and the Springfield factory ceased production in 1953. For the next few decades the Indian name was used to sell small bikes made in Britain and elsewhere, until its use faded in the 1980s.

Interest in Indian reawakened in the early 1990s when, with Harley sales growing so fast that the factory couldn’t keep up, it became clear that there was room in the booming U.S. market for its former rival. It’s here where the story gets messy. Two men independently claimed the Indian name, each with the stated intention of producing high-quality V-twin motorcycles. Unfortunately, they not only failed to build any bikes, but showed no sign of intending to do so.

First came Philip S. Zanghi II, a Californian businessman who in 1990 claimed to have bought rights to the Indian name, for the sum of one dollar, from the last person to use it for selling mopeds in the 1970s. Zanghi announced plans for a new Indian Chief, to be built in small numbers and sold at a high price. He began selling Indian merchandise, ranging from leather jackets to jewelery, and toured the world selling Indian import rights for tens of thousands of dollars apiece.

Zanghi’s motives became more clear when I visited Bob Stark, a revered Indian restorer, parts specialist, and former dealer who had been involved with the marque for half a century. Over several trips to Starklite Cycle’s base in Perris, California, Zanghi had agreed he would pay Stark to build a run of 100 Chief models. “He’d pay me the same shop rate I’d charge anyone who walked in the door,” Stark said. A contract confirmed the agreement, but the cash never arrived. “Everything was fine until it came to time for him to put out one dime’s worth of money. Then, nothing.”

Two months later, Zanghi sent Stark a licensing agreement whose contents were dramatically different to those of the original contract. By signing it, Stark would have agreed that Zanghi owned the right to produce Indians, he would have accepted Zanghi as an authority on their construction, and he would have handed his estimated $500,000 worth of Indian parts and tools to Zanghi, all while agreeing to put up the money to build the 100 bikes himself.

“I’ve probably got 25 percent of the factory drawings. He has none and knows nothing,” Stark told me. “I don’t know what kind of idiot he thought I was, but with this he would have taken over my complete business within three months. I called him and said, ‘Philip, this sure as hell is not what we discussed.’ He offered to pay my way out to discuss it. I told him to forget it. But he got what he wanted out of me—he used my name. I’d had banks calling me. He used our background to try to get money.”

The other self-professed Indian savior was Wayne Baughman, a former car salesman from Albuquerque, New Mexico. He also claimed rights to the name and announced plans for a new Scout model, powered by a 1410cc V-twin engine. When I visited him in January 1993, he insisted the Scout would be in production within six months. As his only prototype comprised an old Indian engine fixed to an aftermarket Harley frame by plastic zip-ties, this seemed very optimistic. (He did, however, have a nice line in Indian T-shirts and jewelery.)

Needless to say, neither of these characters built any bikes. Zanghi ended up in prison for a variety of offenses including fraud, and Baughman extracted several million dollars from investors and enthusiasts, without producing anything in return.

The next false start involved actual Native Americans. In 1995, it was announced the Indian name had been bought from the receiver by a firm called Eller Industries, which had agreed a deal with the Cow Creek band of the Umpqua people, to build bikes on their land in Oregon. Roush Industries, famed for building NASCAR racers, were hired to develop its V-twin engine. In 1998, the firm unveiled sketches of prototypes created by a designer named James Parker, who had recently shaped the radical chassis of Yamaha’s GTS1000.

All looked promising, until suddenly the deal was off amid rumors of financial problems. Instead, later that year a court in Denver, Colorado, awarded the rights to Indian to a group that had taken over the California Motorcycle Company (CMC). The firm from Gilroy in central California was one of the largest of the so-called “Harley-Davidson clone” manufacturers—firms that specialized in building bikes powered by engines built not by Harley but by S&S, whose big, air-cooled V-twins closely resembled those from Milwaukee.

In 1999, the renamed Indian Motorcycle Company started production of a new Chief Limited Edition, a cruiser featuring a 1442cc V-twin engine—a Harley-based unit, like those CMC had used before—and Indian’s trademark huge fenders and curly script on the tank. When I rode the bike in Florida that year, it seemed reasonably well built and finished, albeit with some rough edges. It was hardly, however, an authentic Indian.

Four years later the firm launched a revamped Chief, powered by a new V-twin engine called the Powerplus 100, which had a larger 1638cc (100-cubic inch) capacity and still had cylinders set at 45 degrees—in Harley fashion—but did at least have some new features. The response of U.S. cruiser buyers remained mixed. The firm had built 12,000 machines when, later that year, a backer pulled out and production abruptly ended.

This all-American tale then took a surprising diversion when in 2004 the Indian name was bought by Stellican, a London-based private equity firm run by Stephen Julius, a Brit with a classics degree from Oxford University and a business record that included successfully reviving “heritage brands,” including U.S. boat firm Chris-Craft. Julius relocated to North Carolina, hired engineers to revamp the Chief, including an enlarged 1720cc engine, and in 2008 began small-scale production of some innovatively styled models.

The most eye-catching, if least politically correct, was the Bomber, a limited-edition Chief whose tank featured pinup-style art like that which adorned U.S. aircraft in WWII. Other details included the distressed brown leather of its saddle and panniers, inspired by a WWII flying jacket, and the aero-style rivets on the trademark big front fender.

Julius positioned Indian as an “ultra-premium” brand, with prices above Harley-Davidson’s, and aimed to make a profit by selling just 500 hand-built bikes per year. He planned to export to Europe, but faced problems in selling bikes in Britain due to another bizarre twist in the Indian tale, again involving a dispute over rights to the name.

Alan Forbes was a former musician and long-time Indian enthusiast who ran a bike shop called Motolux in Edinburgh that specialized in servicing, restoring, and occasionally selling Scotland’s remaining old Chiefs and Scouts. At a Swedish rally in the late 1990s, he met a group of locals who had built a giant, 1845cc inline-four cruiser that they called the Wiking (considering the name Viking too obvious), using a mixture of Volvo, BMW, and VW Beetle car engine parts and a chassis of their own design.

Forbes had long wanted to produce a bike, and had seen the opportunity for a fresh take on the inline four that Indian had produced decades earlier. He had made a deal with the Swedes, and by 2000 they had developed a good looking if slightly agricultural prototype named the Indian Dakota—although it could only be called that in the U.K., where Forbes had registered the Indian name. He announced grand plans to produce up to 100 Dakotas per year, but several years later was vague about whether any had been sold—or whether producing more than a small batch had ever been a realistic aim.

Back stateside and unfortunately for Julius, after three decades in which Harley-Davidson sales had boomed, he was attempting to relaunch Indian just as the global financial crisis sent sales of big, expensive American motorcycles plummeting. Even Harley struggled. Its new, much smaller rival didn’t stand a chance.

But the Indian name remained an ace among motorcycle brands, and in 2011, a major player finally came to the table. Polaris already owned a motorcycle operation: Victory. It had launched Victory from scratch in 1998 and carefully built it into an established manufacturer that had sold more than 100,000 bikes. But fighting Harley’s century of tradition had been tough in such a nostalgia-led market, and Victory had struggled to achieved the sales that its models’ performance and quality merited.

Polaris had survived the recession in good shape, however, and was keen to expand. It even had funds for motorcycle development. It acquired Indian in 2011—both the North Carolina and Edinburgh enterprises, plus any loose ends elsewhere—and invested further tens of millions of dollars in development, marketing, and machinery, including an assembly factory in Spirit Lake, Iowa.

In August 2013, the relaunched Indian unveiled a range of three all-new Chief models. In many ways they resembled previous attempts, but they were not just superior in performance and quality; these Indians also differed by being widely available, competitively priced, and extensively marketed. A second family of Scout models followed just a year later. By this time Indian was outselling sister brand Victory, which would be closed down in 2017.

For the last decade, then, Indian’s turbulent history has been shaped by an owner that could do it justice, and the firm is already competitive with Harley-Davidson on the racetrack, if still well behind in showroom sales. After all the fighting over the name, Indian still faces the issue of cultural appropriation that has led to the rebranding of many U.S. sports teams. We will all have to wait and see how that plays out, but in the meantime, this most enduring of American marques rides on.

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Best known for his masterful driving behind the wheel of Formula 1 race cars—and that one video where he drives the wheels off an NSX in loafers—the late Ayrton Senna is a legend. People with stories like his get special editions named after them, and sometimes those special editions seem to make little sense. The limited-edition Ducati Monster Senna is one such example, but if you are questioning why anyone would name a motorcycle after a Formula 1 driver, I’m here to explain.

Ayrton Senna might not be a household name, but in the car community he is dang close. Between the his personality and his tendency to end up on the top step of the podium, he quickly attracted a fanbase. This was an era before social media and breathless press coverage, which meant Senna could still unwind a bit on the weekends and between race seasons. What does a guy who drivers really fast for a living do for a thrill? He rides motorcycles, of course.

And Senna’s motorcycle of choice was Ducati, though his hand was helped in selection when Claudio Castiglioni, then owner of Ducati and a fan of Senna, gave the three-time world champion a Ducati 851 SP. Senna also bopped around Monte Carlo on a Monster 900 in the early 1990s, even using the bike to arrive at the 1993 Monaco Grand Prix. The Monster likely appealed to Senna for its connection and feel. A sharp chassis, a punchy powerplant, and simple styling are hallmarks of the Monster lineup, and the new Senna edition captures all of that but blends in a heavy dose of the Brazilian driver’s color pallette.

The base for this special edition is the 2024 Monster, which features the 937cc Testastretta V-twin engine that makes 111 hp and 69 lb-ft and sounds great doing it, thanks to a set of Termignoni mufflers. The front forks, rear shock, and steering damper are all courtesy of Öhlins and keep things under control. The forged aluminum wheels help trim weight, and the Senna edition is nearly 10 pounds less than the standard model.

The Monster Senna’s performance might be close to the standard model, but the aesthetics are a pretty radical departure. The colors are pulled directly from the Brazilian flag, which was the heart of Senna’s signature yellow, green, and blue helmet. The black rims are specially made for this model, as are the yellow Brembo brake calipers. Other distinctive elements are the special seat, the matching engine guard, and the dedicated dashboard animation, which starts when the ignition is turned on.

This isn’t the first time Ducati has put the Senna name on a Ducati. Just weeks before a special-edition 916 was set to debut in 1994, however, Senna lost his life at the San Marino Grand Prix at Iola. Ducati leadership consulted Senna’s family and collectively decided to go ahead with the release. Ducati revived the special edition in 1997 and ’98, and then again in 2014, on the 1199 Panigale model. Like all of the previous models bearing the Senna name, this new Monster is limited and likely to go fast. Only 341 of the 2024 Monster Sennas will be produced, and they are set to debut this weekend at the Emilia Romagna Grand Prix at Imola.

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Four decades on from its launch, Harley-Davidson’s original FXST Softail is not a bike that would stand out in most crowds. It’s a simply styled cruiser with raised handlebars, a thick dual seat, and an air-cooled V-twin engine with cylinders set at the Milwaukee marque’s traditional 45-degree angle.

But that first Softail more than justified the swirling dry-ice drama of Harley’s publicity photo. In fact, this relatively restrained 1338cc model is among the most significant in the company’s 121-year history.

Back in 1984, the Softail was one of the five models fitted with Harley’s Evolution V-twin engine. With its aluminum cylinder barrels and heads, and more importantly its increased performance, cooler running, and much improved reliability over the previous Shovelhead unit, the Evolution brought the ailing firm rumbling out of the dark ages and into the light.

The FXST offered an additional attraction with its chassis. Its Softail name highlighted the new steel frame whose hidden suspension units cleverly allowed a comfortable ride while giving the impression of an old-style “hardtail” rear end. Before long, there would be a whole family of Softails.

Most importantly of all, the Evo-engined models appeared at a pivotal time, like a cavalry division charging over the horizon just as the surrounded soldiers with their antiquated rifles were facing slaughter.

Harley-Davidson’s situation in 1984 was dire. The firm has had well-documented worries in recent years, what with an aging customer base and production falling below 200,000 units from a 2006 peak of almost 350,000. To put that into context, however, things were rough for the company at the dawn of the 1980s, too. While Harley engineers had been finalizing development of the Evolution engine in 1982, production had been less than 25,000. This was below the threshold set by its financial backers, who were entitled to foreclose at any time. The financially strapped company had recently laid off 40 percent of its workforce and cut the salaries of those who remained.

The U.S. motorcycle market had plunged in the late 1970s, unheeded by both Harley and the Japanese manufacturers, who had continued to increase production until they had warehouses full of bikes that could not be sold, even at a discount. Worse still for Harley, its owners AMF (American Machine and Foundry) had boosted production by compromising on quality. By 1984, the result was unreliable bikes, dissatisfied customers, and unhappy dealers faced with increasing warranty work. The firm’s reputation was arguably at an all-time low.

At least there were some positives. Back in 1976, Harley executives had drawn up a long-term plan based on two powertrains: an updated aircooled V-twin, which they called Evolution; and a liquid-cooled family of V-configuration engines, named Nova.

Development of both began the following year, with the Evo project in-house, and Nova contracted out to Porsche Design because Milwaukee lacked the resources to do both simultaneously. In 1981, financial constraints meant that only one project could continue, and the Evolution was chosen.

By this time, however, Harley-Davidson was a very different company. A management buyout earlier that year had seen a group of 13 senior executives, led by Vaughn Beals and including styling chief Willie G. Davidson, raise over $80 million to take control from AMF. “The Eagle Soars Alone,” ran the celebratory advertising, but the company remained in a desperate position.

The Evolution engine had been slated for introduction with the 1983 model year, but there was a distinct possibility that Harley’s banks would pull the plug first. That this didn’t happen was partly due to Beals’ successful petitioning of the International Trade Commission to put tariffs of 45 percent on Japanese motorcycles of over 700cc.

President Ronald Reagan signed the tariffs into law in April 1983, but that was far from the end of Harley’s problems. Beals and engineering chief Jeff Bleustein regarded restoring the brand’s former reputation for reliability as so vital that the Evo motor’s introduction was delayed by a year to allow further development.

“I don’t think we ever made a tougher decision,” Beals later said. “The market was terrible, which meant we needed the engine sooner rather than later… But the one vow we took, because of the reputation we had, was that when the Evolution engine came out it would be durable, oil-tight, and bulletproof. We finally decided that the 1983 introduction was too risky, because we weren’t yet confident that it was bulletproof.”

The extra time was well spent. Harley’s engineers continued their more than 5000 hours of dyno testing, redesigned some parts, and refined manufacturing processes. Development riders added to a reported total of 750,000 miles of endurance road work and high-speed laps at the Talladega Superspeedway in Alabama.

The result justified that cautious approach. The Evo engine retained its Shovelhead predecessor’s 1340cc (80-cubic inch) capacity, its cylinder dimensions, crankshaft, and basic bottom-end layout. But almost everything else was new, including the aluminum head and barrels, smaller valves, narrower valve angle, camshaft profile, stronger connecting rods, flat instead of domed pistons, reshaped combustion chambers, and higher compression ratio.

Performance was significantly improved in every respect. Peak power output was up by ten percent, to 71.5 hp at 5000rpm. Torque improved by 15 percent and moved lower down the rev range. Fuel economy was improved, and weight was reduced by 20 pounds. A comprehensively redesigned lubrication system cured the Shovelhead’s habit of leaking as well as burning oil.

The new engine was nicknamed the Blockhead, extending the line that had begun with Flathead, Knucklehead, and Panhead, but it was more commonly called the Evolution. Either way, it came with a 12-month, unlimited-mileage warranty and was an instant success.

Some U.S. motorcycle magazines had previously been reluctant to test Shovelheads due to their many issues, but response to the Evo models was much more positive. “By now you’ve heard all the rumors and read all the speculation. Stop the presses, it’s true,” reported Cycle World about the Electra Glide Classic, which it described as a “thoughtfully conceived, carefully executed major overhaul that manages to blend the tradition of the past with the ideas of the present, to come up with something that’s both modern yet familiar.”

After riding the Electra Glide in the States, British freelancer Alan Cathcart described the Evo engine in Bike as “a quantum leap forward from the days of the iron jug Shovelhead… a successful amalgamation of traditional values and modern technology, of simple pushrod design and refined execution.”

Cycle magazine was positive about another model, the half-faired FXRT Sport Glide, describing it as a “contemporary motorcycle, albeit a very expensive one, rather than a curious alien from another era… The Evolution indicates that Harley-Davidson is making progress, and at an increasing rate.”

Motorcyclist was similarly impressed by the Sport Glide. “For those who wanted to see if Harley could build a real, honest-to-Davidson 1984 motorcycle, feast your eyes. The ’84 season is here—and Harley is right here with it.”

If the models that gained Evolution engines instead of Shovelhead units all contributed to the fight, it was the all-new FXST Softail that would make the biggest impact. Its hardtail-look rear end had originated with an independent engineer from Missouri named Bill Davis, whose modified Super Glide had caught the eye of chairman Vaughn Beals at a Harley rally.

Beals negotiated to buy the rights, and Willie G. Davidson fashioned a relatively lean and simple cruiser whose rigid-look rear end incorporated a hidden pair of shock units sitting horizontally beneath the engine. The Softail engine was held solidly rather than rubber-mounted as with the other Evo units, and for its first year only it had a four- instead of five-speed gearbox.

The Softail wasn’t the most comfortable or practical of Harley’s 1984 models, and it wasn’t the least expensive, either. But its blend of more up-to-date engineering and determinedly old-fashioned style hit the spot, and it quickly became not only very popular but—even more importantly—very profitable too.

Harley-Davidson wasn’t out of financial trouble just yet, even though the year ended with U.S. sales up by 31 percent to over 38,000 in a market that continued to fall. Domestic sales were up again in 1985, putting Harley second behind only Honda in the 850cc-plus category, but that was the year in which the company came closer than ever, before or since, to going bust.

The problem was that Citycorp, which had previously backstopped the company through the difficult times, had new people in important positions. They decided that another recession was looming—and that Harley, despite the upturn in its fortunes, would not survive it, so Citycorp’s best option was to liquidate the firm. 

In March 1985, Harley was given an extended deadline of December 31 to find a new backer or file for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. Beals later spoke of “hawking begging bowls round Wall Street” that summer as he and chief financial officer Richard Teerlink struggled to convince potential investors that Citycorp’s pessimism was unjustified.

Finally, with time fast running out and all alternatives exhausted, Beals, Teerlink, and colleague Tom Gelb were introduced to a Harley-riding banker named Bob Koe, of Chicago-based Heller Financial, who set up a meeting with his boss, Norm Blake, on the morning of December 23. Blake listened to their pitch… and turned them down.

Somehow, with the bankruptcy seeming almost inevitable, the Harley trio persuaded Koe to arrange another meeting with Blake that afternoon. They finally agreed a deal, more generous to Heller, which gave Citycorp $49M, and Harley $49.5M of working capital. Even then, holiday season delays meant the final transaction was completed with minutes to spare on December 31.

Harley was saved, and Heller’s confidence would be rewarded as the Milwaukee firm defied the general downturn to begin an astonishing period of growth. In 1986, it matched Honda for big-bike sales. The following year Harley was listed on the New York Stock Exchange, and also petitioned the IRC to end the tariff on Japanese bikes ahead of time. President Reagan visited the factory in York, Pennsylvania, to offer congratulations.

A succession of Evolution-engined models powered the recovery. The FLST Heritage Softail of 1986 featured a fat front end inspired by the Hydra-Glide of the 1950s. The Low Rider Custom had a skinny 21-inch front wheel, high bars, and lots of laid-back attitude. In 1988, the FXSTS Springer Softail went further back through time with its updated version of an old-style springer front suspension system.

The Sportster family was also updated with Evolution engines, starting in 1986 with an entry-level model in traditional 883cc capacity, followed soon after by a similarly styled 1100cc variant. Both were popular, the smaller model boosted by Harley’s innovative offer to repay the full $3995 price if its rider traded up to a big twin within two years.

In 1990 came the unmistakable FLSTF Fat Boy, with disc wheels, industrial look, and silver finish with yellow detailing. A year later it was followed by the Dyna Glide Sturgis, named after the South Dakota rally that had become an August fixture for a growing legion of Harley riders.

Willie G’s final Evolution-powered project was one of his finest: The FLTR Road Glide of 1998 featured a frame-mounted fairing and a long, low look that would remain popular for more than two decades. A year later, the Glide and most other Big Twins were fitted with the new Twin Cam 88 engine, a bigger, more powerful V-twin that was another step forward.

The Evo unit continued to power some Softail models for a couple more years, along with the hotted-up, limited-edition FXR Super Glide variants that began the Custom Vehicle Operations line in 1999 and 2000. By this time, Harley’s total production was nudging 200,000. Revenue was close to $3 billion, and profit almost $350 million, the company having set new records for 15 consecutive years.

The Evolution engine, it’s fair to say, had proved a considerable success.

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Any business that successfully navigates 140 years without completely disappearing has every right to celebrate. Only a handful of companies that can boast that kind of record, and considering the first patented automobile debuted 138 years ago, it’s impressive that any car or motorcycle manufacturer has been churning out products since the very beginning. Piaggio, an Italian maker of scooters and motorcycles, has stood that test of time and released a special edition from one of its most popular brands, Vespa, to commemorate it.

Though Piaggio owns other storied marques like Moto Guzzi and Aprilia, we think Vespa was the right choice for the celebratory scooter, dubbed the 140th of Piaggio. The brand’s timeless air is rooted in a core design that has survived decades with only subtle updates. The iconic step-through scooter is how movie directors tell audiences the setting is suddenly in Europe without having to say it—just put a few buzzing two-stroke Vespas running down a cobbled street and poof, scene set.

The styling might have stayed, but the buzzy two-stroke power plant is a thing of the past. The 140th of Piaggio special edition packs a 23-hp punch from a 278-cc single-cylinder four-stroke engine under the rear cowling. A CVT transmission multiplies the engine’s torque and sends it to the rear wheel, which is suspended by a single-sided swing arm.

The special parts of this special edition appear to be limited to the cosmetic items, but even if you do decide you’ve gotta have one, it’s too late. The 140th of Piaggio edition production is limited to 140 units, and was only available for sale to certain regions online during the Vespa World Days 2024 rally that took place April 18-21 in Pontedera, Italy. We think it looks like a slick little scoot for running about town, but it appears we will have to stick to the regular GTV 300 model which luckily is available in the U.S. as of last year. Congrats on the anniversary, Piaggio.

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While many enthusiasts would love to spend a weekend at a racetrack exploring a vehicle’s limits, the reality is most of us get more track time on YouTube than in real life. I know I do at least, so that’s why it was so exciting to start my Monday with 12 minutes of Goodwood Members’ Meeting highlights.

After all, what better way to get into the groove of the week than with a smorgasbord of vintage iron dicing it up on the 2.36-mile Goodwood Circuit located in West Sussex, England? The 2024 Members’ Meeting is also a celebration of ten years since the event was revived in 2014. Just about anything that goes fast is allowed to join in, and this year there were some real heavy hitters on the starting line. The best part is that Goodwood is really, well, good about sharing coverage for those who aren’t able to make it to the track in person, and we think the highlights from the weekend are better than coffee.

Most of the clip offers no commentary, no music, no BS: Just the sounds engines and tires trying to put power to the ground. The right-heavy Goodwood circuit often hosts close racing and the camera spots are perfect for catching the slip that the drivers put into the cars as they turn laps. The first section of highlights is full of that, with Jake Hill hard charging, often with a healthy dose of opposite lock, in a Ford Capri. Then the video steps up to the on-track debut of the Gordan Murry Automotive T.50 supercar. It might not have been running wheel to wheel with anything, but the scream of its 3.9-liter Cosworth V-12 is worth playing back more than once.

Of course, for those who prefer two (or three) wheels, there was plenty of vintage racing to see, too. The wild sidecars who put up scalding pace during the open practice and qualifying for the first sidecar shootout. The 600-cc inline four engines were really howling as the passengers leveraged their mass to keep the motorcycles within the edge of control. It’s impressive how smooth those passengers can move about on a motorcycle running every bit of 100mph.

The highlights from Saturday close out with some gutsy moves from the Goodwood-video famous Darracq land speed racer, a bare-bones vehicle made up of a massive V-8 sitting on two spindly frame rails and just enough stuff to make the whole thing operate. Seeing cars like this from over 110 years ago driven at speed is so incredibly rare, let alone in a group like the one the Darracq dices through.

If this video is up your alley, be sure to scroll the rest of Goodwood Road & Racing YouTube page to see what other feats of speed have been posted lately. This recap was the perfect way to start our week, but we’ll gladly watch vintage and rare racers anytime.

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When the phone rang one fine autumn day in 2012, the caller seemed a little desperate—a local motorcycle shop owner looking for a savior. Fortunately, it was nothing personal; the salvation needed was for a crusty 1955 Matchless G80 CS that he’d found. Shoved into the back of a local garage in 1966, it had been dismissed by its owner in favor of a new Yamaha two-stroke. After that, his Brit-bike days were done.

Frankly, the ensuing 46 years proved unkind to the London-built 500cc single, as its owner hadn’t noticed—or had, but ignored—a leaky roof, which turned the space into a breeder for rust and corrosion. And once he and his wife finally passed away, the dear Matchless was nearly beyond saving. But not quite. While family heaved the remnants of dad’s motorcycling life into a dumpster, I adopted the old dear and, with friends’ help, pledged to bring it around.

Like a geode—craggy on the outside and gleaming on the inside—the Matchless surprised us all. The carburetor and fuel tank proved spotless, and the dry sump’s remaining oil drained out clean. Servicing the magneto, checking the valve lash, replacing fork and engine oil, and adding new drive chains got the G80 ready to run. And run it did, after some fussing with ignition timing and throttle settings—and several mighty heaves on the kickstart lever.

Stripped for scrambling and flouting an open pipe and universal tires, the G80 was—in period vernacular—a “desert sled,” a term that was likely both affectionate and punitive. Having trouble with a boorish DMV? In ‘66, registering the big thumper was easy; its only road equipment was a brake light, powered by a 6-volt lantern battery clamped to a frame tube. Who cares if the tags expired the same year the Camaro debuted? After our shop time, the Matchless ran down the road like a colt again, frolicking and bucking and full of life.

What to do with it now is perplexing. Neither a good dirt bike nor street bike by modern standards, it’s also too precious a time warp to restore. “Too few left in such condition” is my excuse for not touching it cosmetically. And so, the star-crossed Matchless sits once more, nearly 60 years after first being parked. For now, it’s in the back of a garage again. Thankfully, though, the roof doesn’t leak.

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The thrill of lapping the infamous Goodwood Circuit during a Members’ Meeting is reserved for a relative few, and up till now, no one’s been allowed to ride shotgun. That’s about to change, and passengers will be getting in on the hot laps. Well, very specific and very engaged passengers only. That’s right, sidecars have joined the Goodwood race schedule for the upcoming 81st Members’ Meeting.

Motorcycle racing has been a part of racing at the Goodwood Circuit for some years as part of the Barry Sheene Memorial Trophy, but until recently, sidecars had been left in the paddock. Goodwood organizers announced that a race between eight world-championship-spec machines will be on the April 13th event schedule.

These are top-level sidecar rigs that feature aluminum monocoque chassis and 600cc four-cylinder engines. With a slim rulebook, these mills often produce 130-140 horsepower while only having to push a roughly 460 pound chassis.

And two humans of course. While that power-to-weight ratio might not sound shocking, it’s not the outright acceleration that makes sidecar racing so thrilling, but instead the relationship between the rider and the passenger, known as the monkey. The monkey plays an active role in the motorcycle’s handling dynamics by moving their weight about to aid in turning, braking, and acceleration. It’s not an easy dance to learn.

The eight pairs of racers will take part in qualifying and head-to-head races over the weekend before the racing culminates with the top four teams racing for top spot in a Sidecar Shootout on Sunday.

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The Scout, Indian’s top-selling model, has been a staple of the motorcycle brand’s revival since parent company Polaris reintroduced the name in 2015. For 2025, the entire Scout lineup will receive a complete refresh—that means five models with three trim levels, all getting some attention. Here are the highlights.

The main talking point is the new SpeedPlus engine. Displacing 1250cc, it’s a V-twin that packs the most power of any Indian powerplant thus far, with 105 horses for all models (except the 101 Scout, which packs a healthy 111 horsepower). The engine’s electronic fuel injection will allow for a flat torque curve, and should pair well with the bike’s six-speed gearbox. ABS is standard on all models, and select trims get multiple rider-selectable traction control along with ride modes that alter the tuning to suit individual tastes.

That new powerplant fits into a tried-and-true steel frame, as the design team was focused on integrating the history of the century-old model into the future. “Our top priority was to uphold the iconic namesake of Scout and ensure the new lineup is as timeless as all its predecessors,” said Ola Stenegärd, Director of Product Design for Indian Motorcycle.  “For us, it was imperative to keep it clean, follow the iconic lines of Scout, and create a package that offered seamless customization. To achieve this, it all started with the steel tube frame and all-new, V-twin engine.”

The three trim levels that can be applied to each model include: Standard, Limited, and Limited+Tech. The Standard includes new LED lighting and an analog gauge with newly introduced fuel level and fuel economy readouts. Stepping up to the limited adds the selectable rider modes, a USB power socket, traction control, and premium badging. The Limited+Tech changes out the standard gauge display for a touchscreen powered by Ride Command software that enables navigation at the rider’s fingertips and keyless push-button ignition.

The various models—Scout Bobber, Sport Scout, Scout Classic, Super Scout, and 101 Scout—each have their own technology suites and parts swap to tailor the bike to a different niche of the V-twin motorcycle market and will be rolling out to dealerships soon.

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Motorcycle stunt riding is far from a recent phenomenon, judging from a report of tests of a Ner-A-Car carried out in the mid 1920s. A lady named Mabel Lockwood-Tatham was evaluating a two-stroke Ner-A-Car, recounted journalist Vic Willoughby in his book Classic Motorcycles.

“Riding ‘no hands’ with great confidence, she was surprised to see her escort, on similar models, either standing on the engine casing with hands in pockets, or lying flat on their backs on the saddle. Such gimmicks proved the stability of the Ner-A-Car.”

That was all very well for Ms. Lockwood-Tatham and her colleagues, who were no doubt experienced Ner-A-Car riders. But many years later I’m feeling distinctly less confident as I prepare to ride the elderly machine for the first time. With its reputation for stability and a top speed of only about 40mph, the Ner-A-Car should be one of the safest bikes ever built. But right now, it’s distinctly intimidating.

I’m sitting on the long, low American-made machine’s saddle with the little two-stroke engine poking up below my knees, as classic specialist Stuart Mayhew, the bike’s owner, explains how everything works. Hardly any of the controls are where years of riding bikes dictate they should be. Well, admittedly the horn control is roughly in the familiar place on the left handlebar—but it’s not a button, it’s a squashy rubber ball that sounds a curly brass klaxon.

True, the clutch is also operated by a device on the left handlebar—but instead of a lever, it’s a throttle-style twist-grip. Over on the right handlebar, the throttle is worked by a small lever, which sits alongside another lever that controls the fuel mixture. The front brake lever looks almost conventional, except that it works one side of the twin-sided rear drum. The other side is operated by the rider’s left boot; there’s no front brake at all.

Confused? I certainly was, even before I reached forward with my right hand to select a gear with the long vertical lever sticking out of the engine’s sheet-metal cover. Then I cautiously twisted the clutch and nudged the throttle with my thumb to turn out into what suddenly seemed like a very busy street. I became quite conscious that the hub-centre steered front wheel, hidden from my view by a huge mudguard, seemed to be turning further to the right than the handlebars. And indeed it was, due to the geared steering system.

Curiouser and curiouser. For a bike that is an early ancestor of modern scooters, the Ner-A-Car is a strange device. Given that this machine was built in 1925, it’s hardly surprising that it’s very different to any modern motorbike. But the Ner-A-Car was weird by the standards of its own day, too.

Even the name is eccentric, though doubly appropriate. The Ner-A-Car was invented by American Carl Neracher. More to the point, when he built his first machine in 1921, Neracher’s creation was as “Near A Car” in its concept and its level of weather protection as any two-wheeled vehicle had been.

The Ner-A-Car Corporation’s advertisement in Popular Mechanics that year was headed “Motoring on Two Wheels” and described “a car of smart style, a car of fascinating action. Everybody who tries it says there’s nothing like it on wheels – it’s more like an aeroplane.”

Well, maybe. A more reliable claim is that the Ner-A-Car featured motorcycling’s first production example of hub-centre steering. The twin-sided front suspension arms were connected to a low, flat chassis formed mainly from pressed steel. The rider sat upright on a sprung saddle, with feet well forward and arms out, grasping those long handlebars. A cylindrical fuel tank was below the saddle.

This chassis arrangement allowed the engine to be situated very low in the frame, which did much to give the Ner-A-Car the stability for which it became known. When production began in Syracuse, New York, the engine was a 211cc air-cooled two-stroke. Capacity had been increased to 255cc by the time the firm built this bike, which spent most of its life in France before being restored.

Neracher’s original, and distinctive, transmission system required some attention to operate. The engine turned a large flywheel, positioned across the frame. This drove an alloy wheel of similar diameter, which was located at 90 degrees to it (i.e. along the line of the bike), and which pressed against the spinning flywheel, gripping thanks to a fibre ring around its edge. This large alloy wheel turned a shaft, at the other end of which was the final drive sprocket.

When the rider moved the long gear lever, the alloy wheel was moved sideways across the spinning face of the flywheel toward its centre, changing the ratio of engine speed to drive. In theory this provided a stepless variation from lowest to highest gear, but Neracher put five notches in the gear lever mount, to give five distinct ratios. As for the clutch, twisting the left-hand grip worked a cable that pulled the alloy wheel backwards, away from the spinning flywheel.

Neracher’s system was simple in theory, but tricky to operate—partly because there was no clutch spring, so it was up to the rider to keep that wheel pressed against the flywheel and thus power going through to the back wheel. Not that this exactly required a huge amount of strength, as the little two-stroke motor produced only a few horsepower.

At least starting the bike was easy, as the engine putt-putted into life after only the lightest of kicks on the lever on the left of the pressed-steel flank. I had plenty to think about as I made sure the gear lever was in first, dialled in a little throttle with the lever, then gradually twisted the left grip to ease out the clutch.

Once I’d negotiated my first slow-speed turn to join the road, with the Ner-A-Car feeling very strange indeed, it accelerated smoothly, if with no great enthusiasm, up to about 30 mph as I held the clutch home and dialed in a bit more throttle. Changing gear proved slightly less difficult than I’d imagined, partly because the throttle had no return spring. The engine carried on revving as I fiddled with the gear lever using my right hand, while twisting in the clutch with my left.

Maximum revs for the little two-stroke motor were about 2500rpm. There was a fair bit of vibration at higher speeds, perhaps due to a cracked engine mount that was found and repaired after my ride. The big front mudguard provided a bit of weather protection, which was useful as spits of rain began to fall.

The sensation of speed was increased because the rear brake wasn’t exactly powerful, whether I squeezed the handlebar lever, stomped on the pedal, or both. Suspension was limited to small springs up front and the sprung saddle at the rear, so the ride would have been harsh on bumpy roads.

Handling wasn’t bad at all, though, at least if I ignored the strange low-speed behaviour caused by that linked steering column. At barely more than 175 lbs, the Ner-A-Car was light, and its low centre of gravity and hub-centre steering arrangement gave a relaxed feel that was welcome in its day.

“Ignore the handlebar and you can ride for miles by applying toe pressure to the footboards,” wrote renowned tester Titch Allen several decades later. “The machine will bank and swoop with the grace and precision of an ice skater. In its day, when there was less uniformity of controls and plenty of space for manoeuvre on the road, the peculiarities of the early models were not so much of a problem.”

In 1922, legendary long-distance ace Erwin “Cannonball” Baker proved the Ner-A-Car’s durability by covering the 3364 miles from New York to Los Angeles in 174 hours’ riding, averaging almost 20mph. He later opened a dealership in LA selling the Neracar (those sold stateside lacked the hyphens in their name).

But the bike’s modest performance generally limited its appeal to riders whose journeys were short. “It was the ideal machine for the parish priest with a scattered rural flock and the district nurse in a not-too built-up area,” concluded Allen.

Alongside the US production, Neracher licensed British firm Sheffield-Simplex, producers of high quality cars, to manufacture a version for sale in Britain and other countries. The firm from Kingston-on-Thames in Surrey enlarged the two-stroke engine to 285cc, and later also built Model B and C versions with more powerful 350cc Blackburne four-stroke engines and three-speed gearboxes.

In 1926, Sheffield-Simplex introduced an upmarket De-Luxe model with rear suspension, an air-cushion bucket seat, adjustable windscreen, and an instrument panel. But although the firm advertised earls, duchesses, and other aristocrats as being among its customers, it went out of business not long after.

Production on both sides of the Atlantic ended before the end of the decade. By then more than 6000 Ner-A-Cars had been sold in Britain, as well as approximately 10,000 in America. They do pop up at auction from time to time and have tended to command prices between $18,500 and $25,500. If your riding plans include no-handed stunts, no other classic comes close.

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Downtown Detroit in February is a crisp cold. The parking deck across from Ford Field is empty and quiet. A small line of people has formed outside the main entrance to the stadium. I sneak past the lines and use my press credentials to pass through a chain link fence, then a metal detector, operated by a surprisingly chipper security guard.

The silence is broken by the powerful thump of a 450cc four-stroke engine as it zips down the alley inside the stadium. The rider wears a puffy coat over his riding gear and a mechanic is hanging on the back, his feet dangling off to the sides. As they turn down the ramp that leads to the floor of the field, the rider thumbs the kill switch in observance of the “dead engines only” sign. It’s silent again, though the smell of race gas lingers. 

Supercross has arrived in Detroit.

A string of mild winters in Michigan has produced a relative drought of motorsports events. Since it isn’t cold or wet enough for ice racing or snowmobiling, those seeking a horsepower high are left either to travel or to enjoy their favorite sports through a screen. Which is why I’ve come four hours south from Traverse City to appreciate the Detroit round of AMA Supercross.

Supercross has been a highlight of the motorcycle race season for decades, with a big rise in popularity in the 1990s and again in recent history. With a schedule of 28 events for the 2024 season, this race series functions unlike any other. Tons of local dirt is trucked in and these tracks pop up nearly overnight in sports stadiums and concert venues, often the biggest in town: When Taylor Swift came through Detroit in 2023, she played at Ford Field. Motorcycles from nine manufacturers—many fielded by teams with factory support— are at the starting gate every event, and the commentator booth is occupied by James Stewart and Ricky Carmichael, some of the greatest to ever compete in the sport. (Imagine if Dale Earnhardt Jr. and Tony Stewart announced the Coke 400.) All the races are streamed live on NBC’s Peacock app with race recaps and highlights arriving on the NBC Sports YouTube channel for free in the days that follow.

This marks my second year making the journey south to join and if there was one thing I learned last year, it was that I showed up far too late in the day and felt as though I missed part of the action despite being there for the heat races and main events. This year I showed up early—at 8 a.m., before the doors opened to the public—and poked around to see just how relaxed it might be without the laser show, fireballs, and big-screen replays.

At the end of the tunnel stands a cadre of mechanics with spotless Hondas and Kawasakis leaning on their hips. They look downright bored. T-handle wrenches clink softly as they hang on the backpacks and tool pouches, and the dull chatter of the riders is the only noise, until a rider walks by, each step a squeak—new boots. The riders jump and dance, attempting to stay warm and break the 32-degree air. They begin to look around. None has a watch, but their sense of timing is impeccable. Practice was supposed to begin at 8:00 a.m.; it’s now 8:06.

In the eyes of several racers, Detroit is “the first real main event” of 2024. It was round 10 last year, and by then, multiple parts of the championship were starting to settle down. This year, the traveling octane festival made the Motor City its fifth stop. The races thus far have been tales of survival due to open-roof stadiums and inclement weather, muddy, sloppy situations that produced four different winners. In a 28-race championship, there’s plenty of time for a clear winner to emerge, but, five races in, that fact is not stopping anyone from enjoying the way it is all up for grabs right now.

The practice rounds click off like clockwork, despite starting a little late. The stands are near-empty as the riders from the two classes, 250cc and 450cc, cycle through 15-minute time slots designed to allow them some time to learn the track. A bit of extra high-viz gear stands out on the sidelines. While a normal team might have a single mechanic per rider standing beside the track during practice, one bike is surrounded by a huddle of people. A few hold clipboards. All have looks of focus on their faces. Emblazoned in yellow on the back of their black jackets is one word that represents who they were and what they want to do tonight: Triumph.

The focus on the team’s faces makes sense. Today is the debut of Triumph’s all-new TF 250-X motocross bike and the first time it has turned laps on anything other than a practice course. Riders Evan Ferry and Jalek Swoll are attempting to overcome the highly competitive field and also the teething problems that come with any new machine—all at once. As the practice rounds wear down, team Triumph appears to have potential … but potential is not what wins races.

The 65,000 fold-down seats that rise from the track level are starting to fill up: The heat races are set to begin at 2:30 p.m. The dull roar of tens of thousands of enthusiasts chatting amongst themselves in the seats, plus the growl of heavy machinery re-shaping and repairing the track surface, define a new normal for the noise level, one that is quickly eclipsed as the PA system fires up and the commentary begins.

The crescendo builds as the lights go down and a deep voice announces the feature class 450 riders just before the big show of heat races and of the main events. The lights, flamethrowers, and big screens all dance as the riders make quick circles of the floor while waving to the 52,000 fans that now fill the stadium. The week prior, the stadium had broadcast the Lions’ game that ended Detroit’s Superbowl bid; today, a crowd goes wild as Haiden Deegan, one of the 250 class favorites, circles the floor with a Jared Goff jersey over his riding gear. Every rider on the starting gate has on a riding jersey, and a good portion of those in the stands do, too. Everyone stands for the national anthem before watching as the first waves of riders line up behind the tubular gate that holds riders on the start line. The revs rise on all the bikes, ready to launch into turn one, and the night reaches its peak.

Thousands of hours of testing and computer simulations cannot guarantee a race win. The surface of the track changes lap by lap, and racers must place in the top nine of a heat race—or in the top four of the last chance race—to make it to the big show at the end of the night. Both Triumph riders find themselves in the same heat race. Luck doesn’t go in the direction of rookie Evan Ferry; he takes the long way into the main event by competing in the drama-filled last-chance qualifier.

As the main events get underway, the whole venue fills with energy. Standing at track level, you feel the tension that underscores the Herculean nature of the feats these riders are about to perform. The largest jumps can send riders flying nearly 70 feet, a height that puts them even with spectators halfway up the stadium seating. The racing is tight and at times chaotic: Lap times under one minute mean the leading riders deal with lapped traffic early in the race, along with the changing track conditions.

Two riders lock handlebars going into turn one of the 250 class’s main event, sending bikes and riders tumbling to the dirt. One of those is Evan Ferry and his Triumph TF 250-X. Fellow Triumph rider Jalek Swoll fought his way to sixth place overall; not the high note Triumph wanted to sound. But other, more established brands fail to get a bike and rider into the top ten, too. With the sixth-place finish, Triumph has proven it can be a contender. Hopefully, with the data provided from this first race, the team will arrive at the round in Arlington, Texas, even more capable and better sorted.

Only after the last bike rides up the tunnel, the commentators sign off, and the crowds herd out onto Brush Street does the stadium feel still and quiet again. Well, almost quiet. The team building the whole show is already using heavy machinery to move signs and equipment, preparing to load the tractor trailers that will roll the whole spectacle off to the next venue.

Supercross has been very carefully walking the fine line between entertainment and sport. After starting to watch a little more seriously in the last few years, I can see how a casual observer may easily define it as one or the other. Those who take the time to pay attention during the quiet parts of the show can easily pick up on more, though. In a world where many motorsports are turning into speed parades or races full of gimmicks, Supercross is something special.

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Sir Arthur Conan Doyle did not invent the modern mystery—that’d be Edgar Allen Poe—but he did create the genre’s most beloved character. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, first appeared before the turn of the twentieth century, and he has since become so interwoven with popular culture as to have his name crop up in a rather rude phrase when someone says something obvious (you know what it is, Sherlock, I just can’t print it here). He has appeared in tens of thousands of adaptations, from the theater to television, to say nothing of the other characters he inspired, ranging from a cartoon mouse to a very grumpy physician. But there is a case yet to be solved: What kind of motorcycle did Sherlock Holmes ride?

And yes, he would surely have had a motorcycle. His arrival in 1887’s A Study In Scarlet neatly lines up with the debut of the Daimler-Maybach Reitwagen, an early prototype motorcycle, just two years before. And, although Doyle killed off his popular detective one year before the first series production motorcycle emerged – the 1894 Hildebrant & Wolfmüller – he was brought back by popular demand and the last story was published in 1927. Watson, the game is afoot!

Our first clue, and indeed the entire reason for this thought experiment, concerns the life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself. Because the only thing the most famous detective novelist of all time liked more than getting hoodwinked by spiritualists was riding motorcycles. He was an early adopter, and was filled with such enthusiasm for two-wheeled transportation that he financed his own motorcycle company and took place in hillclimbs.

Racing around on juddering early motorcycles seems a little at odds with Sir Arthur’s later public persona, which has a whiff of tweedy walrus about it. But in the early 1900s, he was just into his 40s and joined one of England’s earliest auto-cycle clubs. The company he financed was Roc of Birmingham, which built bikes right up until the Great War.

Using some inductive reasoning, we can thus uncover our first fact: As a booster of the domestic industry, the creator of Sherlock Holmes would have chosen a British steed for his hero to ride. It might even have been tempting for Sir Arthur to place Holmes on a Roc. However, our modern understanding of Sherlock was not shaped by Conan Doyle alone.

Enter the actor and playwright who portrayed Sherlock Holmes almost more times than any other—and it is not, as you perhaps assume, Basil Rathbone. Rathbone did quite well, playing Sherlock Holmes first in 1939’s The Hound of the Baskervilles, and going on to appear in some 14 movies. With respect, those are rookie numbers, because Connecticut-born William Gillette portrayed Holmes some 1300 times over 33 years.

If you’ve ever watched a Sherlock Holmes movie or TV series, then you have Gillette to thank for it, because he was instrumental in both resurrecting Holmes and bringing him to the stage. Born in 1853, he was nearly the same age as Conan Doyle, and was an established and respected playwright when he was approached in 1899 to help adapt a draft play written by Sir Arthur. Incredibly, both the original and Gillette’s adaptation were destroyed in a hotel fire, and he re-wrote the entire thing in just a month.

When he met Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for the first time, Gillette was dressed as Sherlock, cape to deerstalker hat. Doyle was stunned until Gillette approached, whipped out a magnifying glass, and declared, “Unquestionably an author!” The pair became longtime friends.

Gillette is credited with adding or popularizing some of the classic Holmes characteristics, including the deerstalker hat, the curved pipe, the magnifying glass, and even the phrase, “Elementary, my dear Watson.” Two other actors would beat his number of stage appearances eventually, but they were acting in the play he wrote.

And, like Conan Doyle, William Gillette was also a committed and enthusiastic motorcyclist. Widowed in 1888 (he never remarried) he lived in a sprawling Connecticut mansion called Gillette Castle with up to 17 cats and several bikes. Thanks to official traffic records, we know that he crashed twice, once on a rare American Ner-a-car feet-forward bike, at the age of 72. He survived this crash and even talked his way out of a ticket with a quip: “To be reckless is to be thoughtless and I never thought so quick in my life.”

But, fellow sleuths, it was Gillette’s other motorcycle that is the key to our mystery. Because it was a Triumph, and that’s the little clue that’ll crack this case wide open.

Triumph is currently the UK’s largest motorcycle manufacturer, and its roots stretch back to 1902. In fact, the company’s first in-house–designed bike, the 1905 Triumph Gentleman’s Roadster, exactly coincides with the launch of Doyle’s short story collection The Return of Sherlock Holmes.

Some of you will now point out that, by canon, the Holmes adventures are still set in late 1800s, even after his death, disappearance, and resurrection. However, we have the examples of Gillette and Doyle, both born in the 1850s, and riding right into the early part of the 20th century—in Gillette’s case, even into the 1930s.

Further, if we fast-forward to more modern representations of Holmes and switch to deductive reasoning, the Triumph theory holds up. In the popular and well-rated BBC reboot Sherlock, the titular character rides a Triumph Thruxton 1200R, albeit briefly. Further, the actor who plays Sherlock, Benesnickt Cambersnoot, er, Bendercatch Bumperclutch—oh, you know who I mean—is also known to ride a motorcycle around London.

And in one of America’s best-loved twists on the Sherlock Holmes story, House M.D., Gregory House famously rides a Honda CBR1000R Fireblade in Repsol livery. Aha! You say, but that’s a Honda, not a Triumph. But Oxford-born Hugh Laurie’s American accent isn’t real, either. And what did Laurie buy with his first paycheque from House, M.D.? A new Triumph Bonneville.

Elementary, my dear Watsons. Of course, what kind of Triumph motorcycle Holmes bought for puttering around the Sussex Downs in his retirement is up to you. Perhaps a slightly later model with a Sturmey-Archer three-speed gearbox. But almost certainly there would be days when Sherlock Holmes would head on out to the shed early to bolt on a wicker sidecar, give the kickstarter a firm stomp, and then ride over to the local train station, there to pickup his longtime friend Watson for one more ride together.

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Ask a motorcycle enthusiast who lived through the 1970s to name the best bike of that memorable two-wheeled decade, and they’re likely to mention a multi-cylinder Honda or Kawasaki, or perhaps a glamorous Italian V-twin or triple. Inquire about the best one they’ve ridden, and the answer is far more likely to be Yamaha’s RD350.

Half a century ago, Yamaha’s two-stroke parallel twin was the ultimate superbike for the young rider—quick, exciting, and relatively inexpensive. The Japanese firm produced a string of excellent two-stroke twins of various capacities during that fast-changing decade, but it was arguably the RD350, launched in 1973, that really hit the mark.

Those RD initials stood for Race Developed, and they helped differentiate the new twin from its similarly styled predecessor, the YR5. In the RD350’s case the slogan was justified. Yamaha’s TZ two-stroke twins had dominated club- and national-level 250cc and 350cc racing worldwide for several years, to the benefit of its street bikes.

Yamaha had won the last three 250cc world championships, too, through British riders Rod Gould and Phil Read, and Finnish star Jarno Saarinen. And although Giacomo Agostini still held the 350cc title on a works MV Agusta, the TZ350’s many victories included Don Emde’s Daytona 200 triumph in 1972, and Saarinen’s win on the same Florida banks a year later.

Yamaha’s road-going twins, which were air-cooled, unlike the liquid-cooled TZ racers, had a distinguished history of their own. The RD350 was developed from the YR5, which had been launched in 1970 and in turn traced its design back several years further to the firm’s first 347cc model, the YR1. The engine’s cylinder dimensions and 180-degree crankshaft arrangement had remained all that time.

The RD350’s main engine-related innovation was its reed-valve intake system, called Torque Induction by Yamaha. The reed valves, one located between each Mikuni carburetor and its cylinder, improved intake efficiency by reducing the amount of mixture that was spat back.

As one contemporary tester put it, Torque Induction “allowed hairy intake timing without the motor suffering from low-speed indigestion.” This allowed Yamaha to boost top-end power while giving useful performance and cleaner running at low revs. The RD350’s peak output of 38.5 hp at 7500 rpm was a handy three horses up on the YR5’s figure.

The RD also incorporated Yamaha’s Autolube system rather than requiring oil to be added to its fuel by hand, as was still common at the time. In most markets, the bike gained a six-speed gearbox, with the now-familiar left-foot change and one-down, five-up shift pattern, although bikes sold in the UK had the top ratio blanked off.

Chassis layout was mostly similar to that of the YR5, based on a twin-downtube steel frame that held typically skinny front forks, plus twin shocks that were adjustable for preload. The main change was the front brake: a single disc in place of the old twin-leading-shoe drum.

Styling owed much to previous Yamahas, including the YR5, but a larger fuel tank, a longer seat, and a black-finished engine gave a more substantial appearance. Although the RD’s raised bars and fairly forward-set footrests offered little clue about its sporty character, it was a lean and attractive machine.

The borrowed 1974 model I rode looked almost new, apart from a couple of minor marks on its blue tank. It fired up easily, requiring just one or two gentle prods of the kickstarter before bursting into life with an evocative blend of exhaust crackle and two-stroke fumes.

My first impression was of how small and light the Yamaha felt, which is no surprise given its short wheelbase and dry weight of just 315 pounds. This might have been a race-developed sports machine, but it was docile and easy to ride. The wide handlebars and generous steering lock combined to make it effortlessly maneuverable in town.

Also contributing to the RD’s ease of use was its smooth low-rev performance, which was notably better than that of its YR5 predecessor. Although the response to a tweak of the throttle at 4000 rpm or below was gentle, the Yamaha pulled cleanly in the lower gears, with no sign of the plug-fouling tantrums with which some of its predecessors had punished gentle treatment.

Not that I let the Yamaha have an easy time for long, because the moment it reached 5000 rpm, the RD350 was transformed. Its exhaust note hardened from a flat drone to an excited zing, and the bike leaped forward with enough urgency to make me tighten my grip on those wide bars. The tach needle flicked round toward the 8500 rpm redline, and my left boot jabbed repeatedly at the gear lever to keep the motor in its power band.

The little twin certainly responded with enough enthusiasm to make me understand why the tester from Cycle Rider wrote that “the performance and acceleration of the RD is nothing short of amazing.” But I didn’t share this impression: “The power-to-weight ratio is so great that if one isn’t careful he will unexpectedly find the front end lofted quite high in the air when accelerating hard in a low gear.” If that tester pulled unplanned wheelies, he must have been mighty sharp with the throttle …

Even so, using all that power sent the Yamaha charging past an indicated 90 mph despite its unhelpful high-barred aerodynamics, and some testers reported 100-mph-plus top speeds, although the true figure was generally just short of that. That high-speed reputation helped the RD350 outsell rivals, including Kawasaki’s S2 350 and Suzuki’s GT380 in most markets.

One slight downer was that above about 6000 rpm, the Yam passed a fair bit of vibration, especially through its seat, which made the engine’s incessant demand for revs tiresome at times. Contemporary reports generally rated the RD very smooth, so either I’m less tolerant than those riders or this bike had understandably got a little rougher in its middle age. Back in the 1970s, more testers seemed more concerned by the two-stroke’s predictable thirst for fuel.

This RD’s chassis had held up very well, and my thoughts on its quick, occasionally over-sensitive but generally stable handling pretty much tallied with comments written when it was new. Its short wheelbase and light weight meant it could be flicked into bends with the merest nudge on those wide bars. And the Yamaha gave a firm, reasonably well-controlled ride without being too harsh over bumps.

That remained true even when it was ridden hard, as the tester from Cycle Guide enthused: “The first time you really stuff the 350 into a tight corner, you begin to understand about its road racing ancestry. You enter the corner wondering if you’re going to make it; you leave the same corner wondering why you didn’t enter it faster.”

I didn’t get quite so aggressive in the bends on this elderly RD, but was happy to make good use of its relatively modern tire combination of Avon front and Bridgestone rear rubber, both of which were doubtless superior to its original fitment. And I was equally impressed by the front disc brake, which stopped the Yamaha abruptly, with no hint of grab.

The disc reportedly even worked well in the wet, unlike many contemporaries, and it combined with the reliable rear drum to give the best stopping performance that Cycle magazine had ever recorded. Contemporary testers also enthused about the high-quality finish, neat switchgear, and even the hinged and lockable fuel cap. Seat comfort was another matter, but for a sporty middleweight the RD was impressively practical.

All in all, the RD350 was brilliantly lively, capable, and fun to ride—this example very much included—I thought, as I followed its headlight beam back toward base on the last leg of my ride. Then the Yamaha suddenly slowed to a gentle halt at the roadside, felled by an elderly battery that couldn’t handle the lights’ demands.

The RD350 ended up being trucked home in disgrace, but that shouldn’t diminish the reputation of a model that fully deserves its classic status. The RD400 that followed it in 1976 was even stronger and more powerful; the liquid-cooled RD350LC of five years later was better still. But there’s something very special about the air-cooled RD350—the bike with which Yamaha’s two-stroke twins came of age.

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Ask anyone who has spent time on two wheels and they will tell you that riding a motorcycle is something special. Just sitting and staring at a bike can get most riders oh, about halfway there. This 1987 Harley Davidson FXSTC might have never cruised south Detroit, but we bet those folks would’ve embraced it with open arms.

Okay, maybe that’s enough references to give away that this mild custom comes from storied ownership. The original owner was Steve Perry, who bought the bike in 1987 following his departure from Journey after fronting the band through a decade of hits and success. The band might have made the singer famous, but the motorcycle is what kept him sane, according to an interview with 60 Minutes.

The mileage on this bike—it shows just 557 miles currently—might mean that the wind-in-the-hair experience was not as appealing as Perry initially thought it might be. Some of those were added by the second owner as well, who is the current seller. With that kind of mileage, we think the real draw of this Harley is the low mileage and fantastic condition rather than its ties to a celebrity.

The FXSTC is also known as a Softail Custom thanks to the tidy swingarm and shock that hide under the gearbox. It allows a bad-to-the-bone hardtail look without needing a kidney belt to enjoy riding. Shifting of the five gears is controlled by a set of forward-mounted foot controls that make for a stretched-out riding experience that appears to combine nicely with the raked forks and taller handlebars. The laid-back stance of the bike looks primed to eat up miles. This was right at the end of Harley Davidson’s rise to the motorcycle juggernaut of the 1980s, with dealers struggling to keep inventory and long wait lists for new models.

The powerplant is an 82 cubic-inch V-twin from Harley’s Evolution line that features popular accessories like the slash-cut exhaust pipes and a Screamin’ Eagle air cleaner. Cycle World mentioned in its first ride of the bike that the air cleaner wants to occupy the same space as the rider’s right leg, which is only one of the reasons it might not have racked up a lot of miles to date. While having suspension on both ends may make this chopper sound luxurious, the engine is solid-mounted to the frame, meaning the overall riding experience can still be quite brash.

It was never meant to be a performance machine, but this is one wheel that we think should keep on turning. As of this writing, the leading bid on Bring a Trailer is currently $5900, which is $100 shy of our #3 (Good) condition value for this bike. Perhaps after all these years, it’s time that you be good to yourself and acquire a new chariot.

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Immediately following its blockbuster Kissimmee, Florida event (now the largest collector car auction in the world), Mecum Auctions held its 33rd Annual Vintage and Antique Motorcycle Auction at the South Point Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas.

This has become the largest motorcycle auction in the world, with the 2024 event featuring some 2000 motorcycles.

One of them, a 1974 Kawasaki Z2 750RS, was among the auction’s modern-era stars, with a Mecum-estimated price of $75,000 to $95,000. That estimate was spot on, with the Kawasaki selling for a gavel price of $85,000.

Though Mecum is scrupulous about vetting the vehicles it sells, shortly after the Kawasaki was sold, questions were raised about the motorcycle’s authenticity.

But first, why did this bike sell for so much? Because the Z2 was a Japanese-only motorcycle, sort of the little brother for the 900cc Z1 widely sold in America beginning in 1972. Japanese law prohibited bikes with larger than 750cc engines, so Kawasaki built the Z2 for its domestic customers. It went on the market in March of 1973.

According to a 2017 story in Motorcycle Classics magazine, many American military servicemen stationed in Japan during the 1970s bought motorcycles there for fun and for transportation, and some brought their bikes home after their tour of duty ended. A Kawasaki collector quoted in the story suggested that as many as 25 to 50 of the 69-horsepower Kawasaki Z2s made it back to the States. Fewer than that have survived, making the Mecum-sold Z2 a legitimate collector’s item.

But the same day the Z2 sold, questions arose. The story broke with a YouTube video posted by CycleDrag.com, titled “Inauthentic Vintage Motorcycle Sold for $85k at Auction?” The description said, “Following the auction it was discovered that the VIN was ground down and was not legible, something that would drastically impact the value of the motorcycle and its proof of authenticity.”

The video showed the Vehicle Identification Number, or at least where the VIN ought to be, on the left side of the headstock of the Kawasaki. It showed a bumpy black surface, with the only part of the VIN legible being the number 75, which looked as though it might have been struck recently. Mecum listed the full VIN, and the last two numbers were indeed 75. The video’s host, CycleDrag’s Jack Korpela, said the Z2 was “one of the most acclaimed bikes here at Mecum, and now there are some serious questions about it.”

According to YouTube, the CycleDrag channel has 580,000 subscribers. It wasn’t so much the video, which is reasonably balanced, but the 500-plus comments posted about the video that are, by and large, profoundly critical of both Mecum and the seller, identified in a CycleDrag.com story and photos as Marcus Swan.

Said one comment: “This is on Mecum. For the fees they charge, they should be on the hook. They should be validating everything. This isn’t eBay.”

Another: “I can’t believe Mecum didn’t verify the frame/number before the sale.”

Still another: “This is not some backyard auction, how could someone show up with that bike and not think the grinding of the numbers wouldn’t be noticed?”

The same day of the sale, Mecum refunded the $85,000 to the buyer, and shipped the Z2, at Mecum’s expense, back to the seller, who had left the auction following the sale.

We reached out to Director of Mecum Motorcycles Greg Arnold for comment, and it was enlightening. “Unfortunately,” he said, “we’re not happy having the story out there that we sold a motorcycle with the VIN ground off. It’s just not true.”

The explanation: “The frame had been powder-coated and that had obscured the frame VIN,” Arnold told Hagerty Insider. “So we asked the seller, before the auction, to remove the powder coating either by grinding or sanding to expose the frame number. He did that at our request and sent us a photograph of it. It’s not great, because of the process he had to go through to get the powder coat off. But there is a frame VIN. So we looked at it and decided that it was passable, and we ran it in the auction.

“We have the photograph of the bare-metal frame VIN, and it corresponds to what the title was. After he did that, he spray-painted over it again, so it wasn’t bare metal. The pictures we see on YouTube, he just painted over the numbers again. Which is certainly understandable.

“Now, after the sale, the buyer had a representative there, someone who I know from past dealings, and he had been alerted by CycleDrag, though certainly he would have questioned it himself. He said, ‘I’m not sure I like this.’ And we said, ‘You know, we’re not going to make anybody take this bike, on this basis, so you talk to your boss and if he doesn’t like it, we’ll be happy to unwind the deal. We’ll send it back to the seller.’

“That’s the long and the short of it. The report that the serial number was ground off is not accurate,” Arnold said. “I think the seller was acting in good faith.”

The YouTube video also questions whether or not the engine VIN should have a small ridge in front of it, which the 1974 Z2 in question does, suggesting that the ridge first appeared on 1975 models. “I have a guy who is very deep into Kawasaki history,” added Arnold, “and he said, ‘No, that ridge is OK.'”

“Here’s the thing,” Arnold said. “It’s a 50-year-old bike. As we all know, there were running changes constantly. It would be hard for me to say this motorcycle is inauthentic. I’m not a 1974 Kawasaki expert, I freely admit that. But if the owner can raise the VIN on the frame, I think he’s got a legitimate motorcycle,” which is what the seller says he’ll do in the CycleDrag.com story.

The bike, Arnold said, should be a “featured piece in someone’s collection.”

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Ducati has just unveiled a new single-cylinder roadster, the Hypermotard 698 Mono. The new bike inspires nostalgia for the sporty single that, more than 30 years after its introduction, remains one of the firm’s best-loved, rarest, and most valuable models: the Supermono race bike of the 1990s.

Like a rock star who died young, the Supermono had everything required to become a legend. It was a beautiful, brilliant creature that shone briefly before being extinguished, leaving its fans wanting more—in this case, a road-going version that was promised but never produced.

On its debut in 1993, the Supermono was instantly successful. Ducati’s works rider Mauro Lucchiari rode one to win the European Supermono championship in its debut season. Its numerous race wins over the next few years included a 1995 Isle of Man Singles TT victory by New Zealander Robert Holden.

And the Supermono was more than just a winner. It was small, ingeniously engineered, and exotic—a lightweight construction of magnesium, aluminum, and carbon fiber. And it was delightfully styled, by South African designer Pierre Terblanche, who would go on to shape many V-twins for the Bologna firm.

Few bikes have had more illustrious parentage. Its 549cc, liquid-cooled engine was designed by Ducati’s chief engineer Massimo Bordi, who had created the eight-valve, DOHC desmodromic V-twin that had revitalized the firm’s image. The single was essentially the V-twin with its vertical cylinder replaced by a vibration-canceling dummy connecting rod.

And the Supermono development team was led by a young engineer named Claudio Domenicali, who had joined Ducati in 1991, not long out of Università di Bologna. He would rise swiftly through the ranks at Ducati, eventually becoming CEO in 2013, and has since led the firm to unprecedented success.

My chance to ride the Supermono came in June 1993, after I had managed to bypass Ducati’s press department in order to speak to Bordi, who said I could use the factory’s test track. On arrival I met Domenicali, who had been tasked with putting Bordi’s dummy conrod theory into practice.

This had not been straightforward, as he explained. “Engineer Bordi had the idea and gave it to us to develop, but there was a phase when we were not sure it was good. Then we made a computer program that calculated all the forces generated by the movement of the system, and we realized what the problems were.”

The engineers had initially assumed that the dummy conrod and balance-rod should weigh the same as the piston assembly, but that had proved false and the final set-up was lighter. “We spent lots of time on this; not just on the weight but on its distribution too,” Domenicali said.

The effort had been worthwhile, however. The engine produced its peak output of 75 bhp (74 hp) at 10,000 rpm—much higher than most singles—and could safely be revved to 11,000 rpm. Its smoothness meant the frame and other components could be lighter for further increased performance.

At the time of my visit, the second batch of 15 hand-assembled Supermonos sat in line, awaiting their carbon-fiber bodywork before being ready for shipment. Alongside, on stands, were partially built engines, each with a distinctive crankcase hump hiding the dummy conrod arrangement.

Whether stripped or fully dressed, the Supermono was an exquisite motorcycle. Its low screen sat above the carbon fibre fairing’s nose duct, which split before feeding the Weber-Marelli injection system. The tailpiece supported its own weight with another stylish sweep of carbon.

Exotic materials were everywhere. The striking, flat-topped fuel tank was made from a blend of Kevlar and carbon fiber. And the purposeful look was backed up by classy details: magnesium triple-clamps and engine cases; and carbon-fiber brackets holding instruments, the battery-box, the footrests, and the silencer.

The frame, a minimalist blend of 22mm and 16mm steel tubes, weighed only 6 kg (13 pounds) and used the motor as a stressed member, in traditional Ducati fashion. Its stiffness-to-weight ratio was the factory’s highest yet, Domenicali said. The swing-arm was a sturdy aluminum structure.

Sophisticated, race-quality suspension came from Öhlins, comprising upside-down forks and a rear shock unit worked directly by the swing-arm. The 280 mm (11-inch) Brembo front brake discs seemed huge for a bike so small. Another Italian specialist, Marchesini, supplied the lightweight magnesium wheels.

Lucchiari’s championship-leading bike was the only Supermono reserved for the factory’s own use, so that was what I’d be riding. Domenicali started its engine using rollers, in racing fashion, and blipped the throttle until it was thoroughly warmed. After pulling away I was equally careful to warm the Michelin slick tires.

The “factory test track” sounded glamorous but was in reality a narrow, little-used ribbon of asphalt that wound round the Borgo Panigale plant, occasionally passing doors where I had to trust that the workers inside knew what was happening and wouldn’t suddenly emerge pushing a pallet of parts.

Thankfully that didn’t happen, and the supremely light and agile Supermono was ideally suited to the track. Its claimed dry weight was just 118 kg (260 pounds), and this was mostly held low, due partly to the engine’s horizontal surviving cylinder. The bike responded instantly to the slightest pressure on its low handlebars.

And it was quick—far quicker than any single I’d previously ridden. The track essentially comprised just two short straights, separated by a curve, with tight loops at either end. But there was enough space for the Supermono to demonstrate its acceleration as I wound open the throttle exiting the slow turns and trod down through the race-style down-for-up gearbox.

As the revs rose to send the little red bike charging forward, its exhaust note hardened from a gentle chuffing to an angry road-drill snarl. When I shut off at the end of the straight, with the white-faced tachometer nudging 10,500 rpm, the lack of vibration—just a slight tingle through bars, pegs, and the thinly padded seat—ensured that it felt like no other single-cylinder motorcycle.

Inevitably, the highly tuned little motor couldn’t match a bigger V-twin’s midrange performance, so it relied on its close-ratio gearbox to cover for a lack of urgency below 6000 rpm. But it wheelied easily on the throttle in first gear, and kicked hard through the seat in its lower three ratios. Given more space, it would have been good for over 140 mph.

I’m tall, and I struggled to get comfortable on a bike whose racy, feet-high riding position was designed for a much smaller pilot. That didn’t prevent it from feeling delightfully precise and controllable as I began to enter turns harder, relying on the taut suspension and warm, sticky slicks.

The Supermono cornered and stopped as well as just about anything on two wheels, and its racing lap times proved it had the performance to embarrass plenty of much bigger bikes. The prospect of a road-going replica was mouth-watering—and, in 1993, very much part of Ducati’s plan. Bordi’s engine design incorporated a boss for a starter motor in the crankcase.

Back in the race department, after my dozen-or-so laps, Domenicali confirmed that Strada, or Street, derivatives were on the way. “There will be two versions,” he said. “One will be a super-sports, with water cooling and fuel-injection, like a replica of the race bike. The other will have a lower price and different road styling, with an air-cooled motor and carburetor.” After a pause, he added: “We have all we need to complete the project, but we have so many projects under development that we don’t know when these ones will be started.”

Ultimately, those other projects would halt the Supermono street bike project in its tracks. Firstly, the recently launched M900 Monster became an unexpected hit, starting a naked V-twin dynasty. Months later, the firm unveiled the 916 that took superbike desirability to unprecedented heights.

With demand for the V-twins soaring, and Ducati’s financial problems already causing delays in production, the factory simply never reached the point at which it could commit to a road-going single.

Bordi and Domenicali had hoped to have both Supermono streetbikes on sale in 1995. In reality, only the race bike was produced, and in tiny numbers: just 40 units of the original 549cc bike in 1993, followed by a further 27, with larger capacity of 572cc, in 1995.

A few road-going Supermonos were built, a decade or so later by British engineer and Ducati expert Alistair Wager, who had worked as a mechanic on 20 of the 67 race bikes. Wager bought a batch of Supermono parts from Ducati, commissioned many more from a range of suppliers, and assembled a small run of superb street-legal singles that incorporated a few improvements of his own. All were quickly sold.

These days the genuine Supermono racer’s rarity merely adds to its allure, and of course to its value. When, every so often, a clean and original example reaches auction, the serious bidding starts north of $100,000.

Soon, though, the new Hypermotard 698 Mono will offer a more realistic alternative. Its 659cc “Superquadro Mono” engine makes 77 bhp (76 hp), features desmodromic valvegear, and is smoothed by twin balancer shafts instead of a Supermono-style dummy conrod.

More than three decades after the Supermono conquered all on the track, Claudio Domenicali is finally set to put a single-cylinder Ducati on the street.

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The launch of Norton’s Classic in 1987 felt like a landmark moment for the beleaguered British motorcycle industry. After more than a decade in development, the rotary-engined roadster was finally ready for production.

Riding the Classic through the gates of the factory at Shenstone that October to begin a first test was a thrill that remains vivid more than 36 years later. It really felt as though, after years of decline, one of the most famous British bike marques was leading a fightback.

Sadly for Norton, that’s not how things panned out. The British industry did fight back, but it would be former rival Triumph that would lead the way, when that marque was reborn in 1991 with a range of modern, multi-cylinder bikes, before growing to become a leading global brand once again.

By contrast, Norton would endure a difficult few decades, involving numerous failed projects, takeovers, and scandals, before recently regaining hope and respectability under the ownership of giant Indian manufacturer TVS. But along the way there were high points at Norton, too—and none greater than those generated by the rotaries.

The story of Norton’s Wankel-engined bikes was one for the romantics. It starred a low-budget racer that took on and repeatedly beat much better-funded rivals on the track, winning an Isle of Man TT as well as British titles. And it featured innovative, distinctive roadsters that briefly made Norton the star of motorcycle exhibitions, magazine covers, and showrooms.

The first of those was the Classic. Its origins were in the mid-1970s, when Norton engineers had begun developing a rotary-powered machine in secret and on a low budget, with the help of several UK police forces.

The rotary engine was not a new idea. German engineer Felix Wankel’s invention—with its triangular piston rotating around a central crankshaft, inside a figure-of-eight–shaped chamber—originated in the 1950s. It was already used by firms including Mazda and German bike manufacturer DKW. Suzuki’s RE5 superbike of 1975 had proved a short-lived failure, after which the other three Japanese manufacturers had abandoned their own rotary projects.

Norton’s painstaking development at least meant that when the Classic was finally considered ready, it worked well. Its air-cooled engine displaced 588 cc (the way rotary engine capacity is measured is open to debate) and featured two chambers, equivalent to twin cylinders. Its maximum output was 79 bhp (78 hp), comparable with Honda’s best-selling CBR600F middleweight.

In 1987, the Classic’s chassis already seemed slightly dated, with its pressed-steel frame and twin rear shocks; by then the Japanese were using aluminum frames and monoshock rear suspension. But that wasn’t a major drawback given the Norton’s role as a roadster with nostalgic appeal, emphasized by its curly-script logo on a traditional paint finish of silver with black pinstripes.

On that first test back in 1987, I rode straight to a speed-testing facility, where the Norton impressed by reaching 125 mph at the end of a half-mile, competitive with the CBR600F and other middleweights. It also handled and braked well, and revved with eerie smoothness and a rasping exhaust note that contributed to an engaging character.

At the time, the Classic’s overall performance felt similar to that of BMW’s 1000cc, four-cylinder K100—more than respectable for a new model from a small firm. The British bike was smoother and handled better; the German one was stronger at low revs and more economical. The hand-built Classic was also more expensive, but its status as a limited-edition model of which only 100 would be built helped ensure that all were quickly sold.

Norton swiftly followed the Classic with a dedicated police variant called the Interpol 2, and with the Commander, a sports-tourer that held a liquid-cooled version of the 588cc engine beneath a full fairing. The roadsters combined to get Norton’s rotary revolution off to a promising start, and momentum grew with what began as a low-key sporting sideline.

While developing the roadsters and police bikes, a small group of employees led by engineer Brian Crighton had also spent time (and some of their own money) building a prototype that held a tuned engine in a cut-down standard steel frame. After having the bike timed at 170 mph, they persuaded Norton chairman Philipe Le Roux to finance further development, including commissioning an aluminum frame from local specialists Spondon Engineering.

The resultant racebike produced 135bhp (133 hp), spat flame from its exhaust in spectacular fashion, and delivered results that were first encouraging, then astonishing. Ridden by a Norton employee named Malcolm Heath, the rotary began winning races at National level in 1988. The following season, with new riders Steve Spray and Trevor Nation at the bars, and in black JPS cigarettes livery, it won two major British championships and set a string of lap records, to the delight of a vast television audience and moist-eyed crowds throughout the land.

Norton took advantage by developing a roadgoing sports model, the F1, which was launched in 1990 and echoed the racer as closely as possible. Designed by London-based agency Seymour Powell, the F1 incorporated smooth, all-enveloping bodywork. Its riding position was sporty, with wide clip-on handlebars and a single seat.

It was powered by a Commander engine, turned back-to-front and uprated with the five-speed gearbox from Yamaha’s FZR1000. In roadgoing form, the 588cc unit couldn’t approach the brute horsepower pumped out by the snarling rotary race bike, but it produced a respectable 95 bhp (94 hp). Its Spondon-built twin-spar aluminum frame was a stronger version of the race bike’s, with steering geometry revised to aid stability. Sophisticated WP suspension, Brembo brakes, and Michelin radial tires completed an upmarket package.

The F1’s power and weight figures were similar to those of a typical Japanese 600, and so was its 145-mph top speed. On the road, the rotary felt very different, thanks to its smoothness, generous midrange torque, and unique exhaust note. For a sportster, the F1 was fairly comfortable, and its rigid frame and excellent suspension gave surefooted handling. But there were rough edges: The Norton was thirsty, and its engine snatched at low revs and was prone to overheating—a common rotary issue.

The hand-built, limited-production F1 was also expensive, a drawback that Norton addressed a year later with the slightly cheaper F1 Sport, which used simpler bodywork and lower-spec suspension, wheels, and brakes. That meant the F1 Sport felt a little less sophisticated during my test ride, but it was still enjoyably quick and nimble, and its motor had a smoothness and a crisp midrange response that most conventional middleweights couldn’t approach, backed up by an exhaust note that changed from a low-rev burble to a memorable rasp at full chat.

Town speeds had been the original F1’s Achilles heel due to its poor running at low throttle openings. Adopting the Commander’s carburetors had solved that problem, and the Sport trickled happily through traffic. At least it did until one particularly slow stretch, after which it suddenly overheated violently with a cloud of steam that embarrassed its rider and amused passing pedestrians.

Norton’s rotary revival fizzled out in similarly disappointing fashion, but not before more improbable racing success. In 1992, Scottish ace Steve Hislop rode a white-finished rotary to a famous victory in the Isle of Man Senior TT, beating Yamaha-mounted Carl Fogarty by barely four seconds after an epic high-speed battle. Two years later, another Scot, Ian Simpson, won the British Superbike title riding for a private team run by Crighton, who had left Norton after a disagreement.

By this time the company was in disarray. A follow-up sports bike, the F2, was displayed at the Birmingham show but never produced. Norton’s new Canadian owners abandoned the rotaries, leaving the factory to make only a small quantity of spare parts. Several former directors would eventually be convicted of financial irregularities, and hundreds of enthusiast shareholders lost the money they had invested.

There would be more lows during Norton’s next, turbulent quarter-century, starting in 1998 with the Nemesis, a hopelessly optimistic, 1500cc V-8 concept bike that never reached production, and ending with the firm going into administration in 2020, and with former CEO Stuart Garner’s conviction for pension fraud.

The investment of new owner TVS has resulted in Norton reaching its 125th anniversary this year with much to celebrate. It is producing a revamped range of retro-styled Commandos and powerful, modern V4s in a new factory in Solihull, near Birmingham, and has embarked on an electric bike project that hints at a high-tech future. But Norton still has a way to go to recreate the excitement generated, more than three decades ago, by the rotary-engined Classic and its flame-spitting racetrack derivatives.

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Riding a motorcycle in the Baja 1000 is a big task. Riding the Baja 1000 after flying from Australia to Southern California, buying a used bike, crossing the Mexican border, and riding it all the way down to the starting point in La Paz, only to then race back north with no support crew, no pre-running, and no adequate gear is another thing. Entirely. Oh, and doing all of this in the Ironman class, which means one rider and one bike—no support riders or teammates.

Wouter-jan Van Dijk did just that very thing this year at the SCORE Baja 1000, racing almost 1300 miles of desert from La Paz to Ensenada in just under 50 hours.

This is abjectly foolish, if we’re being honest. Baja is a race that is extremely dangerous under good conditions and is known to be booby trapped by spectators looking to “spice up” the area they are viewing. It is rare to have a year with zero injuries from those who are all-in prepared to run the thing. The terrain and the remoteness of the 1000 are are not to be trifled with, and great riders and drivers have been seriously injured and killed on the course since this race came to life in 1967.

But Van Dijk didn’t injure himself, and he didn’t die. Instead, he discovered the kindness that lives within the off-road racing community, which collectively banded around him and supplied him with the things he needed: fuel, food, and mechanical assistance. He didn’t even make it through tech inspection without others stepping up to solve problems created by his plan: The KTM he purchased in California and rode to the starting line was on bald tires when the stewards were giving the bike their customary once-over to ensure competitors are prepared for the route they are undertaking. They also noted a cracked subframe.

Between getting that welded and accepting a donation of fresh tires, it was a feat for Van Dijk to even take the starting line—which he did at 1:30 in the morning on Thursday, November 16. From there he negotiated a patchwork of assistance as the tale of his wild attempt traveled only slightly faster than he did on the KTM. Updates from random teams and people in the pits popped up on social media, where a fanbase cheered from afar while watching his transponder blink on the tracking screens that are available for each participant.

The stories that trickled out of the desert included a crash that severely bent Van Dijk’s front wheel. Fellow racers fabricated a repair that put him back on course, and not a second too soon. While Van Dijk was initially running toward the front of the 27 riders in the Ironman class, he was also racing against SCORE’s 50-hour cutoff clock. He squeaked in just in time and crossed the finish line at 2:05 a.m. on Saturday, November 18. It appears just 12 riders from the Ironman class reached the finish line, a number which only serves to highlight the insanity of Van Dijk’s feat even more.

Motorsports attracts a certain kind of person—someone seeking a challenge that requires them to go above and beyond the things they think they are capable of. Van Dijk stands as the latest example of just what we are capable of when the perfect mix of luck, skill, and support from strangers comes together. Kudos to you Wouter-jan Van Dijk. We think everyone needed a little reminder of exactly how far out there we can go.

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Walking up to a white suitcase sitting on the ground, it’s hard to imagine how it could possibly open up to become a rideable scooter. The concept makes sense, as the idea of a compact, easily carried means of last-mile transport is not new. In fact, Honda is best known for this particular type of vehicle, and as its vintage Motocompo models gain value thanks to their novelty and fun factor, the Japanese firm has revived the idea for the 21 century. The result is better than ever but comes with a few hard caveats.

The notion of a packable scooter is slightly comical in America, a country so focused on cars and communities that prioritize parking over other uses of space, but the idea is common in other parts of the world. This is the lens required to see the suitcase-sized, 41-pound Motocompacto as a useful thing you might actually need. It is so purely utilitarian, which is rare today, and it is also weird. Before we can really talk about that, lets address what the heck this thing is.

It’s not a scooter, a moped, or a motorcycle. It has no pedals, so the class system of E-bikes does not really apply. The Motocompacto has a throttle and brake both mounted on the handlebars, each controlling one of the small wheels hidden behind slick fenders. The throttle is a thumb switch moved vertically with your right hand that adjusts the power output from the wheel motor mounted up front. The brake is a simple lever-actuated drum brake tucked inside the rear wheel; said wheel slides out for riding and slips in for more compact storage. Honda calls the Motocompacto a first- or last-mile mobility solution. That makes it tough to put into context, so let’s instead look at the three ways nearly everyone thinks of cars: for their fun, for their usefulness, and for their value.

Fun

Plain and simple, the Motocompacto is quite fun to ride. The position of the controls and seat make it fit well, despite the narrow handlebars and super-short wheelbase (38″ long, ready to ride) that make the first few turns an adjustment period for most people.

Pressing the single button on the handlebars makes the bike “live” and ready to ride. It boots in the first of two rider modes, which needs a “kick start” that has nothing to do with the common use of the term. Instead it requires the rider to essentially push-start the bike with just one easy shove off until the speed sensor sees the scooter is moving. Then the throttle becomes functional, with a capped top speed of 12 mph. This prevents someone from accidentally taking off with a slip of their thumb on the throttle button. A double click of that single dash button switches to the second riding mode, which does not require the kick start and moves the top speed to 15 mph. Throttle take-up is quick, but acceleration is hardly mind bending, and it tapers off a bit as it pulls to the 4-minute-mile pace that is its top speed.

Usefulness

Riding the Motocompacto is fun, but it is a feeling that wears off quickly. In a small cone course setup by Honda I got the same feeling as when I would play around in a parking lot during the years I was a bicycle commuter. I rode about three miles per day, every day I wanted to go anywhere. Riding a bicycle was still fun, but it was also a task and one that made for at least semi-boring equipment. Utility drives decisions for long-wearing tires, durable grips, and heavy wheels. It all trades a little bit of playfulness for function. The Motocompacto is no different.

The design is sharply focused around mobility and that concept of first- and last-mile transportation. This means that the 250-watt motor is in the front wheel, and the only brake is on the rear wheel. The compact and lightweight nature necessitates a small battery that gives just 12 miles of range, but the bike’s overall design was massaged enough so that the cavity that holds the seat and handlebars when the Motocompacto is folded up also works as a convenient carrying space for a small bag, a laptop, or a slim water bottle.

The Motocompacto is designed to be part of your commute, not the whole thing. This is absurd for most of us to comprehend as evidenced by the number of comments that popped up right after they read the range was just 12 miles. That doesn’t sound like a lot, and it’s not, but the Motocompacto is meant to solve the lack of parking near your office, or to replace the clunky bicycle you ride to your bus stop every morning. It’s not meant to replace a car, but to supplement it in the right situation. It works great at that.

Value

The hard one. First, the price tag for the Motocompacto is $995, and you can order online or through your local Honda or Acura dealer. You cannot, however, get them through a Honda Powersports dealer. At under a thousand dollars and easily stored, it is hot hard to find uses for a scooter like this. A sports game where parking far is away; a campground runabout; a college campus crosser. As a person who drives sizable trucks with and without trailers on a regular basis, I immediately was overjoyed at the idea of having an easily packable option that allowed me to park the truck and trailer, sign off on my logbook, and then roll down the street a mile or two for dinner. Does that instance happen often enough to justify spending a grand? Over a few years, probably.

I can also see cruising a race paddock in the cool evening hours after the track goes cold, with a few drinks in the center cavity, which has drains and functions as a small cooler. That said, practically speaking, the real function of a paddock scooter is lost due to the nature of the Motocompacto’s throttle and brake; it can’t be ridden with one hand only, which makes it near impossible to use it as a hand transport for a freshly mounted tire and wheel or full fuel jug. Yeah, I’ve seen all kinds of rigged-up carriers and stuff, but the single rear drum brake on this thing has me nervous that the 265-pound weight limit isn’t so much about power or lack of suspension, but more about stopping effectively.

Of course, everyone has to decide value on thier own, and I am a man who has honed to a razor-sharp edge the ability to talk myself into buying something. I certainly don’t need a Motocompacto—few people do–but I also see how this is a goofy little idea that actually works for some specific scenarios. Embrace that usage and the value will come.

Pros: Easy to carry when folded; literal blank slate for a race livery or stickerbomb; simple to use and ride

Cons: Folding/unfolding can be clunky; no security; over-designed parts limit simple customization (grips, seat, pegs)

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The middleweight adventure-bike market is huge currently, with at least one option for whatever flavor of adventure you want. Some bikes are more street-focused, while others lean hard into the off-road side of things. Triumph wants to be everywhere all at once with the 2024 Tiger. Rather than one do-it-all machine, the Tiger 900 is actually three models: GT, GT Pro, and Rally Pro.

The three variants are an evolution of the Tiger 900 that was introduced in 2020 as an upgrade from the Tiger 800, a much older bike. The staple engine—Triumph’s three-cylinder—is still present and for 2024 receives a meaningful power bump to 106 horsepower, plus tuning that puts more torque behind the rider’s wrist at lower rpm.

The 900 GT, GT Pro, and Rally Pro share a powerplant and a chassis, but each is tailored ever so slightly to a different type of adventure-bike customer. The 900 GT is aimed at a newer rider who may not be sure what direction they want to go, while the 900 GT Pro is focused on road touring, and the 900 GT Rally brings an off-road focus. All are supported by a robust catalog of OEM accessories that allows riders to outfit the bikes exactly as they see fit right from the dealer parts counter.

Not all buyers will need to option out their bikes to enjoy them: The entire Tiger 900 lineup has a seven-inch TFT dash, a USB-C charger right on the dashboard for an auxiliary GPS or a phone, Bluetooth connectivity, and new marker lights that aid in nighttime visibility. Tire-pressure monitoring, shift-assist quick shifter, and heated grips and seat are standard on the GT Pro and Rally Pro.

Riders flock to the middleweight adventure bike market for bikes that have approachable power levels and seat heights but can do just about anything. Triumph’s decision to split the Tiger 900 from one bike into three puts the nameplate on the radar of more riders and makes the adventure-bike segment more attractive than ever.

Pricing for the Tiger 900 GT starts at $14,995, $16,895 for the GT Pro, and $17,395 for the Rally Pro. Those interested can expect to see the new 2024 models on dealer floors early next year.

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When it comes to new challenges for the Barn Find Hunter, it’s no longer about what he can find, but where. The latest episode of Barn Find Hunter is a prime example of just how good Tom Cotter is at finding interesting stuff. After all, few people would have expected this humble house to hold a collection of motorcycles. Especially not on Staten Island in New York City.

This whole adventure started when Tom started talking with his friends about the most difficult area to find something cool hidden in a barn. New York was at the top of the list. However, we all know Tom is a pro. To stack the deck in his favor he called a local friend, hot rodder, and car restoration master Rob Ida to see what might be hiding in plain sight. Rob led Tom through a maze of surface streets before stopping in front of a very unsuspecting house—that, it turns out, holds a surprising amount of American motorcycle history.

The home of Cathy and her late husband Walter might be unassuming, but you won’t make it beyond the front door without being captivated by some piece of two-wheel machinery. Inside and just to your left, in the room where you’d eat Thanksgiving dinner, is a 1911 Harley Davidson police bike. It’s a typical early Harley bike with a vertical single-cylinder engine that requires the rider to pedal-start the machine. Behind that is a 1926 Harley Davidson board-track racer. We haven’t even left the dining room.

Literally everything on the property has a story. As Tom and Cathy walk into the garage, she shares a story about how the garage wouldn’t exist if it were not for the sale of a motorcycle that was previously owned by Steve McQueen. That motorcycle now lives in the Petersen Automotive Museum in California, but the garage built by Walter with the money from the bike’s sale is full of just about everything a gearhead could want: A 1959 Cadillac, a 1948 Cadillac, along with a small but heavy hitting fleet of motorcycles.

Then it’s off to the basement. A 1950 Mercury convertible greets you right away, sitting next to an Indian four-cylinder motorcycle. Down the side is a whole range of two-wheeled history spanning from the 1920s all the way into the 1980s. One that caught Tom’s eye was a woodie in disguise—an Indian Dispatch. The rear of the bright yellow trike is all constructed of wood and Cathy says that, prior to the coats of paint and clearcoat, it looked like a piece of furniture. Her story proves there is art in everything…

… Even in the act of finding hidden cars. Tom shows that once again he can find something interesting no matter what situation you try and fence him into. Where will he go next and what will he find? We don’t know, but we bet it’ll be worth the watch.

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BMW revealed in June that the one-millionth GS boxer had just rolled off its Berlin production line. That’s a huge figure by motorcycle standards, confirming the remarkable success of the big flat-twin models that have led the adventure class’s recent domination of the market.

Yet even those production figures barely hint at the importance of the GS boxer to BMW, dating right back to the R 80 G/S that began the line in 1980. Without the unexpected success of that debut model, the German firm probably would have abandoned flat twins 40 years ago, and might even have quit motorcycle production completely.

If that sounds melodramatic, there is no doubt that in the late 1970s BMW came close to closing its two-wheeled division. The firm’s bike sales were falling, hit particularly hard by a weak dollar in the U.S., where over a third of production was sold.

The boxer engine layout, which now goes back a century to BMW’s first-ever motorcycle, the R32 of 1923, seemed outdated alongside more powerful multi-cylinder models from Japan. And although BMW had begun developing its own four-cylinder unit, production was years away; the K100 would not be launched until 1984.

In 1979, BMW Group boss Eberhard von Kuenheim replaced the motorcycle operation’s management with a new team, including sales director Karl Gerlinger. “When he asked us to take over he said, ‘Decide whether you make it or you close it—whether you sell off the stuff and it’s the end of the story,’” Gerlinger recalled years later.

Although Gerlinger was reluctant to end a motorcycle story that already stretched back over 50 years, even he could not see a long-term future for the boxer. “We thought we needed a new, modern-generation machine, moving away from the flat twin,” he said. “But that takes four years at least, and in the meantime you go bankrupt if you have nothing to sell. So we needed something that we could develop quickly.”

As with many successful ideas, there is a debate about who came up with the plan for a dual-purpose boxer. Legendary designer Hans Müth, who had already created the stylish R90S superbike for BMW (and would go on to shape Suzuki’s Katana) claims that in 1978, while brainstorming concepts with the firm’s head of product planning, he noticed his Range Rover parked outside and suggested a two-wheeled version.

Around the same time, Laszlo Peres, a BMW test department engineer, had ridden a self-built 800cc boxer to second place in the German enduro championship. Peres saw the opportunity for a production model and teamed up with some fellow engineers to build a prototype for testing.

Gerlinger was initially skeptical. “Laszlo first came into my office and tried to convince me we needed to do motorsport,” he recalled. “I said no—first we need a bike to sell. But he insisted, and later the engineers said: ‘We have something in the basement—come down and look at what we have to show you.’ When I tested it I said: ‘Jesus Christ, this thing is going to make us or break us!’”

In retrospect, the timing was perfect. Japanese manufacturers were having success with dual-purpose bikes, but these were generally sub-500cc singles like Yamaha’s XT500. BMW’s research showed that most were ridden almost exclusively on the road. Perhaps there was a gap in the market for a larger capacity alternative—powerful, robust, and comfortable enough for long journeys?

The project was given the go-ahead, under the control of Rüdiger Gutsche, BMW’s head of chassis development and another keen off-road rider. Italian firm Laverda helped with development of a prototype. Gutsche’s influence was seen in the innovative, single-arm rear suspension layout, which facilitated changing the rear tire. The 798cc motor was derived from the R 80 roadster’s unit and produced 50 hp—a modest output even then.

Bolting it into a chassis adapted from that of the lighter R65 kept dry weight to just 368 pounds. Testing involved two riders flogging pre-production models for 1300 miles through Ecuador, surviving extremes from the heat of the Amazon rainforest to glaciers in the Andes. The production bike was named the R 80 G/S, standing for Gelände (off-road) and Strasse (road).

With its mainly white paintwork, enduro-style front mudguard, and orange dual-seat, the G/S was a striking machine. It was a tall one, too, with 200mm of fork travel and 170mm at the single-sided rear end. Its front brake was a single Brembo disc, a first for a dual-purpose bike.

The press riding launch was held in Avignon, France, in September 1980—less than two years after the project had begun. Initially there was consternation from a motorcycling world unused to seeing such innovation from BMW. But the G/S won over almost everyone who rode it.

Its lively throttle response and relaxed cruising ability were unprecedented for a dual-purpose bike. And although the BMW was no enduro machine, its off-road performance, helped by specially made Metzeler tires capable of coping with the 100-mph top speed (previous off-road rubber was limited to about 80 mph), was a revelation for many riders.

Boosted by the mostly positive reviews, the G/S was an unexpected hit. BMW had hoped to sell about 3000 units that first year, but eventually produced more than 6500. The model’s instant success led the motorcycle division’s recovery, restored confidence in the boxer layout, and gave vital breathing space for development of the K-series four.

The G/S’s impact was also helped considerably by its four Paris-Dakar victories in the five years after its launch. The grueling trek from France to Senegal had begun in 1979. Yamaha’s XT500 single had won the first two events, although French rider Hubert Auriol, riding a specially built BMW boxer, had led in 1980 before being disqualified for receiving outside assistance.

Auriol had much better luck on the 1981 event, which he won on a boxer prepared by local dealers with support from the factory. “It was heavy and the rear suspension didn’t have much travel due to the shaft,” he said. “But in the early days the race was all about going fast between the holes, and this bike was good because it was faster than the singles.”

Auriol won by over three hours and repeated the victory two years later (after gearbox problems meant he failed to finish in 1982). The wins were vital in establishing the G/S, partly because BMW was quick to promote its success and the rally, which at the time was little known outside France.

“We started to blow the marketing horn like devils,” Gerlinger recalled, “and used our money to help [rally founder] Thierry Sabine get the race known to the public.” Belgian star Gaston Rahier added further victories in 1984 and ’85, by which time the concept of the big dual-purpose boxer was firmly established. BMW introduced a special Paris-Dakar version of the R80 G/S in 1984, featuring a big fuel tank, a single seat, and a luggage rack.

And that modestly powered, naked G/S was just the start for the dual-purpose boxer, which proceeded to capture the imagination of riders all over the world. Far from being rejected as too powerful, too tall, and too heavy, as some at BMW had feared, it grew increasingly popular as subsequent models gained capacity and features, including the taller and heavier GS Adventure derivatives.

In 1988, the name was simplified and the engine enlarged to 980cc to create the R100 GS, which three years later gained a frame-mounted fairing and adjustable screen. The R1100 GS of 1994 was a bigger, more touring-oriented model that set the trend for GS development. Some wondered whether BMW had gone too far; rising sales figures confirmed not.

The R1150 GS began the new millennium in style, but it was the first GS Adventure derivative of 2002, featuring longer suspension, optional large 30-litre fuel tank, and aluminium panniers, that proved more important. Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman rode R1150 GSAs on their Long Way Round odyssey, inspiring a new wave of two-wheeled adventurers.

That television series’ 2004 launch coincided with the introduction of the R1200 GS, which increased power output to 98 hp and reduced weight by a substantial 66 pounds, dramatically improving performance and enhancing the GS’s appeal to legions of riders considering switching from sport bikes. The duo swapped out their R1150s for the new bike for the show’s 2007 follow-up Long Way Down. Before long, the R1200 GS was firmly established as one of the world’s most popular bikes—a status maintained by its liquid-cooled derivative in 2013, and its R1250 GS successor of six years later.

And now BMW is poised to launch the next in the line, the R1300 GS—lighter, more sophisticated, and with output increased to 145 hp. This GS promises to be an enjoyable and practical roadster, and far more capable off-road than most owners will ever get to discover. Just like the very different 50-hp R80 G/S that began the story more than 40 years ago.

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BMW of North America has issued a “stop sale” on all its motorcycles at BMW dealerships.

The reason: “Following a recent quality analysis, BMW is pursuing measures to further evaluate the material used in a component of its motorcycle evaporative system, which may not have been produced to material specifications.”

It’s evidently purely emissions-related, “not safety related, and BMW owners may continue to ride their motorcycles as normal.”

The stop sale was issued earlier this week, and for a while, the circumstances spawned plenty of conspiracy theories until the company issued a press release. You can still buy and sell used bikes, just not from a BMW dealership. It covers every product BMW has, new and used, except for the electric CE 04 scooter.

The fact that all used BMWs are included suggests that the issue may have been going on for a while, but that hasn’t been confirmed. Whether the federal government is involved, and whether there will be a recall, is unclear.

The timing of the stop sale notice may be unfortunate, as the company is about to introduce its new flagship, the R 1300 GS. Whether or not this issue will affect the North American launch of that bike is unknown.

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After much anticipation from the adventure motorcycle market, Honda has announced pricing and opened the order books for the new XL750 Transalp, which the U.S. market is meeting for the first time. The Transalp nameplate traces its roots back to 1986 and lived a full life until its cancellation in 2008. During that run, it was never sold in America, and it saw just one year of sales in Canada: 1987. Now, the mid-size adventure market is a little more crowded, but Honda seems to think the XL750 will slot right in, and on paper, we are inclined to agree.

For starters, the pricing is right in line with its competition: $9,999 MSRP. Yamaha’s Tenere 700 comes in at $10,299, and the Suzuki V-Strom is $11,349. All three settle on using two pistons to solve the power problem, but the XL750 Transalp is closer to the Tenere 700 in concept, using a parallel twin engine design. One plus for Honda riders: With a total displacement of 755cc, the Transalp’s engine bests that of the Tenere by 66 cubic centimeters. The Transalp engine also receives the vortex air duct mechanism from the CB750 Hornet model, an intake tract design that Honda claims gives the engine smoother running and more power from tip-in to redline. Output is expected to be 83 horsepower for U.S. models, down slightly from the 90 hp European riders get to enjoy.

The Transalp fills the middling void in Honda‘s lineup between the big-boy Africa Twin and CB500X, making Honda the latest to give shoppers the option of an adventure machine in whatever size they are most comfortable with. The Transalp is slightly let down by its lack of a standard quickshifter, though it is an option that can be added at additional cost. We like this as quickshifters are very fun, but also get why Honda doesn’t offer it standard; for adventure riding, they’re a bit overkill. Riders will have five selectable riding modes which engage the traction control, ABS, power output, and engine braking at differing levels. Also, U.S. buyers will have just one color option: black. Hope you like it.

If you do, shuffle over to your dealer or Honda.com to place an order as the ordering books opened September 20th. Delivers are expected to begin in October.

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The Goodwood Revival took place this past weekend, and as ever, the cars were sublime, the racing superb, the period dress perfect, and the highlights videos a treat. This week we’re looking into the best from the event, including this action from the Barry Sheene Memorial Trophy.

Barry Sheene has been gone now for 20 years, but the annual motorcycle race that bears his name is still going strong at the Goodwood Revival. It delivers just as much excitement as did the man himself during his Grand Prix career.

The event at Goodwood is a two-parter, and the weekend’s action saw two different rider pairings on two different motorcycles take victory. Steve Plater and Glen English crossed the line first in Saturday’s race on their Matchless G50 from 1962, while the second-place finisher in that race, a 1961 Norton Manx 30M ridden by Michaels Rutter and Russell, won the second—securing them the overall win ahead of Plater and English.

The Memorial Trophy starts off with a dash across the grid to the bikes, which is always a spectacle in itself—particularly as some riders have a different interpretation of the flag drop than others. It was TT legend John McGuinness who got the holeshot in the first race, while Michael Dunlop got off to a good start on his MV Agusta, too. Sadly, Dunlop’s bike expired mid-race, while the McGuinness bike also fell by the wayside.

Race two’s running start was a little more composed than the first, but the same faces came to the front in no time, with the Plater/English and Rutter/Russell bikes tussling during the first stint. After the rider changes, though, it was Davey Thomas on the Norton Manx he was sharing with George Thomas who came through the field, taking second place on the last lap from another Norton Manx, ridden by Ian Bain and Steve Brogan.

The Rutter/Russell bike was well out in front though, and the motorcycle racing managed to avoid some of the rain showers that made a couple of the car races a little more chaotic, so tumbles were minimal. Sheene, we’re sure, would be pleased.

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Let me take you back in time, 70 years or so, to the smoke-blackened brick arches on London’s North Circular. Look carefully and you’ll see a glint of chrome, a flash of silver helmet and nasty-man goggles, fisherman’s wool socks folded over the tops of tall black boots, creaking leather jackets, and then the crack of a parallel twin responding to a kick start …

Back then, there was only one arterial route ’round The Big Smoke. On the west side of it, just up from the Hanger Lane and feeding and watering the inner soul of haulers and bikers, was the Ace Café, a greasy-spoon mecca that sounded like a cross between an idling Scammell, a wheezing Gaggia coffee machine, Bill Haley and the Comets on the jukebox, and a fair slice of braggadocio. When time hung heavy, the young blades would tear-arse their machines up the road, to a roundabout, and back, with pride going to the fastest.

Attending the 60th anniversary a few years ago, I encountered Brian Winch, who was an Ace regular in the early 1960s, its biking heyday. At 19 years old, he rode a nearly new 1961 Triumph Bonneville, bought for £189 (roughly $4500 today) at Pankhursts in Salisbury.

“It was like a space rocket in its day,’ he told me. “On Saturday evenings we would ride up from Southampton through Camberley, to the Ace. Sometimes we’d go on to the Busy Bee Café on the M1, or we’d stay here and sleep in allotment sheds or in the railway carriages in the shunting yards. It was a basic transport café then; the food was edible if you were hungry. It wasn’t a great place to pick up women, but most of the lads bought their girlfriends if they had them. We used to all ride together—the bikes were smart, with lots of chromium plate. We didn’t call ourselves ‘rockers’, just ‘bikers’ and we didn’t go to pubs, just cafés.”

Bonneville was king of the hill in those days—cheap, fast, flash, and with reasonable handling once Doug Hele, who was bought in from Norton, had sorted it out. A Norton with a “Featherbed” frame handled better and was more comfortable, a BSA had a better engine, but the Triumph just had it! Marlon Brando, Bob Dylan, Clint Eastwood, and Steve McQueen certainly thought so, and in truth this was an American machine, demanded by those West Coast bikers who wanted a bit more urge from their Triumphs than what they’d been given before.

And what they got was a 120-mph, stone-cold classic. “Arguably the best British bike ever made, and is certainly one of the few that is both reliable and competent in modern traffic,” wrote Frank Melling of the 1968 model in The Daily Telegraph. “One of motorcycling’s most enduring Great British icons,” said Steve Wilson in Triumph T120/T140 Bonneville. “Big grin,” says Henry Cole on YouTube. “In modern traffic conditions, for me, it’s perfect.”

From working man’s road rocket through two generations to pure nostalgia in its third generation, but with a satisfying hint of the rebel and a surprising degree of practicality. Perhaps that’s why the name still exists today on the side of the modern 21st-century John Bloor–owned Triumph parallel twin, which was launched in 2001 and is still a mainstay of the Triumph marque.

Turn the clock back again, though, and think about the redoubtable Edward Turner. Born in Southwark in 1901 into a family of engineers, by 1929 he was married and working at Ariel where he designed the famous Square Four engine. When Ariel went bust in 1932, it was bought by industrialist Jack Sangster. In 1936, when Sangster purchased the newly independent Triumph motorcycles, he moved Turner across as general manager and chief designer of what was then called the Triumph Engineering Company. Turner rationalized the Triumph range and set to at the drawing board. In 1937, the result was the epochal 500cc Speed Twin. Smaller and lighter than the rest of the Triumph range, it retailed at £75 (roughly $5270 today) and its 29-hp twin could propel the 366-pound machine up to 90 mph. That fantastic piece of design set out the order of battle for British motorcycles until the ’80s.

Turner was a prodigious talent, a genius even, but as colleague Burt Hopwood put it, he was also “hopelessly egotistical.” He argued with Sangster and left for BSA, leaving Hopwood in charge, but after World War II, Turner returned to Triumph and set about developing a model range where the genesis of the Bonneville was introduced. TRW, Tiger Cub, Terrier, T110 Tiger, and the unit construction 3TA all contributed to the Bonneville, which was Turner’s last design for Triumph, though he was said to be concerned about the performance; actually, for the early models, it more than the frames and suspension could cope with.

“This, my boy, will lead us straight into Carey Street,” he said, an idiom for bankruptcy.

The Bonneville name came from the small town near the eponymous salt flats, where in 1955, plucky American speed record breaker Johnny Allen rode his Triumph streamliner, Devil’s Arrow, at a new record pace of 193.3 mph. Bonneville was launched at the 1958 Earls Court Motorcycle Show, although with their usual ability to miss the big stories, the film news coverage from the show completely failed to mention the new iconic Triumph.

In fact, the launch seemed to pass many of the media by; after all, the bike was a hopped-up T110 Tiger. Even in America, the new Triumph was scarcely noted at first, but that didn’t last. Before long, Triumph was struggling to fulfill home market orders as supplies of the 650cc twin headed across the Atlantic to Canada and America. But even by the mid-to-late ’60s, and despite the 1963 inclusion of Triumph’s unit-construction engine and various fork and frame improvements, the writing was on the wall, especially with the 1969 launch of Honda’s CB750. The end came in the ’80s amid the collapsing chaos of the once all-dominant British motorcycle industry.

So, what are those early machines like to ride these days? Still brilliant, to be honest. There’s a fair bit of faffing around before the start with all that turning on of fuel taps, tickling of concentric carburetors, and so on. For those born to electric starts, there’s a knack to the kick start, but it is soon learned: Kick it like you mean it and the twin bursts into burbling life, which has to be delicately maintained on the throttle until warm-up is achieved. The right-hand gear change should pose no problems and it really does feel fast, gaining speed quickly and (if a later model) feeling quick to turn into corners but not unstable.

Fast corners will have the frame wombling around a bit, but it’s stable. Just don’t rely on the brakes too much, especially the single leading-shoe originals. As for the performance, well, across Beaulieu Plain in my youth, a well-maintained Bonneville could just about keep up with a Yamaha RD250 and, as my mate Al always said: “The sound you are hearing is all the engine bits trying to get out.” But my goodness, it was a sound and a half.

The T120 stayed in production until 1973, but in 1971, amid the growing chaos of Norton Villiers Triumph’s finances, the oil-in-frame T140 was introduced. These later machines were scorned by purists, but something strange has happened in the last decade or two as old men gathered up huge collections of British machinery, which kept prices high and the legend alive. But these machines weren’t exercised and the whole thing became a sort of pyramid scheme. Prices rose high even for fakes, imports, and bitsa machines, and so the younger lads and lasses went for the T140s and gave them their love. The irony is that now the old collectors are getting too old even to wobble ’round their miserly hordes; the bikes are being sold off and, as a result, prices are easing a bit.

To own an old Bonnie is a cinch. The bike requires just one annual service and resists the siphoning of its oil onto the garage floor a bit better than its Norton rivals. With modern ignition systems and specialists, parts are available and reliability is good. Plus, there’s a lot less snobbery about which machine you’re on these days.

You’ll smell of hydrocarbons and oil, and you’ll spend time at the side of the road, but somehow, the world looks more full of opportunity and fun from the seat of a Triumph Bonneville …

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Harley-Davidson has been trying to broaden its appeal of late, with a new family of liquid-cooled V-twins including the Pan America adventure bike.

Cynics will tell you that Harley should have revamped its range decades ago, rather than sticking to its traditional V-twins for so long. What’s less well-known is that the firm did develop a promising V-4 way back in the early 1980s, only to scrap the project.

The Nova was top-secret back then but was belatedly revealed more than 25 years later, when a prototype was displayed in the factory’s new museum in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

At first glance, the big, grey, half-faired Nova looked like just another member of Harley’s V-twin touring family. But its engine, developed in conjunction with Porsche, was an 800-cc, liquid-cooled V-4 with twin overhead camshafts and cylinders spaced at 60 degrees rather than the familiar 45.

In 1981, when the Nova was due to be launched, it would have predated Honda’s successful VF and VFR families of V-4s, and would have been as advanced as any bike on the market. In fact, Harley planned a six-strong family of Novas, ranging from 400-cc V-twin and 1000-cc V-4 to a 1500-cc V-6. All would have featured many shared parts under a modular format similar to the one that Triumph would adopt on its rebirth a decade later.

The Nova project was hatched in secret meetings that Harley’s top management and engineers, led by vice president Jeffrey Bleustein, held in the late 1970s, to establish a plan for the following decade. They decided to invest in two directions: a family of bikes powered by an updated, air-cooled V-twin engine, eventually known as the Evolution; and an all-new, high-performance line with a more advanced, liquid-cooled powerplant—the Nova.

“At the time, we thought Harley needed a new range, to complement rather than to replace the V-twins,” recalled Mike Hillman, the English-born engineer who was chosen to lead the Nova project. “Emissions and noise regulations were getting tighter and we weren’t sure we could make the air-cooled engine meet them. The Japanese manufacturers were swamping the market with different products, and we wanted something to compete.”

Harley’s parent company AMF (American Machine and Foundry) was keen to support the ambitious project, but developing such an advanced, all-new engine alongside the updated V-twin would have stretched R&D resources too thin. “We looked at quite a few suppliers and went to three in particular: AVL in Austria, Riccardo in England, and Porsche. We chose Porsche partly because they had experience of production as well as development,” Hillman said.

A 60-degree Vee angle was chosen, partly because Hillman, who before joining Harley had designed a Formula 1 race car for Brabham in the 1960s, wanted to use the powerplant as a stressed member of the chassis. A contra-rotating balancer shaft allowed the unit to be solidly mounted to the pressed-steel backbone frame.

The engine’s modular design retained a common stroke of 58 mm and used alternative bore sizes of 66 and 74mm to produce individual cylinder capacities of 200 or 250 cc. This gave V-twins of 400 and 500 cc; V-4s of 800 and 1000 cc; and V-6s of 1200 and 1500 cc.

“We started with the 800, which might not seem the most logical choice, but we wanted to get into the 750cc class,” said Hillman. The relatively short stroke allowed a redline at 9500 rpm. Carburetors were used initially, although fuel-injected engines were also planned.

Power output was about 100 hp per liter, which would have given the 800-cc Nova 80 hp – competitive with Honda’s first V-4, the VF750S, which was launched in 1982 with a claimed 79 hp. Harley considered using shaft final drive, before opting for a toothed belt.

Following pressure from styling chief Willie G. Davidson, who wanted a clean look, there was no place in front of the V-4 unit for a conventional radiator. Instead the rad was placed almost horizontally under the seat. A fan drew cooling air through the radiator from the dummy tank, which was in fact a large airbox and was itself fed via two large scoops at its front. The fuel tank was also under the seat, straddling the radiator; its cap was in the tailpiece.

All this resulted in bulbous side panels but a low center of gravity. Even so, the naked Nova had a fairly lean, sporty look, despite its raised bars and stepped seat. Suspension was by conventional telescopic forks and twin shocks.

Development through 1979 and 1980 went well, with Hillman leading a 15-strong team in Milwaukee, and 15 more engineers working at Porsche. More than a dozen prototypes were built, all with 800 cc capacity—some naked and others with bodywork.

Testing took place both in the States and in Germany. Harley had previously used public roads for reliability testing, but the need for secrecy led the company to set up a private facility in Talladega, Alabama.

The Nova was certainly promising, combining 120-mph performance with reasonably light weight and, according to Hillman, excellent handling. “It was very nice to ride because the frame was so stiff. The chassis drove fabulously and the brakes worked very well. I rode the bike but mostly it was the test riders’ job. We had to keep the numbers down due to the project’s secrecy. There was one exposé when someone took photos in Germany, which were published by Motorrad magazine. But not much information escaped.”

The Nova project seemed to be moving steadily toward its projected launch date of mid-1981—initially in unfaired 800-cc form, to be followed soon after by the 1000-cc version. Touring, sport, and even super-sport V-4s were planned for future years, followed by the V-twin and V-6 models.

Sadly, for all those who would have loved to see high-performance Harleys emerge to take on the Japanese, it didn’t happen. The year 1981 turned out to be a landmark in Harley-Davidson history, thanks not to a dramatic new model but to the management buyout from AMF that kick-started the marque’s spectacular revival.

President Vaughn Beals and other bosses of the reborn firm, which was heavily in debt, had to choose between continuing to develop the Evolution V-twin or producing the Nova. Inevitably, the safer option of the aircooled V-twin won. The Nova project was abandoned, after several years of development, more than $10 million of investment, and tens of thousands of miles of testing.

Even then the Nova refused to die.

“In ’82, the company made its first-ever financial loss, but in spite of that the management still siphoned off a chunk of money to keep the Nova going,” recalled Hillman, who joined Beals in making presentations to firms in the United States and abroad, in a search for financial support for the project. “In fact, we found a place to build it, in Italy. But strategically it didn’t make sense. Then bike sales fell towards the late ’80s. By then it was less competitive anyway.”

Finally, Harley execs made the tough decision to abandon the Nova, and the prototypes were either scrapped or put into Harley’s warehouse. According to factory insiders at the Harley-Davidson Museum, five bikes remained, of which two were runners. The display bike is a non-runner incorporating some parts made from wood.

Hillman went on to enjoy a successful career at Harley, rising to vice president and using his Nova connections to help set up the deal that saw Porsche develop the liquid-cooled V-twin engine for Harley’s V-Rod, released in 2001.

“It was a shame Nova didn’t make it, but you have to move on,” he said. “I’d like to think it would have augmented the V-twins. But the investment Harley made in getting the factories to work properly at that time, and the focus on improved quality with the Evolution models, were vital to the company’s growth. Scrapping Nova was undoubtedly the right decision.”

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Bring up motorcycle land speed racing in a crowd, and two names will rise to the top of the conversation: Roland “Rollie” Free and Burt Munro. The former you’ll recognize as the subject of the most famous photo in motorcycling; the latter is the man whose incredible story and racing efforts were immortalized in The World’s Fastest Indian, a 2005 movie starring Anthony Hopkins. Munro’s latest honor is a place in the Sturgis Motorcycle Hall of Fame, which pays homage to the remarkable individuals who have made enduring contributions to the motorcycle community.

Burt Munro was born, lived, and passed in Invercargill, New Zealand, but made his name on the Bonneville Salt Flats of the western U.S., a destination for land-speed racing. Munro visited the lake bed 10 times and racked up three world records aboard his 1920 Indian Scout that he extensively modified and streamlined. He was a mechanic and rider all in one, and even built his own speed parts for the early-model Indian.

His record runs at Bonneville came to fruition in 1962 when he clocked a two-way average of 178.95 mph with an engine displacing 850cc, fitting him into the sub-883cc record class. His final trip was in 1967 when he ran a two-way average of 184.087 mph and an unofficial top speed of 205.67 mph—as a 67 year-old rider on a garage-built, 47-year-old motorcycle. Maybe age is just a number after all.

Munro passed in 1978 at the age of 78, leaving behind a legacy of dedication and resolve that still inspires racers and prospective racers. The now-legendary world’s fastest Indian motorcycle, known as the “Munro Special,” lives in a small museum in New Zealand as a testament to what a single person can achieve when they chase their dream.

In 2006 Munro was inducted into the AMA Hall of Fame. Now he has a place in the Sturgis Motorcycle Museum and Hall of Fame as well. The Hall of Fame class of 2023 also includes 1981 Des Nations Team USA, Chris Callen, Jay Allen, Roland Sands, Russel Radke, and Scott Jacobs.

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The Ducati 999 is nothing if not controversial. The headlights on this piece of Italian exotica cause some to think more of a freight train than a lusty sport bike. It emits the seemingly standard, concerning engine rattles. It manages to be slower than a contemporary Japanese bike that costs 40 percent less. Yet the 999 is a piece of art that ignites passion from fans across the world. I know this firsthand: I took my motorcycle test at age 16 on my dad’s 999, and I have counted myself as one of the bike’s fans ever since.

Beginning with the 916 in 1994 and running through the 996 and 998, Ducati had a run of similarly designed bikes widely considered among the prettiest modern motorcycles made. When it came time to put pen to paper for the 999, Ducati designers decided to do something radically different. Surely a fresh take would be a hit and move the brand forward, right?

It didn’t unfold that way. The 999 was released in 2003 to mixed reviews thanks to its radical styling. The sleek 998 gave way to the 999’s stacked headlights and aero that was more purposeful than pretty. It was built to bring Ducati into the modern era of superbike racing, and fast doesn’t always mean beautiful. Still, the 999 remained quintessentially Ducati—a bike that makes you feel as if you’re a millionaire with only $20K in the bank.

Superbike DNA coursed through every part of the 999. The riding experience was everything but comfortable. There was no point in keeping it cool at slow speeds because it would only be going fast on a track. You don’t need mirrors you can actually use, because aero for track. Nothing but full tuck because, well, track. This made the 999 an animal on the street, but that was all okay because, well, Ducati. See the theme?

I have ridden a Ducati 999 on and off for the last 13 years. My dad bought his new in 2005 and for some unknown reason he handed me the keys at 16 to take my license test on and ride to high school. How am I alive? I ask myself that every day. As a younger rider I can put up with a  stretched, uncomfortable position, but having ridden 100 or more motorcycles, I can say the 999 is the only model on which I never feel fully relaxed unless I’m on a straight road at 45 mph with nothing around.

What’s it like to live with? First, the experience around town. It’s not great.

This bike does not do well in stop-and-go traffic no matter what. Your butt and legs will get very hot from the underseat exhaust and poor heat management. Aftermarket exhausts or extra heat shields can alleviate this somewhat. The dry clutch is a signature feature of Ducati bikes, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good thing. The rattle at idle with the clutch pulled in will have you wondering if your bike is broken, and managing the clutch is a bit difficult if you’re cruising town. The clutch is very stiff; I often find myself flexing my fingers to get rid of cramps. Smooth engagement is tough if you don’t rev the bike enough—you need to approach “Ducati bro revving engine at stoplight” levels if you don’t want an unexpected stall. When that clutch does heat up it will very happily groan and squeal if you run it in the friction zone too long. Those mirrors? You’re probably safer turning around backwards for ten seconds.

In retrospect, maybe my dad figured that, if I could ride a 999, I’d be prepared to handle anything. But there’s another side to this bike that he knew about and no doubt wanted to share.

The 999 sings on the open road. The track-oriented DNA that is a liability in stop-and-go riding transforms into an asset on windy roads and makes it one of the most euphoric sportbikes of its era. When you’re tucked behind the screen with your weight on your wrists and two fingers on the clutch, and start to roll into the throttle, you can’t help but grin ear-to-ear. The high-revving V-twin’s harmonics make the bike feel alive, and its roar is something between the deep wallop of a V-8 and the eager zing of an inline four. It’s even more pronounced with the Termignoni exhaust that came on the 999S and 999R models.

The 999 is the pinnacle of a love/hate motorcycle duality. Visually and experientially, it’s captivatingly beautiful and ugly at the same time. It’s shockingly fast but slower than a Suzuki GSX-R from the same year. It’s uncomfortable to ride but you’ll ever want to get rid of it.

What does it take to buy a 999 today? There are three models with very different values: the 999 Base, 999S, and 999R. Of the base models, the ones you want are the 2005 and 2006 model years. They got 18 more horsepower—a significant boost for a motorcycle—and the black frame and wheel combination is preferred over the earlier silver. Values are still shockingly low for these, though their depreciation has bottomed. You can get one with roughly 5000 miles for $6500 to $8000, up from $5500 to $6500 only a couple years ago.

The 999S adds suspension improvements and subtracts some weight while bumping prices up 65 to 75 percent to $11,000–$15,000 for very good examples. On top of the improvements to the S, the 999R features carbon bodywork and extensive strengthening of the engine internals for more power. Good-condition 999Rs can be had for around $16,500, and $27,000 will get you the best of the best. They clearly haven’t hit the collector realm yet, as witnessed by a 22-mile base bike selling for only slightly more than $10,000. That said, the market tends to recognize characterful bikes, even if it takes a while. The whole model range has potential, but with the personality and the racing-livery looks to match, the 999R Fila and Xerox models are primed for serious collectible status.

It’s important to go into any purchase with eyes wide open—any 999 is a raw piece of machinery that refuses to coddle you. Remember, a Ducati is a Ducati. That lump of aluminum between your legs will overcome any mixed feelings about freight train headlights, or a stat sheet that isn’t as strong as a cheaper Japanese bike. If you want a passionate riding experience you won’t forget, it’s hard to go wrong with the 999.

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The first Kawasaki to wear the ZX-10 name was an important model on its launch in 1988. As well as being the firm’s new flagship superbike, it arrived in the aftermath of one of the most costly promotional blunders in motorcycling history.

This bike’s predecessor, the GPZ1000RX, was always likely to have a tough time in succeeding the GPZ900R Ninja, Kawasaki’s first liquid-cooled, 16-valve superbike, which had been hugely popular since its introduction in 1984.

The firm’s decision to launch the more powerful but heavier and less agile RX at Austria’s Salzburgring—and to bring the Ninja along for direct comparison—backfired spectacularly. Most riders preferred the older model and lapped faster on it, too. The RX was doomed before even reaching the showroom.

Two years later the ZX-10 was also launched at a racetrack, this time at Jerez rather than the scarily Armco-lined Austrian circuit. This time, Kawasaki didn’t repeat its mistake by bringing along an old favorite. I enjoyed thrashing the ZX around the recently opened Spanish track, even if my strongest memory is of a colleague’s sheepish grin after crashing and wrecking one—thankfully, without injury.

Years later but only a few minutes after pulling away on this well-preserved ZX-10, I’m wondering why Kawasaki didn’t simply launch both models on Spanish roads instead. I’m sitting at an effortless 70-ish mph with the 997cc, four-cylinder engine purring smoothly below. The fairing and tall screen are doing a good job of keeping off the wind; the wide seat and plush suspension are adding to the comfort.

This old ZX-10 is certainly powerful; a short, violent burst of acceleration confirms that. But it feels much more like a sports-tourer than a hardcore super-sports bike like its modern ZX-10R near-namesake.

Kawasaki had certainly made every effort in the development of what it described as the fastest and most powerful superbike the firm had ever built. Almost every component was new, although the rounded styling echoed that of the RX.

Capacity was unchanged but compression ratio was increased, and components including pistons, connecting rods, and crankshaft were smaller and lighter. The DOHC valvetrain was redesigned, and the airbox and valves were larger. The result was a 12-hp increase in maximum power, to 137 hp at 10,000 rpm.

The ZX-10’s most significant feature was Kawasaki’s first twin-spar aluminum frame, which replaced the RX’s steel tubes and aluminum sections. Kawasaki called the design e-box, in reference to its egg-shaped appearance from above, and claimed it was both stiffer and lighter.

New chassis parts also included thicker front forks and larger wheels—17 inches front, 18 inches rear, instead of the RX’s 16 inchers. At 489 pounds dry, the ZX-10 was a useful 35 pounds lighter, and even weighed 13 pounds less than the GPZ900R.

But it was still one pretty hefty motorbike, and more at home on the road than any racetrack—as I confirmed a few months after its launch in 1988, on a weekend trip from London to south Wales, its pillion seat loaded with girlfriend and throw-over panniers. The ZX was fast and exciting, and also impressively comfortable.

This clean black ZX, borrowed from English specialists Classic Superbikes, was faster than it would have been when new. It was fitted with carburetor tops from a later ZZ-R1100, to restore its full 137-hp output rather than the 125 that it would have been sold with, after being restricted under the UK importers’ old voluntary agreement.

The Kawasaki felt tall and roomy, with a stretch to its slightly raised clip-on handlebars. It seemed nothing like a cutting-edge sports bike as I set off, its motor purring smoothly, giving the overall impression of a slightly ponderous roadster.

The ZX quickly brought back mixed memories with its low-rev power delivery. Initial response was smooth from 2000 rpm, but there was then a pronounced pause before the power kicked in at 4000 rpm, which made for erratic progress at low speed.

That hole in the delivery was a pain on the open road too. When I came up behind a car at about 50 mph in top gear and went to overtake, the bike hesitated; it needed at least one down-change. Large-capacity motorcycles should require such assistance, even back in 1988.

But that was pretty much the limit of the criticism directed at the engine. Once into its stride, there was barely a step in the power delivery, and the big liquid-cooled lump’s smoothness made using its revs very tempting, especially as the six-speed gearbox shifted cleanly.

And the ZX-10 sure was rapid, especially in unrestricted form. An American magazine tested a full-power ZX-10 at 168 mph, making it the world’s fastest production bike. I was just as glad of the ZX’s excellent mirrors as I had been in 1988.

I was also appreciative of the Kawasaki’s wind protection. Its screen was taller than the GPZ1000RX’s, and sent most of the breeze over my head, although I’m tall. As I noted after covering several hundred miles on that two-up trip in 1988, this difference was worth more than any dozen extra horsepower.

Handling was good by the standards of the day, benefitting from the sharper chassis geometry and reduced weight. Inevitably the Kawi still felt unwieldy by modern standards, needing plenty of effort through the bars to push it into a turn.

Where the ZX-10 always excelled was in stability, and that remained true. And it went ’round corners pretty well, with plenty of grip from its Michelin tires. I was even quite impressed by its front brake’s power, even though I’d rated the stopper only average when new.

It was easy to understand why the ZX-10 had made such a good job of that weekend touring trip. Along with the wind protection and roomy riding position, the dual seat was supportive, and the pillion had a sturdy grab-rail. There were even luggage hooks below the seat.

That practicality did not prevent the ZX-10 from becoming the second model to be outlasted by its illustrious predecessor the GPZ900R, which remained in the range as a low-cost four when the ZZ-R1100 arrived as Kawasaki’s flagship in 1990.

But the first ZX-10 had made its mark, starting a long line of success not just with its name but with its blend of powerful four-cylinder motor, aluminum beam frame, and considerable sports-touring ability.

1988 Kawasaki ZX-10

Highs: The storming acceleration from 5000 rpm

Lows: Every time you hit the low-rev flat spot

Summary: It’s still quick and comfy, and doesn’t cost much

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Price: Project, $4000; nice ride, $5800; showing off, $10,300

Engine: Liquid-cooled DOHC four

Capacity: 997 cc

Maximum power: 137 bhp @ 10,000 rpm

Weight: 524 pounds without fluids

Top speed: 165 mph

***

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Hang around car people for more than a few hours, and the conversation turns to engine sounds and exhaust notes. Everyone has their personal favorite, but a few soundtracks are favored by almost all. One is the characteristic scream of a V-10 Formula 1 car, whose engine’s crankshaft spins at nearly 20,000 rpm. The insane howl of these cars, which raced between 1989 and 2005, is a wild thing, but nearly three decades before, a motorcycle engine spun just as fast . . . with four fewer cylinders.

The six thimble-sized pistons in the engine of Honda’s 1960s-era RC166 bounce up and down at a frequency that puts each piston at top-dead-center over three thousand times per minute. Piston speed is in the range of 68 feet per second.

But, you say, most of the motorcycle engines during that era of Grand Prix racing were two-strokes; with no valves to operate, that kind of engine speed isn’t as impressive.

Wrong. Well, at least kind of. Most bikes of the ’60s were, but the 250cc RC166 had a double-overhead-cam four-stroke engine. Soichiro Honda was putting all of his company’s racing and production eggs in the four-stroke basket: He believed it, not the smoky and cantankerous two-stroke, was the future.

Since a two-stroke engine has a power stroke on every revolution of the crankshaft, and a four-stroke has a power stroke on every other, Honda engineers used additional cylinders and rpm to smooth the power pulses as they went back through the bike’s transmission and were eventually absorbed by the tire.

One of those power pulses likely wasn’t significant by the time it reached the contact patch; each of the RC166’s cylinders displaced merely 41 cubic centimeters. For scale, the combustion chamber of a Chrysler Hemi V-8 displaces 85 cc. Despite these minuscule pistons and valves, the engine in Honda’s RC166 produced nearly 65 horsepower. With Mike “the Bike” Hailwood holding the handlebars, the RC166 handily won the 1966 and 1967 Grand Prix championships. Sadly, after ’67,  Honda put its motorcycle GP program on pause, switching focus to Formula 1, where it worked to scale up some of the engine technology that it had used to create such dominant racing motorcycles.

The RC166 will always be remembered for more than its spec sheet; it was a wild feat of engineering that actually worked. Hearing its screaming exhaust note is just a reminder of what is possible when an engine designer puts their mind to a task.

***

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In 2022, Suzuki had to drop the GSX-R1000R from its Japan and European catalogs because the model couldn’t meet emissions regulations under Euro-5. The decision ended an open-class line that stretches all the way back to the original GSX-R1100 of 1986.

37 years later, one incident from my first ride on that motorcycle remains as vivid as if it happened yesterday.

On a Surrey A-road on what felt like the year’s first real day of spring, early morning mist had burned off to reveal bright sunshine. As a tester for Bike magazine, I had just been let loose on a freshly uncrated example of Suzuki’s 1052cc follow-up to the GSX-R750, which in 1985 had redefined high-performance motorcycling.

Ahead was a long, slightly uphill straight. I opened up the Suzuki properly for the first time. With my head behind the screen, the GSX-R ripped forward so hard that it almost left my stomach at the bottom of the hill. When I tipped the bike into the curve at the top, at a speed no longer politically correct to mention in print, the GSX remained rock-steady: It could clearly have gone faster still with no problem.

I instantly realized that the GSX-R1100 was in a different league than anything I’d ridden in several years as a road-tester. A further two weeks with the bike did nothing to alter that view.

The big GSX-R’s all-conquering performance was not unexpected. A year earlier the original GSX-R750 had been a shock: Its full fairing, racy riding position, rev-happy oil-cooled engine, and ultra-light aluminum-framed chassis put an unprecedented focus on speed and aggression.

The 1986 GSX-R1100 was more of the same: A bigger, stronger 16-valve powerplant in an uprated and still remarkably light chassis. At a glance, it was almost indistinguishable from its smaller sibling, apart from the stickers on its tailpiece. The two models shared Suzuki’s endurance racer styling, with round twin headlamps in a fairing that would later earn them the nickname “Slabside.”

The frame design was very similar, too: a collection of rectangular-section extrusions in a twin-downtube arrangement, with cast sections at the steering head and around the pivot of a box-section swing-arm, which was also made of aluminum.

The engine layout followed that of the smaller GSX-R, which meant oil cooling, and 16 valves in Suzuki’s familiar Twin Swirl Combustion Chamber design. It too was designed to prioritize weight-saving, but some parts, notably the five-speed (instead of six-speed) gearbox, were strengthened.

The engine’s larger capacity gave the bike very different power characteristics. Where the 750cc bike demanded high revs, the GSX-R1100 was much more flexible. Its power curve impressed not just with its peak of 128 hp at 8500 rpm but also with its broad spread of torque.

That power output is modest for a big bike today, of course. When I found myself back behind the tall twin-headlamp fairing, there was inevitably not the same sense of all-conquering performance. But the big Suzuki still took very little time to make its presence felt.

The view from the rider’s seat was instantly familiar: usefully protective screen, foam-mounted instruments, low, clip-on handlebars. And the GSX-R still ripped forward like crazy when I tweaked its throttle, even when the tacho needle was barely off its 3000 rpm stop.

By the time I was into top gear on this well-preserved GSX-R, it was clear that the old warrior still had the performance to feel seriously quick on the road. By 5000 rpm it was ripping forward violently enough to lift its front wheel in first gear. Even in top, it could surge past a line of traffic.

At 7000 rpm, where the smaller GSX-R engine came alive, the 1100 was breathing even deeper as it headed for the 10,500 rpm redline and ever-greater speeds. In typical GSX-R fashion, there was a slight buzziness to the engine. But vibration never really became annoying, unlike the footrests—I hadn’t recalled them being quite so knee-crampingly high.

Acceleration was also aided by the GSX-R1100’s weight or, rather, its lack of weight. At 434 pounds dry it was 44 pounds heavier than the 750, due to many of its apparently identical parts being slightly larger and stronger. But that figure still made the Suzuki by far the lightest open-class machine in its day; with a standing quarter-mile time of less than 11 seconds, it made rivals like Honda’s VF1000R and Kawasaki’s GPZ900R seem sluggish.

Equally importantly, it was just as impressive in the twisties. That beefed-up frame held front forks developed from the 750’s, and a new rear shock. It had wider 18-inch wheels and tires, and larger 310mm front brake discs gripped by identical four-piston calipers. Stability was aided by a steering damper tucked inside the fairing nose.

On that first ride in the ’80s, my main impression had been of how light, taut, and racer-like the Suzuki had felt in comparison with existing superbikes. My thoughts were very different years later, when its 18-inch wheels and old-fashioned geometry made the GSX feel more broadsword than rapier.

It still responded well to spirited riding, feeling sufficiently light and flickable to encourage some aggression in the bends. Its Bridgestone tires were narrow by modern standards but not short of grip. The front brake was reasonably powerful, too, though of course lacking in ABS.

Unlike many of its contemporaries, the GSX-R also had enough ground clearance, even for the racetrack. It had proven so in 1986 by utterly dominating production racing with no more extra kit than a lock-wire on its annoying, spring-loaded sidestand. It took the top eight places both in the national championship and at the Isle of Man TT, where winner Trevor Nation lapped the 37-mile course at over 113 mph.

My first impression on that sunny spring morning in the ’80s had not been misleading. All these years later, it’s debatable whether any new superbike since has been so far ahead of all opposition as that first GSX-R1100. Its family line might have ended in most of the world, but Suzuki’s slab-sided star won’t be forgotten.

1986 Suzuki GSX-R1100

Highs: Riding it hard on a twisty road

Lows: The low bars and high footrests in town

Summary: It still feels improbably fast and light

—

Price: Project, $4800; nice ride, $11,000; showing off, $16,400

Engine: Oil-cooled DOHC four

Capacity: 1052 cc

Maximum power: 125 hp @ 8500 rpm

Weight: 434 pounds without fluids

Top speed: 150 mph

***

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Parallel-twin-powered bikes are currently motorcycling’s dominant force. Honda’s new Hornet and Transalp are earning rave reviews. Aprilia, BMW, Husqvarna, Kawasaki, KTM, and Royal Enfield have popular families. Fantic’s first-ever twin borrows its engine from Yamaha’s MT-07 and Ténéré, which sell by the boatload. Even the engine in Suzuki’s latest V-Strom is a parallel, not a vee.

And then there’s Triumph, which has a thriving family of parallel-twin models: Bonneville, Scrambler, and Thruxton. The brand, having just changed its Street Twin’s name to Speed Twin 900, now also has a pair of retro roadsters named after the 498cc machine that appeared through the post–Second World War gloom to begin motorcycling’s first parallel-twin era.

The Speed Twin was actually launched in 1937. It made an immediate impact, but the war’s outbreak two years later halted production. When the Triumph returned—in subtly updated form—as of 1946, it proved that two cylinders could be better than one. Triumph inspired rival firms to follow suit, thus triggering a period of parallel-twin dominance that would last for decades.

The Speed Twin’s designer, Triumph’s charismatic boss Edward Turner, outlined the advantages of the bike’s engine in typically forthright fashion. “It will run at higher revolutions than a single [cylinder] of similar capacity without unduly stressing major components,” he said. “The engine gives faster acceleration, is more durable, easier to silence, and better cooled. In every way it is a more agreeable engine to handle.”

Few disagreed after riding the Speed Twin. Its top speed, just over 90 mph, was matched by some singles, but none could match the effortless way the Speed Twin could cruise at 70 mph. The pushrod-operated engine, which had a 360-degree firing arrangement (pistons rising and falling together), was softly tuned, with a maximum output of 28 hp at 6000 rpm. Although there was some vibration, by single-pot standards the engine was smooth.

Turner had recently arrived from Ariel, where he had designed the glamorous Square Four, after that firm had taken over Triumph. He announced himself by revamping Triumph’s single-cylinder range of 500-, 350-, and 250cc models with fresh styling and catchy new names: Tiger 90, 80, and 70.

Turner’s rare talents for marketing and styling were again evident in the Speed Twin’s evocative name and handsome lines. The Twin’s lean, simple look was not misleading. It used essentially the same frame and forks as the Tiger 90, was actually slightly lighter than the 500 single, and its engine was slightly narrower.

It was the Speed Twin’s performance, though, that sent the testers of the day into rapture. “On the open road the machine was utterly delightful,” reported The Motor Cycle. “Ample power was always available at a turn of the twist-grip, and the lack of noise when the machine was cruising in the seventies was almost uncanny.” The magazine managed a two-way average of 93.7 mph and a “truly amazing” one-way best of 107.

The journalist from rival magazine Motor Cycling was similarly enthusiastic in a January 1946 review. After collecting a Speed Twin from Triumph’s base at Meriden, near Coventry, where the factory had been rebuilt since being damaged by German bombs, he headed southwest, towards Cheltenham, searching out twisty roads where the bike’s handling could be tested.

The Speed Twin did not disappoint, judging from the glowing report: “How can mere writing express that sense of mastery, that sympathy with the machine, that exhilarating impression of complete control which a healthy engine, hair-fine steering and super-adequate braking can combine to inspire?” He then took the Triumph for an off-road ride, where it again impressed.

My own Speed Twin test ride kept to the road and was distinctly brief in comparison, but I found it easy to appreciate the Triumph’s performance and light, easy handling.

This bike was standard, apart from handlebars that curved back slightly more than the originals. As a 1946 model it featured the telescopic forks that had been fitted that year, in place of the original girder design. Other post-WWII upgrades included a larger, four-gallon fuel tank and new magneto ignition.

The Triumph felt like a period piece: I heaved it off the tricky rear-wheel-mounted center-stand, tickled the tiny, unfiltered Amal carburetor to get the petrol flowing, and gave a light kick to fire up the motor. The sound from the twin pipes was a lovely, mellow purr as I blipped the throttle. First gear went in with a graunch, but the controls were light, and once I was under way the right-foot gearchange was precise.

It didn’t take long to discover why so many riders had taken to the Speed Twin. Its half-liter motor was impressively smooth almost all the way through its rev range. The Triumph was enjoyably eager for such an old bike, its effortless low-rev response helped make it easy to ride, and vibration was not an issue at up to 60 mph.

The Twin also handled well, at least for a bike with a hard-tail (read: unsuspended) rear end. At 368 pounds with fuel, the Triumph was light even by modern middleweight standards, and its ultra-low and sprung saddle helped make control effortless. Its brakes were reasonably efficient, too, despite being simple drums.

The Triumph’s telescopic forks were hydraulically damped, intended to give extra rear-wheel grip on bumpy road surfaces, compared to the girders, and to improve feel of the front end. Despite the lack of rear suspension, the Twin handled fine on reasonably smooth surfaces.

Even comfort was reasonable, thanks to the sprung saddle. Triumph introduced an optional sprung-hub rear suspension system two years later, in 1948, but it was disliked by many riders: It tended to make the bike weave.

The Speed Twin, by contrast, remained hugely popular for years, as did its sportier Tiger 100 derivative, whose extra power raised top speed to 100 mph. In 1950 Triumph added the Thunderbird, with its bigger, 650cc engine, in an attempt to stay ahead of rival firms who by now had twins of their own. The format would continue to dominate until the ’70s, when Japanese firms took over with their more powerful, smoother, and better engineered fours.

And now parallel twins are back at the top of the sales charts. These engines cost less to produce than fours, triples, V-twins, or boxers. Many power fine bikes, offering adequate performance and balancer-shaft smoothness, plus added character from irregular firing orders. But they’ll never match the impact of Triumph’s original, which transformed motorcycling in a way that only a select handful of bikes have done.

1946 Triumph Speed Twin

Highs: Sweet power delivery, easy handling

Lows: Easy to drop, when trying to use the center stand

Summary: An all-time great that still rides beautifully.

—

Price: Project: $8800; nice ride, $12,300; showing off, $15,800

Engine: Air-cooled parallel twin

Capacity: 498 cc

Maximum power: 28 hp @ 6000 rpm

Weight: 368 pounds with fluids

Top speed: 95 mph

***

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For two weeks each year, a sleepy little island in the Irish Sea transforms. Hundreds of thousands—both spectators and motorcycle racers—make a pilgrimage to it in search of speed. Local roads become, with just a few strips of plastic tape and a few cones, one of the most formidable challenges in all of motorsports: The Isle of Man Tourist Trophy, TT for short.

The week-long calendar of races has been running annually since 1907—with a few exceptions, of course. But that figure merely scratches the surface of what makes The Isle of Man TT so special.

Course length: 37.73 miles

The longest track in the Formula 1 calendar is the Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps in Belgium, where a single lap is 4.352 miles. Germany’s infamous Nürburgring Nordschleife, or Green Hell, is 12.9 miles.The 219-turn Mountain Course for the Isle of Man TT is 37.73 miles. Learning it takes years.

F1 ran 44 laps last year at Spa for a total race distance of just over 190 miles. The Senior TT, a single event in the Isle of Man TT calendar, runs six laps of the Mountain Course for a total race length over 226 miles. That requires pit stops, which regulations intentionally slow: The pumps that a crew uses to pour fuel into each bike’s 5 gallon tank must operate using gravity alone.

Average speed: Over 135 mph

One reason why it takes so long for a rider to master the Isle of Man course is how fast they are going. Even the smaller bikes average well into 120+ mph per lap. That is average speed over the course, which, again, has over 200 corners. The race setup only increases the intensity: Racers are released on time intervals, competing against the clock rather than handlebar-to-handlebar with other riders. This arrangement requires each rider to push their pace every second rather than to keep with the group.

Honda Racing UK put the pace into perspective with a recent tweet: Veteran TT racer John McGuinness holds the throttle of his Honda wide open for over 30 percent of each lap. In the superbike race that took place this Sunday, McGuinness rode to a sixth place finish with a time of one hour, 46 minutes. He spent over half an hour on the throttle-stop, all while riding on what amounts to public roads.

Highest win count: 26 victories

Experience rules everything on such a high-consequence and daring race course. Newcomers rise slowly, and those at the top tend to stay there. The winningest rider in TT history is Joey Dunlop, shown above, with 26 victories in various classes. His TT career started in 1977 and ended with his tragic death in 2000. Tied for second are Joey Dunlop’s nephew, Michael Dunlop, and John McGuinness, both of whom have 23 victories.

The pointy end of the field is both small and highly competitive. At 51 years of age, John McGuinness has competed in over 100 TT races and continues to put in top ten finishes and to compete for the lead. He said this year that there was no place to hide in the top ten places, meaning anyone of those riders had the pace and prep to win overall.

Any racer has a specialty. Some TT racers focus only on this event, but most run other large road-race events like the Macau Grand Prix or the Northwest 200, both crazily high-risk tracks.

Years held: Over 100

The stunning acts of heroics among the TT’s best riders have a dark side. The TT is one of, if not the, deadliest motorsports event in history. Since its inception in 1907, 265 participants have lost their lives. The number grows even larger when you count spectators and officials.

Death is ever-present for those who choose to follow or to take part in the Isle of Man TT races, but the event’s legacy is much more complicated. A TT purse does not make a rider rich, and sponsorships are sparse. Riders race the TT for themselves, fully aware of its risks. Yes, they create a spectacle, but the drama is the by-product.

In the past, stateside TT enthusiasts have had to resort to YouTube clips, but there is now an official streaming platform that includes replays and highlights. 2023’s races are almost over, but do yourself a favor: Watch some replays, and let them capture your imagination and your awe.

***

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Back in 1970, in a wooden garage in hippie Topanga Canyon, my buddy John discovered the scattered remains of a metallic blue and silver 1961 Ducati 250 Diana.

Once a pretty Italian sport bike, it was humbly advertised as a $50 “basket case.” John bought it, imagining that it would be a fun project, but he soon felt overwhelmed and offered it to me. Quite literally, everything that could be taken apart was. Referencing diagrams and photos in the manual, 17-year-old me spent months on the project. I also learned new fabrication, electrical, and mechanical skills along the way.

The single overhead camshaft, for instance, is driven by four bevel gears, all individually shimmed, as are the crankshaft and gearbox assemblies. Setting these up took weeks of trial and error, which felt like a lifetime, because I couldn’t wait to ride the thing. Soon after completing the build, I finally did, a night ride in sleepy Malibu, where I lived. Spontaneously—because why not?—I decided to twist the bike’s tail. When the revs soared, the piston broke in half, smashing the valves and necessitating a second rebuild.

One Saturday night shortly after I’d gotten the Diana back together again, a grudge race brewed with a dirt-bike buddy on his box-stock 175cc two-stroke. The contest was up a mile-long, wide-open route at the edge of town, and his run-of-the-mill Japanese bike decisively beat the Ducati. Oh, the humility! Then and there, it began dawning on me that exotics, artistic and esoteric as they were, weren’t necessarily better.

Maybe I had the last laugh, after a fashion. Another friend, Art, was seriously into club racing and offered to haul the Diana and me to Ontario Motor Speedway. Early that Sunday morning I rode to his pad, where we slotted the bike between other racers in the back of his Econoline. After pushing the bike through tech, I donned leather pants, work boots, a borrowed leather jacket, a helmet, and gardening gloves, and I gridded up on the front straight, the machine buzzing and jangling. To my great satisfaction, the Ducati started the race, ran every lap, and finally rushed under the checkers. No clue where I finished, but it was likely way downfield in the 250 Production class. But we finished.

After two years of ownership—what felt like my first real relationship—I sold the Diana to a man named Larry in the San Fernando Valley, as I’d bought Ducati’s new 750 GT and needed to dispatch the little bike. By now, it’s long past long gone. But young love never forgets, so if you’ve seen my Diana around, be sure to write!

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Some of the oldest motorcycles in British two-wheeled history were seen only in small numbers when new in the U.S. As the United Kingdom ramped up production to pay off its burdensome World War II debt, eager Americans, flush with cash, were ready to purchase the latest offerings. The late 1940s and 1950s were boom years for most U.K. manufacturers.

Brough Superior

George Brough, creator of the great Brough Superior brand, was justifiably proud that his line of machines was hailed as the “Rolls-Royce of Motorcycles.” The cheeky young George’s father had been building Brough motorcycles for years, but George wanted higher performance with better components, so he audaciously called his machines Brough Superior. BS used a variety of engines depending on the client’s intended usage. The SS80, the Super Sports, used either a J.A.P. (John Alfred Prestwich, more commonly known as J.A. Prestwich, manufacturers of motorcycle engines for many brands from 1902 onward) or Matchless side-valve V-twin, but the ultimate model of the marque is undoubtedly the SS100.

The SS100 Alpine Grand Sport featured an overhead valve version of the J.A.P. engine, capable of 100 miles per hour. This speed was attested to following a test ride by the factory technicians, who painstakingly assembled each machine twice to ensure accuracy of component fit and performance.

It would take a movie about an unlikely war hero with a penchant for speed to put the Brough Superior in proper perspective and save it in our collective memories. T.E. Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia, had a love affair with his Brough motorcycles, including the SS100 on which he met his demise. Lawrence’s postwar life, including his passion for his motorcycles, can be seen in his book The Mint. His first Brough was named George. Then he purchased George II, III, IV, V, VI, and VII. He also referred to his Broughs as Boanerges or sometimes Boa, meaning Sons of Thunder. On these machines, Lawrence raced biplanes and trains. Surely the stuff of legends.

Vincent

When Philip Vincent’s father provided the funding to purchase the recently defunct HRD company in 1928, young upstart Philip set out to build the fastest, most glamorous motorcycle made at the time. He soon rivaled the much-vaunted Brough Superior by offering similar performance at a lower cost. Vincent knew good marketing, too, as the company brochure featured a striking illustration of the 1000-cc Series A Rapide Twin streaking across the page with a beautiful woman and sporting gentleman making good time on the handsome beast. Clarity of purpose and confidence can be felt through the ad copy: “Designed by enthusiasts for the discriminating rider” and “The world’s fastest standard motorcycle. This is a fact, not a slogan.”

American Rollie Free, wearing just a bathing suit, bathing cap, and borrowed sneak-ers, rode John Edgar’s Vincent Black Lightning prototype to a record 150.313 mph at the Bonneville Salt Flats on September 13, 1948. That photo of Rollie Free on the speeding Vincent is perhaps the most iconic image in all of motorcycling. Prewar Vincent HRDs are solid blue-chip collectibles, with the best of the big twins approaching $500,000 due to scarcity, desirability, and quality of construction. A postwar Vincent, such as the aforementioned Bathing Suit Bike, sold for a reported $1.1 million in 2010.

AJS

A.J. Stevens and Co., better known as AJS, was established in the pre–World War I period. Its success at the Isle of Man Tourist Trophy course led to the slogan “AJS, Racebred Motor Cycles,” which was often seen in their sales brochures. Facing financial difficulties in the 1930s, AJS was acquired by AMC, Associates Motorcycles, in 1938. It would produce its most iconic models in the early post–World War II era. Winning the inaugural 500-cc FIM World Championship in 1949 with Rod Coleman riding the innovative E90S “Porcupine” was the high-water mark for the brand. The Porcupine name came about because of the spike-like fins on the cylinders that aided cooling. AJS followed this up with the E-95, a three-valve “Triple Knocker” sporting a huge saddle fuel tank until 1954. This machine offered sophisticated design elements but was plagued with mechanical issues. Its on-track rival, Norton, used a double-overhead-cam single-cylinder engine to power its “featherbed”-framed Manx model, with the brilliant Geoff Duke riding one to a 500-cc World Championship in 1950.

Norton

Speaking of Norton, James Lansdowne Norton, or “Pa,” as he was known to his employees, scored some early success at the Isle of Man Tourist Trophy races with rider Rem Fowler in 1907 on a Peugeot-powered twin. From that point, it was single-cylinder engines that were most frequently associated with the marque’s racing successes for the next 50 years. Norton produced various production racers in limited numbers for years after that, such that nearly all the great racers of the 1950s and ’60s rode a Manx Norton model. The Nortons sponsored by John Player tobacco that Peter Williams rode in the 1970s utilized a Cosworth design and eventually rotary engines.

In the final years of production, Norton made a very alluring John Player Norton Commando for street use. It may have been no faster than its more pedestrian siblings, but it sure looked the part. One need only glance at the JPS livery and Union Jack flag on the tail section to identify it as a quintessentially British product of its time.

BSA

BSA, once the world’s largest producer of motorcycles, created the exquisite and versatile Gold Star model based on its exploits on the racetracks of England, particularly at Brooklands. In one last splash of glory before its bankruptcy, BSA sent a fleet of the best riders in the world to the famous Daytona Speedway in Florida armed with their Rocket III triples, taking a win there in 1971 with rider Dick Mann.

Triumph

Triumph is the brand that comes to mind first when thinking of British motorcycles. Although the company was founded by a German, Siegfried Bettmann, its home was in Coventry, England. Triumph made tens of thousands of single-cylinder motorcycles for the First World War, but it was the addition of the brilliant Edward Turner that helped birth the 500-cc Triumph Speed Twin in 1937. Triumph would become synonymous with parallel twin-cylinder engines from that moment on. While some might think of a late 1960s Bonneville as the epitome of classic Brits, its roots can be traced back to the prewar Speed Twin design. Notably, the Bonneville model was named to capitalize on the success of Texas-based Johnny Allen, who piloted a modified Triumph Thunderbird–powered streamliner called The Texas Cee-Gar to 214 mph on the Bonneville Salt Flats in 1956.

Americans were already worshiping at the altar of Triumph after the 1953 American film The Wild One, whose main character Johnny Strabler, played by Marlon Brando, rode a Triumph Thunderbird. The film was banned in the U.K. until 1968 due to its anti-authority storyline.

Ariel

British marque Ariel, founded in 1898 to produce motorized tricycles (not unlike the popular De Dion–powered models), catered to the well-heeled as well as the sportsman. Ariel hit its stride in the 1930s with the Red Hunter, a single-cylinder 350-cc; twin-cylinder, 500-cc machines, and the 1000-cc “Square Four,” which was launched in 1931 and went on to sell more than 15,500 units before its demise. This clever design sprang from the fertile mind of Edward Turner. It was, in essence, a pair of parallel twins with geared central flywheels, two transverse crankshafts, and a monoblock cylinder head. The continual evolution of the model saw the initial rigid frame with girder-style forks give way to plunger rear suspension and telescopic front forks. The original hand shift was eventually replaced by a foot-change gearbox, too. By the late 1950s, the brand had fallen on hard times and gambled its future on the more modern two-stroke range which included the ill-fated Leader and Arrow. It was a sad ending for what was once proclaimed to be “The World’s Most Exclusive Motor Cycle,” a reference to its Square Four model.

Veloce

Veloce Ltd. of Hall Green in Birmingham, England, was a family concern that made a comparatively modest quantity of motorcycles over its lengthy history. Veloce’s breakthrough model was the lightweight Velocette, launched in 1914. As a result of the name recognition, the motorcycles produced by Veloce would be known collectively as Velocette regardless of the type.

After World War I, some advanced four-stroke engineering by the young Percy Goodman, son of founder John Goodman (née Johannes Gutegmann of Oberwinter, Germany), would change the company’s trajectory. His overhead valve, 350-cc single-cylinder engine would be the genesis of roadsters and racers for years to come. Other innovations from Velocette included positive stop foot-change shifting and swinging-arm rear suspension. The ultimate double-overhead-cam 350 racer was the KTT. It won the first-ever F.I.M. 350-cc World Championship in 1949 with Freddie Frith and repeated the feat in 1950 with Bob Foster.

In its final form, the KTT Mark VIII featured Oleo Air rear shocks with Webb Girder front forks and overhead cams. Production of this over-the-counter production racer lasted from 1938 to 1950. After that, it was road-based equipment like the Viper, the Venom Clubman, and the 500-cc Thruxton models that kept the flame burning until the firm’s bankruptcy in 1970.

Britten

While geographically far from mainland England, New Zealand is part of the Commonwealth and shares enough DNA to be considered part of the United Kingdom for our purposes. New Zealander John Britten, although challenged with dyslexia, became an architectural designer and engineer, eventually turning his talents to racing motorcycle design. His eponymously named masterpiece, the Britten V1000, was launched in 1991. The innovative design made extensive use of carbon-fiber and Kevlar materials to form the bodywork, forks, swingarm, and wheels. It was powered with a double-overhead cam, 1000-cc liquid-cooled V-Twin engine and was immediately on par with other manufacturers’ factory efforts at the Battle of the Twins races around the globe. Just 10 Britten V1000 motorcycles were built between 1991 and 1998. John Britten died of inoperable skin cancer in 1995, robbing the world of a charismatic genius with a penchant for speed and style.

The British motorcycle industry went into a tailspin in the early 1970s that resulted in the closure of nearly all motorcycle manufacturing. It seemed all was lost until Englishman John Bloor relaunched the Triumph brand in 1983. However, nostalgia is a funny thing, and just as it fueled the comeback of cars such as the Volkswagen New Beetle and the Mini Cooper, Triumph found that the public wanted a machine that looked like the classic Bonneville. Carrying all the modern conveniences and reliability, they built a worthy successor to carry that name forward. Triumph’s rebirth has been followed by new motorcycles from Royal Enfield, Brough Superior, Matchless, Norton, and most recently BSA.

Anglophiles unite—our beloved Brits are back!

Motorcycles: Best of Britain is one of 20 classes to be featured at the 2023 Greenwich Concours d’Elegance, on June 2–4, 2023. Download the 2023 Greenwich Concours d’Elegance event program to learn more about Sunday’s other featured classes, Saturday’s Concours de Sport, our judges, sponsors, nonprofit partners, 2022 winners and more! 

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The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines the word “exotic” thusly: Introduced from another country: not native to the place where found. Strikingly, excitingly, or mysteriously different or unusual.

On these shores, in the land of Harley-Davidson, hamburgers, and Hee Haw, many of us grew up believing that anything that wasn’t of American origin was “foreign.” Repair shops that serviced these foreign makes were in nearly every town. Americans equated German motorcycles with function and dependability, Japanese motorcycles with being inexpensive and disposable, French motorcycles with being weird and wonderful, English motorcycles with being sensible and familiar, and Spanish motorcycles with being built of lesser quality materials and best suited for off-road usage. Italian motorcycles? The best of them fit the very definition of exotic. Each of the Italian manufacturers has demonstrated the creativity and ability to reach for the impossible at some time in their past.

Benelli

Benelli has given us a number of exciting and interesting models since its 1911 inception in Pesaro, Italy. The six Benelli brothers opened their first shop to repair and service motorcycles—just a few years later, they created their own engines and complete motorcycles. Their first exotic and groundbreaking design was the 175-cc overhead-cam single-cylinder racer by Giuseppe Benelli, which was raced by brother Tonino to four national championships before his death in 1937.

They also created a number of 250- and 500-cc machines in the 1930s, with the most innovative being the 250-cc short-stroke, double-overhead-cam four-cylinder that was supercharged and liquid cooled. It was faster in testing than its nearest competitor by 16 mph, giving the firm confidence that it was a world-beater. Unfortunately, with the war approaching, the engineers were forced to abandon the race department and move their efforts to wartime production of airplane parts. The motorcycles were disassembled and stashed during WWII.

After the war, priorities changed. Benelli found success throughout the 1950s and 1960s in selling lightweight motorcycles not only in Italy but around the globe. The motorcycles were sold in America through Montgomery Ward department stores as the Riverside 125-cc two-strokes and 250-cc four-strokes. In the mid-1960s, Benelli had the funds to again reach for the stars with 250-cc and 350-cc four-cylinder grand prix racers ridden by Renzo Pasolini, Kel Carruthers, and Jarno Saarinen. After winning two world championships, Benelli was developing a 250-cc V-8 before a Fédération Internationale de Motocyclisme (FIM) rule change rendered that idea a nonstarter.

After Benelli’s acquisition by Alejandro DeTomaso, the company soon offered the world’s first six-cylinder production motorcycles, the 750 Sei, and the smallest production four-cylinder, the 250 Quattro.

Bimota

High-quality components and advanced engineering have long been the hallmark of motorcycles produced by Bimota of Rimini, Italy. The name is derived from the first two letters of each of the three founders’ names: Valerio Bianchi, Giuseppe Morri, and Massimo Tamburini. Bimota began by offering frames that provided superior handling for the new generation of big Japanese four-cylinder engines. The company created a market for consumers who wanted bespoke exclusivity and craftsmanship that previously did not exist. Bimota’s high-water mark was the Tesi 1D of the 1990s, which featured hub-centered steering and mono-shock rear suspension, as well as a fuel-injected Ducati V-twin engine combined with an advanced alloy-plate frame. All this futurism came at a cost, as slow sales nearly bankrupted the company. Despite changes of ownership, a modern variant of the Tesi formula is still available in 2023, a testament to the dynamic design of the original.

Ducati

Ducati’s roots lie in electronics, as it began manufacturing radios and cameras in 1926, until its factory was flattened during the bombing raids by Allied forces in 1944. Soon after, the company started to manufacture a small pushrod single-cylinder engine that was developed by SIATA and launched its own version of the Cucciolo model in 1950. Not long afterward, Ducati hired Fabio Taglioni, who would go on to utilize the desmodromic valve system on Ducati’s newest model, the 100 Gran Sport. The desmo valve actuation was more precise than traditional springs, allowing for more radical cam timing and higher revs. Success in Italian road races led to higher sales in showrooms as hoped, and performance became an integral part of the Ducati story thereafter.

Fast, single-cylinder machines of 125-, 200-, 250-, and 350-cc followed, but the next big breakthrough came in 1972 with the launch of the 750SS, which won the Imola 200 race. Street models such as the round-case 750 Sport and then the square-case 750SS and 900SS models were strong sellers that offered the “race bike for the road” feeling for which Ducati was best known. In the next 10 years, Ducati embraced change and brought liquid cooling, floating disc brakes, trellis tubular frames, dry clutches, fuel injection, and multi-valve engines, such as the Desmoquattro, Ducati’s four-valve V-twin.

These innovations put Ducati back in the winner’s circle in World Superbike competition. The 851 and 888 models were winners, but the 916 was a tour de force in the styling department, too. Once Ducati had momentum, it was rarely off the podium and eventually returned to grand prix racing, scoring its first world championship in 2007 with Australian Casey Stoner piloting the Desmosedici racer. Ducati eventually offered the Desmosedici RR, a road bike with real grand prix–level performance that no other manufacturer dared to match. In 2022, Ducati achieved a long-held dream and won another Moto GP World Championship, this time with Italian rider Pecco Bagnaia.

Gilera

Arcore, near Milan, is the home of Gilera, founded in 1909. The firm acquired the Rondine transverse four-cylinder concept from designers Carlo Gianini and Piero Remor. This design reached its apex in 1939 with the use of water-cooling and supercharging to power the four-cylinder racer to a top speed of 140 mph and the European Championship.

After the war, with the supercharger ban in effect, Gilera redesigned the double-overhead-cam engine and frame design to score numerous grand prix victories and 500-cc world championships in 1950, 1952, 1953, 1954, 1955, and 1957, before withdrawing from the sport. With the sudden death of Ferruccio Gilera in 1957, founder Giuseppe lost some of his passion for the sport of motorcycle racing.

Gilera created some very worthy overhead-valve single-cylinder winners, such as the popular Saturno and Saturno San Remo, a works special. These motorcycles featured novel rear suspension, with horizontal springs and friction dampers. While not winners on the international stage, they fared well at the national level. Trying to cut costs, Gilera turned its back on four-cylinder racers and sold inexpensive 106-cc pushrod singles distributed through Sears Roebuck department stores in the U.S. In 1969, Piaggio Group bought Gilera. Today, Gilera is known more for urban scooters than motorcycles.

Laverda

Laverda, from the Breganze region in northern Italy, was founded in 1873 and produced agricultural equipment exclusively until 1949, when it built its first motorcycles. Following the lead of other ravaged postwar manufacturers, small-capacity machines built by Laverda competed in Italian road races such as the Giro d’Italia and the Milan-Taranto. Laverda built its first twin-cylinder engines in the late 1950s and continued on that path while increasing capacity, eventually leading to machines like the brutish 750 SFC in Laverda’s signature eyeball-searing orange. The most audacious design would be a result of competing in the Bol d’Or 24-hour endurance road race. Laverda stunned the world with the V-6 racer. Although it did not finish the race, it spoke well of the creative minds at work back at the race shop.

Moto Guzzi

Moto Guzzi was the only manufacturer to have its own wind tunnel for testing the aerodynamics of its motorcycles. That should come as no surprise, given the founder’s background in wartime aviation. Located in Mandello del Lario, Italy, the firm found success early with rugged designs that were fast and handled well. In the years after World War II, Moto Guzzi’s 250- and 350-cc racers won eight world titles. It was the glamour bike of its era, the compact 500-cc V-8 designed by Giulio Carcano, however, that was the final statement in high tech. The teething problems would have been sorted, and the mighty V-8 would’ve enjoyed more success, but it arrived a little too late, as Guzzi withdrew from grand prix racing at the end of 1957. Moto Guzzi launched a transverse-mounted V-twin engine to power a series of sporting machines in the 1970s, such as the V7 and Le Mans models. These became the essence of nearly every successful Moto Guzzi in the years that followed.

MV Agusta

MV Agusta, created at the infancy of aviation, continues to this day in that capacity, building some of the world’s finest helicopters. However, it was the fire-engine red racing motorcycles that are perhaps the most successful of all the Italian exotics. The early adoption of the Gilera-Rondine transverse DOHC four-cylinder engine layout served the firm well in the 1950s. MV snatched up its first 500-cc world championship in 1956 and eventually scored 38 world championships before closing shop. Count Domenico Agusta ruled the two-wheeled world of racing much like his four-wheeled counterpart, Enzo Ferrari. Agusta did not suffer fools gladly. On the road, the count reluctantly agreed to sell the public motorcycles worthy of the MV name: the four-cylinder 600, 750 Sport, and 750 America. These hand-built machines were very costly, roughly three times the price of a Honda 750, and did not meet sales expectations to justify the effort.

Twenty years after the company ceased motorcycle production, it would make an astounding return under Cagiva ownership. The stellar 750F4 Oro, created by Massimo Tamburini, was the star of the Art of the Motorcycle exhibit at the Guggenheim Museum in New York upon its debut in 1999. The motorcycle, crafted of CNC-milled alloys that were combined with carbon-fiber bodywork and four under-seat exhaust pipes, also boasted a Ferrari-tuned engine that did not disappoint.

Exotic? Si signore.

The Italians long delivered on that promise and they continue today, whether it’s in architecture, automobiles, fashion, furniture, or food. Their rich and diverse heritage compels them to design with the head and, most important, the heart. That strong emotional attachment, la passione, is in the culture’s DNA.

Motorcycles: Exotic Italians is one of 20 classes to be featured at the 2023 Greenwich Concours d’Elegance, on June 2–4, 2023. Download the 2023 Greenwich Concours d’Elegance event program to learn more about Sunday’s other featured classes, Saturday’s Concours de Sport, our judges, sponsors, nonprofit partners, 2022 winners and more! 

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I remember in 1978 when Bill Harrah, the famous car collector and casino owner, died. He was 66. I was in Lake Tahoe opening for the singer Johnny Mathis at the time, and I remember thinking, “Hey, 66, that’s pretty good.” Well, I’m 72 now, and, despite recent events, I’m certainly not ready to go!

I wrote in this column a few years ago that I thought I had one good motorcycle crash left in me. And then a pretty good one happened a couple of months ago. I was out riding my 1940 Indian Four with the sidecar and there was a fuel leak. I decided to pull into a parking lot, hook a U-turn, and head back to the garage. But some workers had strung a cable across the parking lot without hanging any rags or flags on it, and it hit me in the chest and took me right off the bike. I broke a couple of ribs and my collarbone and banged my knees up pretty bad. The bike kept going and crashed into a building, so we’ve got to patch that up as well. But it could have been a lot worse. I was out of the hospital in a day and back on stage a week later.

Riding any motorcycle, especially in Los Angeles, takes some skill and focus. Whenever I’m at a light, I look right at the other drivers and try to make eye contact so I know they see me. But that’s getting harder with everyone staring at their phones. It’s especially challenging riding vintage bikes because there’s a lot more for you to do. You have a manual choke, a manual spark adjustment, and on bikes like the Brough Superior, which was built before the twist-throttle became common, you have a lever for gas and a separate lever for air. So as you accelerate, you have to move both levers to increase the amount of fuel and air, getting it to match up all by ear.

So it’s kind of amazing that I have been so lucky, though I’ve had my share of close calls. For example, I was riding my Brough once and had just exited the freeway. I grabbed the brake right as I hit a bump and the wheel bounced up and the whole hub and brake came apart and locked up. I skidded down the street, but I managed to stay upright. And I realized that if that had happened on the freeway when I was doing 80, it would have been much scarier.

Once, I was at Sturgis, the big motorcycle rally in South Dakota, and this guy said, “Hey, I built this chopper. Would you ride it?” I said, “Well, OK, but I’ve got my wife,” and he said she could ride on the back (this was obviously a number of years ago). So we rode through town in a bit of a parade, and then when we got out of town, I opened the throttle. But the bike started to slow down, and I had to keep the throttle pinned just to maintain the same speed. At some point, I realized I had to pull over as the bike was getting slower and slower, and as I was coming to a stop—screech!—the front wheel locked up. The builder had fitted the brake on the front but didn’t adjust anything, and the pads were dragging and got hot. Finally, they seized on the disc. But thankfully for us, they seized at 3 or 4 mph.

Another time, we were doing Jay Leno’s Garage, and we featured a guy who was taking brand-new Triumph motorcycles and making them look like 1960s flat-trackers. They took the muffler off for the shoot, and it was so loud as we rode along shooting video. I was on the bike behind the camera car, and the crew said to open the throttle to make some noise. As I opened the throttle, the rear tire broke loose. I thought, “Wow, this thing’s got some power!” Then I applied the brake and the rear tire started sliding a little, so I stopped and took a look at the rear tire. The guy had put a crankcase breather on it that ended right in front of the rear tire, so the rear tire was getting covered in oil. I realized it wasn’t the tire breaking loose under power, it was simply spinning in its own oil—but miraculously, I didn’t go down.

When I think back on the number of close calls I’ve had on antique motorcycles, I realize how lucky I’ve been. But eventually everyone’s luck runs out, as it did with the steam car and the Indian, all within a few months of each other. But I’m still here, and while I may not have another big motorcycle crash in me, I hope I still have a few more miles to go.

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This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

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The Great Depression brought an end to countless manufacturers of interesting things, auto and motorcycle builders among them. At various times over the ensuing decades, some of those companies have been resurrected by big-eyed enthusiasts. And though their hearts may have been in the right place, the market, it turns out, was not. Such ill-fated comebacks pepper our newsfeeds on a semi-regular basis.

One example you might have forgotten about was the rebirth of Excelsior-Henderson in the 1990s. Most riders likely don’t recognize Excelsior-Henderson right away, but in the 1920s, Ignaz Schwinn’s motorcycle brand was third only behind Harley-Davidson and Indian in the American marketplace. And while Harley and Indian both survived the downturn, Schwinn simply pulled the plug in order to focus on his bicycle business, which he correctly figured would better serve millions of out-of-work Americans.

So how did Excelsior-Henderson’s second lease on life come about, and why did it run so short?

The brand’s rebirth was a gamble made by the Hanlon brothers, Dave and Dan, of Belle Plaine, Minnesota. After watching buyers sit on wait lists for years throughout the 1980s just to get a new Harley-Davidson, the pair felt compelled to revive Excelsior-Henderson from the ashes in which it had been sitting for nearly 60 years.

As for the short run, well, it might have something to do with the bike they built to kickstart the revival. The Super X was handed to the press in March 1999 and, understandably, it leaned heavy on nostalgic appearance. There is little other reason to choose the traditional and quite archaic leading-link fork or the row of three headlights out front of the wide-swept handlebar.

Quaint styling aside, however, the new bikes shared next to nothing with their ancestors. It seems the entire brand was propped up solely by the brothers purchasing the trademark and then merely producing a motorcycle that wore said brand.

The engine was a 50-degree V-twin, which one could argue has some Excelsior flavor, since in its heyday the company offered a V-twin and even owned the 750cc market. For the rebirth, the new 1386cc engine sported fuel injection and a wet-sump oiling system, and fed power to the back tire through a five-speed transmission and a belt drive. The curb weight was over 750 pounds. Despite all that displacement, the engine made just 63 horsepower and 70 pound feet of torque. Performance must not have been on the design requirements sheet.

Value wasn’t, either. The price tag rang up to just under $18,000. That was double the price of a Sportster 1200 at the time. The Hanlon brothers gambled that nostalgia buyers would come out of the woodwork for the first model, and they weren’t wrong. The bikes sold to countless speculators and collectors who pickled—or never even uncrated—these bikes. Now, 20 years later, a curious buyer can seemingly purchase a new-in-crate or very-low-mileage example whenever they want. We found this one for sale over at Iconic Motorbikes auctions with just 7 miles on it.

Despite the buyers who went out and snapped these Super X models up initially, the brand declared bankruptcy and sold to an investment group in March 2001. Only about 2000 Super Xs had rolled off the production line in a factory equipped to produce 10,000 bikes per year. Even wilder, the new purchasing company attempted to pull the brand out of bankruptcy and started selling anything it could from the factory. Banks wanted their money back though, and lawyers got involved. Just hours before the final auction in December 2001, a second bankruptcy was declared, which left stockholders with nothing, and the creditors scrambled for pennies. Today, the intellectual rights of Excelsior-Henderson are owned by Indian motorcycle manufacturer Bajaj.

Was it a crazy plan from the start, or ambition that just didn’t pan out? We may never know.

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We’ve known that the National Motorcycle Museum would close on September 5 of 2023, but only this week did we learn that hundreds of bikes and thousands of pieces of memorabilia will be sold to the public days after the doors are closed for the last time. The sale will be handled by Mecum Auctions and is set for September 6–9, according to the auction house’s website.

The collection is the brainchild and passion project of John and Jill Parham, founders of J&P Cycles. John was also inducted into the American Motorcycle Association (AMA) Hall of Fame. The Parnham’s founded the museum 22 years ago in the Anamosa, Iowa, building which it currently occupies.

Though Mecum has yet to post a complete list with final descriptions, we do know that 300 motorcycles will be consigned, along with 6000 pieces of artwork and memorabilia grouped into roughly 1000 lots.

The heavy-hitter bikes include a 1936 Norton International Road Racer and 1927 Brough Superior SS100 Pendine, along with a 1955 Vincent Black Prince, a pair of mid-century Rapides, a 1952 Black Shadow, and more. A desirable 1937 Harley-Davidson EL Knucklehead—one of Hagerty’s 2023 Bull Market picks—is just one of the noteworthy Harley models expected to sell.

A preview day will kick off the sale on September 5. Those interested in bidding will need to register and pay $100 either in Iowa or online, in advance, on Mecum’s website. Bidder’s registration includes tickets for two people to attend the sale, which is only open to registered bidders.

Window shopping and dreaming are free, though, so be sure to check in as the sale approaches to see updated listings.

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The tunnel down to ground level of Ford Field feels ominous. Cold concrete, echoing chatter, and a sign that reads, “Dead engine only past this point.”

I stroll past the sign, turn a corner, and run smack dab into a dense crowd of solemn faces. I’m not sure if it’s the bone-chilling Michigan air sweeping through the tunnel or the anticipation for what’s about to happen next, but everyone seems a little cagey.

Some are wearing helmets. Others don backpacks and chunky headsets. Many are bundled in puffy jackets, festooned in sponsorship logos and bright colors. Hosts with microphones, females in Spandex, and muscle men labeled “SECURITY”—everyone is staring past the tunnel’s mouth, into the stadium’s dark void. Shoulder to shoulder, gladiators seconds away from storming the dirt floor with swords and shields.

It’s eerily quiet, just for a moment.

Then a brash voice over a loud speaker breaks the silence.

“WELCOME TO MONSTER ENERGY SUPERMOTOCROSS!”

The lights high above dance across the stadium floor, revealing a dirt track in their spotlights. Fireballs shoot up from random spots around the building. A few of the motorcycles fire up. The smell of MR12 fuel wafts past my nose. It’s race day in Detroit.

Someone flicks the house lights and the larger picture comes into focus. The lineup of motorcycles and riders begin to file down the long tunnel and onto the dirt to lineup and start the heat races. To my left, just out of the tunnel, is wide starting gate. The metal gate drops on an official’s signal, releasing up to 40 riders at a time to do battle on the track constructed atop what is a football field most days out of the year.

This weekend is different. Monster Energy AMA SuperMotocross has invaded the Motor City, and rather than green turf, the floor is covered in a layer of plywood. On top of the sheets, organizers have built a mix of large jumps, smaller—but not small—bumps, and sweeping berms that the riders navigate at a pace best described as heroic. It’s half-motorsports, half-acrobatics, and the whole thing is sensory overload, even for me.

Spectating from the stadium floor provided me with a new perspective on a sport that I’ve been watching and tracking for nearly two decades.

These riders are modern-day gladiators. Their athletic ability and control over a full-size motorcycle is impressive. Many have factory support from Honda, Yamaha, Kawasaki, and KTM to prepare their bikes. Two classes based primarily on engine displacement—250cc and 450cc—compete in respective races on purpose-built, temporary courses. Picture a traveling circus with motorcycles.

The hardest thing to comprehend is the scale of some of the features. Tractors push dirt into giant mounds on the floor.  The banked corners are nearly five-feet tall, and the jumps look more like walls when facing them head-on. Then, there is a section of tightly spaced bumps of dirt called “whoops.”

The whoops section looks massive. I have been watching Supercross for a long time but often from the relative comfort of my own couch, or, more accurately, the carpeted floor in front of my parents cathode ray tube television. Glowing images of colorful bikes and riders darted from side-to-side and the suspension movement captivated my young brain. The whoops section has always been my favorite of the tracks. It’s often where races are won … and lost. Get it right, and you have an advantage over the competition. Get it wrong, and you’ll at least need a new pair of pants. Possibly a cast.

Only after standing off to the side of the whoops section during the first 250cc heat race did I even begin to grasp that those whoops are nearly waist-high on my six-foot frame.

Another thing that just doesn’t come through on television is the sound. It’s a blast of noise and fury as the machines go ripping by. The bikes’ exhaust notes creates a constant hum in the background of most video shots of the action, which can be distracting on television.

Not in person.

Standing trackside, or even in the press box above the stands, I can pick out the noise of the bike I’m watching. It reminds me of how you can hear your friend in a crowded bar as they tell you to order another round. Except, instead of shouting that they would prefer Coors, it’s the “RAP-RAP-RAP” of the single-cylinder engine freewheeling to it’s rev limiter while the rear tire is in the air, as the bike skips over the imposing mounds of dirt, grunting whenever the rear tire catches traction.

After initial moments of chaos and confusion, my brain finally acclimates and I can focus on certain elements. I follow one rider. I follow their path, noting where they change lines from one lap to the next as they accommodate the track’s changing conditions. The powerful machines spin their knobby rear Dunlops and dig ruts. If the track isn’t groomed between the eight races throughout the evening, the grooves would rival WWI trenches by the end of the night.

The whole show changed my perception of the sport. Even more impressive, this particular night in Detroit was merely the tenth round of a whopping 31-race Supermotocross calendar that spans all corners of the U.S. Also, for the first time this year, the schedule includes larger outdoor venues to blend AMA’s traditionally two-season sport—indoor Supercross and outdoor Motocross.

The championship rivalries are tighter than ever with multiple racers putting in great rides week after week. In addition to individual race drama, there’s a lot of fun in tracking the long-term strategy of the riders. After several dates into the season, you realize this sport is both checkers and chess, all being played at 50 mph over undulating terrain, whoops included.

Are you not entertained?

***

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Via Imola

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There are endless social media groups out there, and the vast majority are best ignored. So when someone recommended that I join the Great Lakes Supermoto group and its events, I was skeptical. Then I watched a few minibike videos, curious, and joined the discussion.

The idea is simple: Take all the best parts of riding a motorcycle on a track, then put them in the dryer for 90 minutes. The track is smaller. The bike is smaller. The risk is smaller. The cost is about as small as racing gets. The takeaway? If these people are pretty hard-core about putting adults on children’s motorcycles, it’s for good reason.

Within that Great Lakes group, a smaller set of Michigan riders seemed to be having the most fun on any given weekend. So when a friend offered me a loaner Honda CRF50 and suggested I join the fun, I took him up on it. That first event changed my perspective on motorcycling. Between 15-minute rounds of open lapping, I watched as the fast boys cut fast laps and diced it up with real racecraft.

I also took a few minutes to catch up with American Motorcyclist Association (AMA) pro Carl Soltisz. Carl has been racing full-size bikes for 12 years and small ones for seven. He currently runs in the MotoAmerica series at tracks across the United States. I asked his thoughts on this whole “adults on tiny motorcycles” thing. Is it really worth doing for anything other than fun, I wondered?

A survey of what I learned is below. The short answer? Fun isn’t the whole point. But if that’s all you show up for, there’s more than enough!

***

Location, location, location.

Because the group I ran with is based in Michigan, and because the weather here refuses to behave consistently throughout the year, this whole circus takes place indoors. It also happens only during the winter—Michigan’s summers are short, and in the warmer months, everyone has better things to do.

Naturally, you don’t have to be in Michigan. Other states have similar minimoto groups, but the whole thing hinges on convincing a go-kart track to allow the circus to occupy the facility for a few hours. (Given the insurance and legal requirements, I assume this takes a really strong sales pitch.) Regardless, facilities often look the same: tire walls covered with plastic sheeting, to keep riders and drivers contained on course; a polished concrete track surface; and tight, twisty layouts.

All-out speed isn’t the point, in other words. At the same time, everyone is trying to go faster.

The bikes are selected and upgraded to reflect the track’s constraints.

With the Great Lakes Supermoto (GLS) group, that means the Honda XR50 or CRF50. Pint-size dirt bikes meant for kids and powered by an air-cooled, 50cc, four-stroke single. These little beasts ride on 10-inch spoked wheels and wear cable-operated drum brakes. They have three-speed clutchless transmissions and look a lot like a shrunken version of a larger motorcycle.

In fact, if it weren’t for the big, BMX-style handlebars, a photo from the right angle could make these little Hondas pass for a larger bike. At least, without a rider present. Add a person into the mix, you’ll see why the larger handlebars are all but required to put an adult onto a bike this small.

For the GLS crowd, the only other required changes are a set of tires, some safety wire for your oil drain plug and fill port, and a catch can for your carburetor vent. These final points may seem extreme for such small machines and the relatively low speeds reached—a stock CRF50 tops out around 30 mph—but oil or gas on track can be hazardous no matter how fast you’re going.

Oddly enough, the Shinko SR550 tire is the hot ticket for setup.

This Korean-made scooter tire is surprisingly soft and sticky, especially considering how it was engineered for scooters and comes only in a whitewall construction. It almost seems appropriate for the slightly ridiculous activities at hand.

Sure, there are blackwall tire options, but when I surveyed the paddock for inspiration for building my own CRF50, consensus held the whitewalls as the best tire for polished concrete. Other choices blended in capability on outdoor surfaces, but if you’re looking for the “hot setup” for indoor, the whitewalls are where it’s at. Add some heavier springs to replace the literally child-sized suspension, and ta-da! One of the cheapest track bikes you’ll ever see pass tech inspection.

Don’t write off minibikes because they’re small and slow.

Before that Sunday at the indoor kart track, I had never ridden one of these little Hondas. Children’s motorcycles are often used in race paddocks as pit bikes. Because they’re so affordable to own, keep running, and modify, they also often see hard use as play bikes.

In other words, many have been ridden hard and put away wet for years. I had never invested any time or money into buying a bike like this because I saw the breed as a novelty, and not a very entertaining one at that. Then riders like Carl set me straight and showed me what I was missing. They’re a riot.

“Whether it’s a big bike or little bike, they all share the same basic principles …”

“… and a lot of the skills transfer over.” That’s Carl. He’s not wrong. In fact, because the minis are so much smaller than big bikes, they’re actually less stable. Not least because the smaller wheels give a reduced gyroscopic effect at speed.

We often refer to minis as “twitchy.” And this twitchy-ness, Carl noted, actually helps train your muscle memory and reflexes, for reacting when things go awry.

Yes, things go wrong.

As the old joke tells it, there are two types of motorcycle riders—those who have gone down, and those who will. The idea holds true in racing. You’re extracting as much as possible from the bike, and that means that sometimes, you ask too much.

This brings us to one of the most beautiful parts of minimoto: These bikes crash relatively gently. At least, compared to big bikes. I should know: During my third lapping session, I focused on the track’s fastest corner, a left-hand bend taken wide open in third gear. Then things went a bit … less than ideal.

As with larger bikes, thinking more can make you faster.

Rather than accept my sloth-like pace for one corner of the kart track’s nine-turn layout, I elected to try different things each time through. Change my turn-in point? No difference. Alter my shift point leading up to the turn in hopes of settling the bike down prior to the turn? No change. Then I began making subtle changes to my body position, watching the result of each. The bike got quicker.

Crashing is never fun, but at least the penalties are small.

Remember how I said, just a few lines back, that the bike went quicker? That increase in speed lasted for a lap or two, before the front tire told me I was being greedy and set me to sliding.

I now know how it feels to have my inside knee suddenly weighted, no longer skimming the track surface. What it’s like as the handlebars flop right to the steering lock as you instinctively begin to counter-steer. And I know what goes through my brain as I lay in the middle of the track, working to get my bike off me as traffic comes ripping toward my head, around that last blind corner.

In that moment, I wouldn’t have believed this was a best-case scenario. But it really was. I popped upright, pushed the bike off track, took a second to laugh about it, then went right back out, back to lapping. On a big bike, unless you’re very lucky or very stupid or both, crashes aren’t just brushed off.

Indoor or outdoor, small bike or large, the mental game is the same.

Errors like my crash often happen when we are mentally and physically worn out, like at the end of a race. Carl told me that he uses minimoto to train for the mental focus of a full-size race. He’ll be on the starting line for the grueling Daytona 200 this weekend, an event where riders must be on race pace for more than two hours.

“It can be pretty difficult to maintain a high level of mental focus for that amount of time,” he said. “With minis, I can go ride at 100 percent pace for two hours, and it simulates the mental focus you need on a big bike [for that time] pretty well. Practice opportunities [like that] are plentiful with minimoto but much harder to find on big-bike tracks.”

The lap-to-dollar ratio is unmatched.

We can all agree that more track time is preferable to less. Cost is minimoto’s final selling point, and for me, it’s the one that sunk the hook.

My house has an equal number of big and little tracks within most driving distances. When I’ve run big bikes, track fees and mechanical upkeep have been about a fifth of the spend. Carl felt the same way.

“If cost/time weren’t a factor,” he said, “and I was solely focused on sportbike racing, then only riding sportbikes would be the way to go. There’s no better practice than actually riding the bike you want to race on. I would still ride minimoto though, because they’re super fun. Minis are a great, cost-effective, convenient alternative.”

Practice matters.

Almost anything worth doing requires some amount of learning and practice to reach a level of expertise—or even just enjoyment. Riding or racing a motorcycle is more extreme a challenge than most hobbies, just in terms of the landscape. Sitting atop a 45- to 200-horsepower machine going 80 mph while leaned over at 50 degree is basically the normal operating condition. To learn anything in that environment, you have to be comfortable enough to think constantly, not just react, and that’s just the bare minimum.

The idea of a low-consequence, high-fun, affordable option to clock time on that learning curve? Too few people look for it until it’s too late.

***

The idea of 4-hp motorcycles designed for 5 year olds being good for anything more than comedy can be tough to wrap your head around. The proof is in the pudding, though: Next to a big bike, it’s the same skills, the same muscles, and the same pace.

If you want to become a better racer or a faster rider in general, a faster or more powerful bike is the last thing you need. If you can go fast on a 50, you can go fast on just about anything. All the cool kids are doing it. Why aren’t you?

***

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Although weights, measures, and currency are adjusted for a U.S. audience, colloquialisms and contextual references reflect this story’s origin on our sister site, Hagerty UK. 

With the sun shining, the road ahead clear, and the 650 Lightning rumbling along in relaxed fashion, it’s hard to imagine what all the fuss was about. A touch of parallel-twin vibration coming through the seat and footrests doesn’t prevent the elderly BSA from seeming enjoyably brisk and utterly inoffensive, much like many British twins of the ’60s and ’70s.

But the Lightning certainly put a few backs up on its launch in 1971, when it was a controversial departure for BSA. The A65L Lightning had originally been released in the mid-’60s as the hotter, twin-carburetor version of the Birmingham firm’s A65 twin. This updated model, with its raised bars, small fuel tank, and minimalist chromed mudguards, was intended to add a bit of glitz for the important U.S. export market.

More importantly, this Lightning was the first with a new “oil-in-frame” chassis that was considerably taller than its predecessor’s. The redesigned frame had been specified by BSA’s management even though the factory’s development riders had warned that it was too tall, making the bike unmanageable for riders of average height or below.

It’s to be hoped that the recently revitalized BSA’s current Indian owners don’t make similar mistakes. And perhaps that their promotional activities are more restrained than those of their predecessors, who launched the Lightning and 15 other models in October 1970 at a London spectacular that became known as the ailing British motorcycle industry’s Last Supper.

The lavish bash at the Royal Lancaster Hotel off Hyde Park involved lunch and dinner for hundreds of guests, including government figures as well as press and trade from around the world. Top comedian Dave Allen and dance group The Younger Generation performed before the bikes were unveiled to a trumpet fanfare, each machine wall-mounted in its own giant three-dimensional picture frame.

This slick PR event contrasted with the chaos surrounding BSA, which was already in deep financial trouble. The 1971 season turned into a disaster, with production problems, striking workers, badly produced parts, and even a faulty computer that ordered a large supply of unwanted components. The Lightning itself was delayed and didn’t appear until late summer, missing much of the sales season.

Although not everyone liked the look of the revamped Lightning when it finally arrived, the orange-and-white twin was given a generally favorable reception. With its high bars and small, 2.9-gallon tank it certainly looked more lean and modern than its predecessor, if less practical. The taller, 33-inch seat height was dictated by the dimensions of the new frame, which incorporated a large, oil-holding main spine.

At least the slim BSA was respectably light, at 419 pounds. Being tall myself, I was more worried about being able to start this aging twin, which hadn’t been run for a while. But after a few leaps on the kickstart it fired up with a restrained parallel-twin chuffing from its silencers.

BSA hadn’t done much to update the engine for 1971, having revamped the 654cc, pushrod-operated parallel twin the previous year with new parts including pistons and con rods, plus modified Amal carburetors. Maximum output was a claimed 51 hp at 7000 rpm, competitive with sister firm Triumph’s 650 Bonneville.

The bike I’m riding must have been restored at some stage because the ’71-model frame was originally painted not black but cream, matching the lower part of the tank. The view from the seat is clean and simple: the wide bars with their squashy grips, an alloy strip running along above the slim tank, and a pair of black-faced clocks either side of the chromed headlamp, with its trio of colored warning lights.

On a mild day the BSA is fun for gentle cruising on country roads. Its engine rumbles along lazily and fairly smoothly. Controls are light, and the four-speed, right-foot gear-change shifts sweetly. At that pace, sitting bolt upright with my feet on the forward-set footrests, I could see why BSA’s management must have thought that riders on both sides of the Atlantic would appreciate the Lightning’s laid-back looks and feel.

Things weren’t so rosy when I turned onto a wider road and wound the BSA up a little more. The elderly twin accelerated crisply enough from low revs, and showed enjoyable enthusiasm through the midrange. But by the time the rev-counter needle approached 5000 rpm the engine was sounding like a cement mixer, discouraging me from going much above 70 mph, let alone checking out the ton-plus top speed.

The combination of wind blast and typical parallel-twin vibration coming through the footrests would have made long distances at speed tiresome, but there is not too much wrong with the Lightning’s handling, which was rated excellent in its day—despite concerns over the height of that frame. Although I was wary of this bike’s ancient tires, the BSA could be flicked around easily using the leverage of those broad bars. Yet it is also stable through sweeping curves on the open road.

Despite its exposed riding position the Lightning is tolerably comfortable, too. The original forks and aftermarket shocks give a fairly firm ride, and are well-damped by early-’70s standards. This bike’s only real chassis flaw—unless you have short legs, and also find its height an issue—is braking. The conical front drum lives up to its poor reputation by refusing to lock the wheel even with the lever pulled back to the handlebar.

That lack of stopping power reinforced my impression of the Lightning as a limited but sound parallel-twin roadster whose preference for gentle cruising was in tune with its Californian-inspired styling. But that was evidently not the opinion of BSA’s management—at least, not for long. For 1972 the A65L was redesigned yet again, with lower bars, bigger fuel tank, more sober color schemes, and larger mudguards, as well as a revised frame and lower seat.

The new Lightning was more practical both at speed and in town, and most people who rode it thought it handled slightly better too. But if BSA had got the Lightning right at last, they were too late. By this time the famous old firm’s financial problems had deepened further, and production of the twins ended shortly afterwards.

1971 BSA A65L Lightning

Highs: Laid-back looks and easy handling

Lows: Feeble front brake, seat position if you’re short

Takeaway: It oozes ’70s style and parallel-twin charm

__

Price: Project, $3400; nice ride, $4400; showing off: $6000

Engine: Air-cooled pushrod parallel twin

Capacity: 654 cc

Maximum power: 51 hp @ 7000rpm

Weight: 419 pounds with fluids

Top speed: 110 mph

***

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Via Hagerty UK

The post BSA’s 650 Lightning was good, but not enough to save the company appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Bultaco, a long-lost Spanish motorcycle brand, is best remembered for its dirt bikes, racers, and trail bikes, but it also built some well-respected road bikes. The top-of-the-line model was the Metralla, several iterations of which were produced over a 15-year period.

I always wanted a Metralla, and around 2002, I found a nice Mk2, the classic example, on eBay in Canada. It was original and minimally restored. I detailed the heck out of it, and it won several awards.

This satisfied my Metralla fix for several years, though I did restore a few other Bultacos in the interim—a Matador, a Metisse, and a Sammy Miller trials bike among them.

Then in 2015, I spotted an El Tigre for sale at auction. El Tigres were a street-scrambler version of the Metralla. The one at auction didn’t sell, but the seller was desperate, so I made an offer and he relented. This is a beautiful motorcycle and has since won an Antique Motorcycle Club of America senior award, scoring 99.25 points.

The following year, I discovered an early Metralla 62 that had been in a California garage since the late ’70s. It was originally purchased by a U.S. airman in Spain, but the motor had since locked up and it was quite badly corroded. The shipper described it as a “rust bucket.” It took a year of hard work to restore it to its original European spec. When I’d finished, it was selected as best in class at the Riding Into History concours in Florida.

Then I was only missing the late-model six-speed Metralla GTS, of which only six were imported before the EPA shut down all two-strokes. I found a nasty one in South Florida, but the owner wouldn’t sell, so I looked to Spain, where I finally located a decent one and went through the shipping and importing hassle.

Finally, I had an example of each of the Metralla variants. To my knowledge, this is the only complete set in the U.S.

***

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Ah, the adorable Vespa. The iconic transportation of choice for Italian lovers like Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday. Simple, cute, and unassuming. And, as it turns out, also an armor-piercing killer.

The Vespa 150 TAP, so named for its use by French paratroopers (Troupes AéroPortées), was an anti-tank scooter introduced in 1956. Produced for three years by Ateliers de Construction de Motocycles et Automobiles (ACMA), the licensed assembler of Vespas in France, it was the French military’s answer to the more powerful machines employed by its enemies.

After German tanks broke through French defenses and quickly occupied the country during World War II, France needed a better way to quickly mobilize its anti-tank defenses and prevent a future blitzkrieg. The answer was a 246-pound gnat that could be dropped from an airplane and quickly put into action upon landing.

The 150 TAP was nicknamed the Bazooka Vespa, although it didn’t actually employ a bazooka. It featured a reinforced frame, lower gear ratios than standard models, and a mounted recoilless rifle, its barrel extending forward through a hole in the leg shield. Soldiers literally straddled the American-made M20 75-millimeter rifle while driving.

Painted olive drab or sand, the Vespa itself was powered by a 145.5-cubic-centimeter, single-cylinder, two-stroke engine with a rotary valve design, and it could reach speeds of up to 37 mph. It was designed to also carry ammunition or additional gear and even haul a small trailer, if needed.

The little scooters would be parachuted from the rear of a cargo plane in pairs, strapped to a pallet cushioned by hay bales to lessen the impact.

Although technically a round could be fired from the rifle as an emergency measure while it was still mounted to the frame, the scooter was designed to simply get the M20 rifle to wherever it was needed as quickly as possible. The gun would then be removed and mounted onto a Browning M1917 machine gun tripod. According to Popular Mechanics, the M20 “belched out a 22-pound projectile moving at 1000 feet per second, with the help of a perforated artillery shell casing.”

The magazine continued, “The unique thing about the high-powered weapon is that it was so light. By venting propellant gasses out the rear, the 75mm had almost no recoil and no need for a weighty breech block.”

The gun could fire high-explosive anti-tank rounds that were advertised as “capable of punching through nearly 4 inches of armor at 7000 yards.”

Although the Vespa 150 TAP wasn’t always up to the task, French military officials not only appreciated what it could do but what it cost. With M20 75-mm recoilless rifles in abundance following World War II, each 150 TAP could be built for only $500 or so ($5000–$5400 today), compared to enemy tanks that cost as much as 50 times that amount.

An estimated 600–800 TAPs were produced from 1956–59 and were used mainly during the Algerian War of Independence (1954–62).

Although the scooters likely didn’t look very intimidating to the enemy, French soldiers reported that they were surprisingly rugged for the terrain they encountered and could travel 100+ miles on a tank of fuel.

Because there aren’t many known survivors out there—most were lost on the battlefield—a Vespa 150 TAP doesn’t often come up for auction. In 2020, an Italian dealership offered a first-year 1956 model for $47,250.

If your first reaction upon seeing one was, “What the?” (that was ours), then you’ll enjoy this fun take by a former Army medic known among YouTubers as “The Fat Electrician.”

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Here’s the deal. I couldn’t afford even the opening bid when the Bullitt Mustang crossed the block a few years ago, and the Manx buggy from The Thomas Crown Affair will likely elude me for life. The Husqvarna from On Any Sunday will forever be a dream.

So what’s a man to do to to get his McQueen fix on a budget? Bell helmets just announced a great option.

Using its Custom 500 half helmet as the base, Bell partnered with the McQueen estate to create a replica of the helmet worn by Steve and the rest of the U.S. contingent during the 1964 International Six Days Trials (ISDT, now known as ISDE) off-road race. This was the first year the U.S.A. entered a team in the historic European multi-day race, an event first held in 1913, only paused for the first and second world wars, and still active today. That means you or I can put #278 on the numberplate of whatever bike we own and do our best impression of McQueen, which should be easy: According to Chad McQueen, Steve’s son, the man had motorcycles on the mind more often than not.

“My dad loved riding motorcycles more than anything,” said Chad. “Much of my childhood memories with my dad revolve around motorcycles. We loved going on two-wheeled adventures together and I’m thrilled to see this helmet come back to life considering my dad and I always wore Bell helmets.”

The helmet is painted in a simple, blue and white scheme accented with some red pinstriping and a tasteful little signature from the man who inspired the lid on the back. The visor is a period-correct 510-style, too.

Though not identical to the original Bell TX that would have been worn during the 1960s, that’s not a bad thing. Safety technology has come a long way in 60-plus years, and a helmet is meant for safety, not style. It’s always nice when you can get both in a lid, though.

Will slipping this new helmet on make you as cool as the characters McQueen played? Probably not, but if you want to try, be sure to hurry. This is a limited release that will include a special 278 decal featuring Steve McQueen’s name and the 1964 ISDT details, along with a keychain featuring McQueen’s name and a black leather helmet bag for transporting and storing your new helmet safely.

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“This rig is the best handling bike I’ve ever owned,” said Steve McQueen of his Rickman Métisse motorcycle. Known for his fondness for Triumphs and Husqvarnas, the King of Cool switched allegiance after building up a unique Desert Racer with stuntman pal Bud Ekins.

The 1966 Métisse Mk3, despite its French-sounding name, was built by British brothers Derek and Don Rickman and was already a hugely accomplished motocross model when McQueen started to customize his. The Mk3 had scored victories in events such as the Moto Cross des Nations, when the Rickmans decided it was time to cross the Atlantic. The brothers shipped several examples to California where the bikes quickly came to Ekins’ attention, thanks in part to the way the nickel-plated chromoly frame contained the bike’s oil and kept it cooler than if it were stored in a standard tank.

Ekins and his brother Dave were so impressed that they became the U.S. importers for the Métisse frames, and when McQueen was looking for a new bike to take to the desert Ekins had just the answer.

Together, Ekins and McQueen built his dream machine using the most rugged components available at the time. The forks were from Italy’s Ceriani and provided 7.5 inches of travel to soak up the worst bumps in the desert, while the yoke was by BSA. The engine came from McQueen’s beloved Triumph in the form of a 650cc parallel twin. The gearbox was a four-speed, also from the British brand. The rear of the bike was suspended by twin Girling springs and dampers, and Triumph drum brakes were fitted to the 21-inch front wheel.

Such was the interest in his Métisse build that McQueen even documented it in the November 1966 edition of Popular Mechanics magazine. Describing how determined he was to build the bike tough, McQueen told the magazine, “It’s real important for me because I’ve hit bumps so hard sometimes that I’ve actually bent the handlebars.”

McQueen had the bike painted a stealthy, battleship gray and, as that opening quote makes clear, he loved riding it in the California desert.

In 2008, long after McQueen passed away, his son Chad collaborated with Métisse again, along with Dave Ekins, bringing the Desert Racer back to life as a run of 300 limited editions. Exact replicas using new frames, along with fully reconditioned running gear, and McQueen’s trademarked signature on the fuel tank, the bikes soon sold out.

Carrying on the movie-idol theme, Métisse went on to build a further 300 examples based on the Mk3 ridden by Armie Hammer’s Illya Kuryakin in the 2015 remake of The Man From U.N.C.L.E, although it’s a bit of a stretch to think that Hammer could ever be as cool as McQueen.

Should you wish to hit the desert like McQueen, know that original Rickman Métisse Mk3s come up for sale only rarely, and the Steve McQueen Desert Racer even less frequently. However, the prices, despite the inevitable McQueen badge bump (which Hagerty rates at 6.5 percent) aren’t too high.

The 2008 example in the photo below sold earlier this month for £22,500 ($28,000) on Collecting Cars in the U.K —rather less than than the hundreds of thousands achieved recently by bikes actually ridden by The Great Escape star.

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The post Steve McQueen’s favorite bike was a Brit you’ve never heard of appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Although weights, measures, and currency are adjusted for a U.S. audience, colloquialisms and contextual references reflect this story’s origin on our sister site, Hagerty UK. 

BMW Motorrad celebrates its centenary this year and reaches the landmark in fine health, with a varied range containing some brilliant bikes. But if a poll were held to choose the outstanding model of the German marque’s 100 years of production, there’s a fair chance the winner would be the R90S of 1974.

The half-faired R90S, finished in its striking smoked color scheme (gray originally, with this bike’s orange following as an option a year later), was seriously rapid, with handling, comfort, and refinement to match, and was arguably the finest superbike of its day. It cost twice as much as Honda’s CB750 and gave a huge boost to BMW’s distinctly staid image.

Decades later, a good example is still a joy to ride. As the road ahead unwinds in a gentle curve with 80 mph on the clock, the big boxer engine is spinning smoothly at 5000 rpm. I’m sitting comfortably, leaning slightly forward to slightly raised handlebars, my chest and head protected from the wind by the neat half-fairing.

The big orange tank is full, giving the prospect of 200 miles of non-stop riding. Below it I can see the motor’s trademark sticking-out pots, their valves’ gentle rustling almost drowned by a fruity twin-pot exhaust note. By modern standards the mechanical and exhaust sounds are loud, but they do nothing to mar the BMW’s aristocratic air.

The bike’s stability doesn’t falter as I bank through a series of curves, the suspension soaking up the bumps efficiently, and the tall-geared engine feeling relaxed and unburstable. Nevermind its generous fuel range, this bike gives the impression that it would cruise in comfort forever.

Such enduring characteristics should perhaps not come as a surprise given that BMW’s very first bike, the R32 of 1923, was itself a horizontally opposed twin – complete, like this one, with shaft final drive and that familiar blue-and-white badge on the tank. More than 50 years later, the R90S was the product of a process of boxer refinement that continues to this day.

The S and its unfaired sibling the R90/6, introduced at the same time, were derived more directly from the previous year’s R75 models. Enlarging the 745cc R75’s bore from 82 to 90 mm while retaining the 70.6 mm stroke gave a capacity of 898 cc. BMW also took the opportunity to make numerous engine upgrades including strengthening the bottom end plus fitting a revised gearshift mechanism and new alternator.

The S model differed from the humbler 90/6 by having a higher compression ratio and a pair of 38 mm Dell’Orto carbs with accelerator pumps in place of the basic model’s 32 mm Bings. Those mods helped lift peak power output from 60 hp to a claimed 67 hp at 7000 rpm – making the R90S competitive with everything on two wheels apart from Kawasaki’s mighty 82-hp Z1 four.

In addition the S model had a bigger, 6.34-gallon fuel tank, and twin front discs instead of just one, plus of course that handlebar-mounted fairing, which held a clock and voltmeter above the normal speedo and rev-counter. The fairing, tank, front mudguard, sidepanels, and the rear of the slightly stepped dual-seat were all visually brought together by that classy paint scheme of subtly changing tones.

To get the bike running you have to reach inside its fairing to the strangely placed ignition switch, then press the button to bring the boxer motor to life with its traditional side-to-side lurch from the longitudinal crankshaft. Despite its raised compression and big Dell’Ortos, the 90S is as refined and well-behaved as any of its BMW contemporaries.

Perhaps the most vivid sensation when riding the R90S decades later is how similar the old bike feels to more recent boxers. The tuned S model has a little less low-rev torque than the 90/6 but is still very flexible, its docile power delivery and relaxed cruising ability feeling typically BMW.

The R90S’s top speed of about 125 mph was impressive by mid-’70s standards, but perhaps more important was the ease with which the bike could sustain a high-speed cruise, thanks to its lack of annoying vibration and the way the fairing diverted most of the wind around the rider. Aftermarket fairings were available to do a similar job for other bikes, but no standard rival was as easy to ride fast as the Bavarian ’bahnstormer.

As with most classics, the BMW’s chassis feels more dated than its engine. Its front brake, a combination of tiny calipers and drilled 260-mm discs, require a firm squeeze of the lever to deliver much stopping power. (Even this set-up was an upgrade on the first-year model’s smaller discs.) At least the rear drum gives some welcome extra bite.

Handling and roadholding were excellent by the standards of the day, thanks to a conventional blend of steel twin-downtube frame, slim leading-axle forks, and a twin-shock rear end. This bike’s forks benefited from a brace, and its original shocks have long since been swapped for a pair of Konis.

Although the R90S feels tall and fairly soft, it combines its excellent ride quality with sufficient damping to encourage spirited cornering, without too much interference from the drive shaft. It steers with a pleasantly neutral feel, and stays stable at speed in a way that its Japanese superbike rivals do not.

The BMW matched its healthy power output with a respectably light weight of 474 pounds, which helped ensure that despite its gran turismo image there were few bikes that could stay with a well-ridden example. To prove the point, in 1976 expat British racer Reg Pridmore rode a standard-looking orange boxer to victory in the inaugural U.S. Superbike series.

The R90S was visually stunning, rapid, fine-handling, comfortable, refined … and a champion racer to boot. If you’re thinking of nominating another model as BMW’s best of these last 100 years, the bar is seriously high.

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***

1975 BMW R90S

Highs: Unique style, charm, and long-legged performance

Lows: The effort needed to slow from high speed in a hurry

Takeaway: For an exotic ’70s superbike, it’s great value now

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Price: Project, $8300; nice ride, $12,900; showing off, $33,100

Engine: Air-cooled overhead-valve flat-twin

Capacity: 898cc

Maximum power: 67 hp @ 7000 rpm

Weight: 474 with fluids

Top speed: 125 mph

Via Hagerty UK

The post R90S: BMW’s best bike ever? appeared first on Hagerty Media.

2022 was quite the year for collector motorcycles. We saw a 500cc two-stroke Grand Prix bike come up for sale twice on two sides of the world, a $60,000 BMW R90S smash records, and prewar motorcycles thrive. These are huge shakeups in the motorcycle world and significant moments in a market that operates far differently than the collector-car one, and at much lower values.

Motorcycle enthusiasts are a breed of their own, with an unparalleled passion for the hobby. These sales drove home the growth and vigor of the collector bike market. Let’s combine Hagerty’s number-crunching and my love of motorcycles to look into five of the most significant motorcycle sales of 2022.

Need to brush up on how we define each of our four vehicle conditions? All the details are here. 

1936 Brough Superior 990cc SS100

Sold for: $302,670

Hagerty Price Guide #1 (Concours) condition value: $390,000

The chart of record sales down the page shows just where this 1936 Brough Superior lies: smack in the middle of the decade that contains the majority of record motorcycle sales. Its sale price isn’t over the model’s #1 (or top) value. Nor even the #2 value. Yet this sale sheds light on the health of a market that some thought had stumbled.

The significance comes in three forms:

1. Brough Superior motorcycles are blue-chip collectibles that benchmark the high-end collector market (think of the Mercedes-Benz 300SL and how we can use it to predict the car market’s future)
2. British motorcycles have had many collectors watching for a drop as boomer interest for British motorcycles wanes and the Japanese market picks up steam with Gen-X and millennials.
3. Anyone who idolized this bike when they were 20 years old is now 107. That person isn’t in the market for this bike today.

Brough Superior motorcycles are blue-chip collectibles that benchmark the high-end collector market (think the Mercedes-Benz 300SL and how we can use it to predict the car market’s future). This sale is emblematic of how top-flight prewar collector motorcycles transcend generations and have remained strong despite two key factors: age and increased competition.

Buyers are significantly younger than any of these prewar bikes, meaning they had no emotional tie to the bike when it emerged from the factory. Given that discrepancy, and the rise in popularity of Japanese collector motorcycles, many have sounded the death knell for British bikes. To each of those points, this Brough said, “not today.”

This motorcycle, like several Brough sales before it, commanded top dollar despite being in #4 (Fair) condition. It doesn’t run, was stored in a wet or flooded structure, and requires a full restoration. Demand clearly remains strong for these motorcycles regardless of condition. Their draw indicates an appreciation for the art and craftsmanship behind the creation of such a vehicle.

1996 Yamaha YZR500 OWJ1 Kenny Roberts Jr.

Sale price: $321,000

The motorcycle market massively values history, performance, and design. A 500cc two-stroke Grand Prix bike is about as iconic as racing motorcycles come for many enthusiasts today. The 500cc two-stroke era ignites every sensation: the smell of the fuel, the buzz and rattling from the engines, even the pain of seeing violent high-side crashes under sudden power.

This 1996 Yamaha YZR500, which hails from Kenny Robert’s final Yamaha Grand Prix team and was ridden by his son, Kenny Roberts Jr., represents the motorcycle equivalent of some of the most iconic and recognizable Ferrari F1 cars from the early 2000s. One such car, Michael Schumacher’s F2003 from the 2003 Formula 1 season just sold for $14.87M. Robert’s YZR500 just sold for a mere 46th of the price of the Schumacher F1 Ferrari, at $321,000. While less than its $400,000 asking price earlier last summer at RMD Motors, any price in that range represents some compelling market movement.

This is a massive outlay of cash for the motorcycle market, and those spending these amounts are doing in a calculated way, especially for more modern bikes. Motorcycles from the 1990s and onward may be on the rise, when sales like this one put one of their genre in the running for best-ever auction sales.

As evidenced in the chart below, the motorcycle record list is dominated by European and American motorcycles from the 1940s and earlier. Process this—the median year of the top 50 most expensive motorcycles at auction is 1938. For cars, it is 23 years newer: 1961.

The more money spent in a certain segment validates future spending at similar or higher prices, too. Top-tier modern Grand Prix and MotoGP motorcycles are leading the way as younger bikes gain a foothold at the top of the market.

1976 BMW R90S

Sale Price: $63,000

HPG #1 condition value: $33,100

Let me be the bearer of bad news: Your R90S is not worth $63K because of this sale. This sale of an R90S, a bike that has commonly traded around $20K for a #1 (Concours) condition example, does not reset those #1 values to anywhere close to $60K. But that’s not why this sale matters.

Its significance rests on the vast value difference between a 100 percent, truly perfect and concours-ready bike compared to a 95 percet perfect bike. The above bike is that 100 percent perfect example, completed by one of the most respected R90S restorers with minute attention to detail. An example of investment-grade quality like this brought out the deepest of pockets in a growing and thriving market. It might be the first, and it might seem like a leap of faith for BMW R90S values, but as restorations become more expensive and parts harder to find, enthusiasts will likely ante up again.

Looking at other sales just shows how stratospheric this sale was, and how it has no relation to current mainstream R90S values. But the confidence of those who are putting the largest checks down on the table should make you feel good about the market’s trajectory.

1936 Harley-Davidson EL Knucklehead

Sale price: $181,500

HPG #1 condition value: $182K

Expensive does not mean significant, yet the two attributes are often linked. We use the top of the market to gauge trickle-down impacts to more affordably priced segments, to determine what is resonating with the big players in the collector world, and to see where investment money is landing, especially at a time when buyers are looking to assets to safeguard against inflation. This Knucklehead sold in August 2022 at a time of uncertainty: Interest rates had increased five-fold from only four months prior. That $182K sale price (right on its #1-condition value in our price guide) demonstrated market confidence in classic prewar American motorcycles (Knucklehead production did go slightly postwar, to 1947).

This is further supported by buying demand from younger generation. That may come as a shock to those who hear the drones of “Harleys are dying” and “young people don’t like motorcycles.” Ask a car enthusiast if the prewar American cars have a strong outlook and you likely won’t find much confidence, but it’s quite the opposite in the motorcycle market.

In fact, millennial interest in the 1936-1947 Harley-Davidson EL/FL Knucklehead more than doubled since 2019. The brand speaks to that younger audience in this segment, and a Knucklehead owner is twice as likely as an Indian Chief owner to be fewer than 40 years old. We took note of these significant data points and the strong sales, so much so we included the Knucklehead in our 2023 Hagerty Bull Market list.

1974 Maico GP250 Moto Cross

Sale price: $20,500

#1 condition value: $9900

Despite not being street-legal and bucking the normal collector motorcycle trend of shunning plastic bits, dirt bikes have been an extremely hot segment over the last two years. Multiple sales of Maico models for up to $20,000—and even this 1980 model’s sale for $15,000—at Mecum’s 2022 Las Vegas motorcycle auction proves that it’s the segment, not just popular name brands, that have stood the test of time (Maico went bankrupt in 1983).

A large swath of buyers in the collector market are inspired by bikes of their youth regardless of how popular or known those bikes are today. When those cult followings coalesce around a segment, prices can skyrocket.

Other motorcycles that stand to benefit from this are the early big-bore two-strokes like Honda CR500s as well as the bikes that kickstarted the modern motocross era like the unobtanium Yamaha YZ250A. If this trend continues and dirt bikes find themselves further in the mainstream collector market, expect the poster bikes of Gen-X youth to win out. Sales like this little Maico’s give confidence to those watching.

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The post 5 significant motorcycle sales from 2022 appeared first on Hagerty Media.

As enthusiasts, we often catch ourselves wishing manufacturers would build something without the accounting team’s input. Just think of what could be! The splendor of a concept that goes straight to production and then rolls out to dealer showrooms for us consumers to purchase and tool about town on. Something that is truly cool and unique.

That’ll never happen … again.

Mainly because Honda learned its lesson from the Rune. Back in 1995 Honda rolled a concept called Zodia into its booth at a Tokyo show. The wild cruiser garnered the standard attention and also standard, “That’s neat, but nothing like what we’ll see in showrooms”-type comments.

Then in 1998 a bike called T1 appeared. It captured a similar feel and showed that Honda just might be serious about this wild cruiser thing. Look a the T1 and you’ll probably see more VTX than anything but that was only because in the background the T2 was being formed. Like the T1, the T2 was based around the Goldwing flat-six engine. It was an aluminum twin-spar engine and Pro-Link rear suspension that was a staple of Honda during the time. This was the same decade where Honda decided oval-piston 750cc engines were something worth developing, so when the public said the T2 was great there was not much more prodding needed.

The reaction was strong. Really strong. People loved it.

There were two more largely forgettable concepts, but T2 was the one that made the most impact. As the team pivoted towards producing something like T2 the news came down from on high that the normal shackles of production would be unlocked and design would take precedence. Cost be damned, build a factory custom cruiser like never before! Enter the Rune, and the start of wild financial adventure at Honda. Ryan at FortNine recently rode one and gave a little insight as to how wild these big bikes are.

See, with design being paramount there is very little parts sharing. Seemingly every part is crafted to look one-off and unlike anything else Honda had built, was building, or would build. The front suspension alone cost more than some of the smaller displacement Honda bikes that were in showrooms at the time. The two front shocks are even side-specific, with the right holding the main spring while the left controls damping and has a lighter sub-spring. The bike appears absurdly long and the extremely low 27.2-inch seat height only exacerbates the wild proportions.

That stubby yet flowing exhaust was created using lost wax casting, an incredibly time- and material-intensive process that creates parts one at a time at an absurd cost. From the switchgear on the handlebars to the curved multi-core radiator, the Rune has numerous one-off bits and pieces that compile to create a nearly 900-pound motorcycle that is unlike anything else Honda would build.

So what is the Rune then? A middle finger of an executive on the way out the door who greenlit an absurd project as a final task? Honda trying to cash in on the wild custom chopper craze of the early ’00s? Something even wilder?

No, the truth is stranger than fiction here. It’s a motorcycle made to be ridden and make a statement when it’s parked. It does that second part in spades. Whether or not that unspoken statement is in your language is personal and up to you. Regardless of how you feel about it, the Rune stands out as one of the times, if not the time, that a manufacturer threw out logic. I guess we can’t complain that Honda didn’t do exactly what we asked for, even if it didn’t age as well as other contemporary designs.

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The post The motorcycle that Honda lost millions building appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Norton made plenty of news last year, for contrasting reasons. The famous old marque, revived under Indian ownership, is developing glamorous V-4 superbikes; but former boss Stuart Garner received a suspended prison sentence for pension fraud.

Fortunes were even more mixed a century ago. In 1923, Norton began production of a new roadster, the Model 18, whose 490cc, single-cylinder engine featured overhead valves, boosting performance over the previous side-valve design.

This was an exciting time for the Birmingham firm, but also a sad one. Founder James Lansdowne Norton, or “Pa” as he was known, was a frail figure who had recently been diagnosed with the bowel cancer that would claim his life in 1925, aged just 56.

By contrast his Model 18 went from strength to strength. It broke a bunch of speed records at Brooklands in 1923, and won the following year’s Isle of Man Senior TT, ridden by Alec Bennett. It then became a long-running success, remaining in production for more than 30 years.

“Unapproachable Norton,” Norton’s old advertising line went, and that seemed easy to understand on riding this enjoyably lively old Model 18—even if much of the marque’s racing reputation was earned by the more powerful CS1, its successor as the sports flagship.

This well-preserved Model 18 was built in 1937, by which time it had gained some chassis updates and a larger, more rounded petrol tank. But it was still light, weighing 160 kg (352 pounds), and felt small and low as I settled onto the sprung saddle, which was barely higher than the flush-fitting rear mudguard.

I had a gentle stretch forward to the fairly wide bars. The fuel tank had an attractive, teardrop-shaped chromed instrument panel in its top, holding a speedometer, ammeter and light switch.

The CS1, named after its overhead-camshaft engine, had relegated the older model to sports-tourer status in Norton’s line-up, but even decades later the Model 18 felt like a genuinely sporty single. Its Amal carburetor gave slightly rough running at very low revs, but then the bike picked up and surged forward.

It felt quick if not exactly unapproachable, with an impressive willingness to rev despite the engine’s long-stroke dimensions. Its thumping exhaust note added a pleasant, fairly restrained soundtrack.

Another update had been a four-speed gearbox, in place of the original three-speeder. This bike’s box shifted smoothly provided I didn’t try to hurry the right-foot change.

The Model 18’s maximum power output of about 20 bhp had not changed since its launch. The extra gearbox ratio helped keep acceleration to roughly its original level, despite the extra weight.

The bike sat at an effortless 55-mph in top gear, vibrating slightly but not enough to be annoying, and with power in hand for more speed if given a tweak of the throttle. In third gear it was even more eager, but I didn’t want to push my luck by revving this elderly machine too hard.

As well as being pleasantly surprised by how quick and entertaining the Model 18 felt, I also occasionally found it infuriating. When the motor was hot it sometimes took some frantic kicking to bring it back to life.

In later years Norton fitted the carburetor with a spring-loaded control which, with a flick of the rider’s fingers, raised the slide to the ideal position for starting. Clearly I wasn’t the only one to struggle.

Chassis updates prior to 1937 meant this bike’s handling was probably better than that of the original model. By this time, Norton’s girder forks had been modified to include a smaller spring on each side, in addition to the main central spring.

The smaller pair softened the suspension’s rebound ferocity; less efficiently than hydraulic damping, but better than nothing. The forks also incorporated knobs each side to adjust their action, in similar fashion to the central friction steering damper knob just behind the headlight.

Given the bike’s rigid rear end, the job of soaking up bumps was down to the rear Avon tyre and the sprung saddle, which did a reasonable job between them. Having no rear suspension wasn’t as detrimental to handling as it might sound, and the Model 18 could be cornered reasonably confidently.

It also braked with reassuring efficiency for such an old bike, thanks to its reasonably powerful single-leading-shoe drum at each end.

The Model 18 also had a good reputation for reliability, so given the excellent condition of this bike I was surprised when it suddenly ground to a halt. Well, slightly surprised. It was a pretty ancient British motorbike, after all.

Glancing under the left of the tank revealed that one of the exposed valve rocker-arms had come loose. So much for this new-fangled “overhead valve” feature.

As I had no tools with me, the Model 18’s trip ended in a van. Fortunately, replacing the rocker was a quick job, and no damage was done. The engine was finally updated with enclosed valvegear in 1938, the year after this bike was built.

Norton was also notoriously conservative when it came to modernizing its chassis. When the firm restarted production of civilian bikes in 1946, after World War II, one of the two models it built was the Model 18—still with girder forks and rigid rear end.

Even Norton’s high command realized that this could be only a temporary measure, though, and for 1947 the Model 18 got telescopic forks, plus the option of plunger rear suspension.

Even so, the rigid rear end, which many riders thought gave better handling, remained standard fitment until the Model 18 was finally dropped from the range in 1955—fully 32 years after its introduction.

Norton’s first overhead-valve single had been granted an impressively long innings. If only the same had been true of the visionary engineer and founding father who had created it.

 

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1937 Norton Model 18

Highs: Its lean looks, lively feel and light weight

Lows: When you can’t kick-start the hot engine

Takeaway: It blends vintage Norton style with youthful charm

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Engine: Air-cooled OHV single

Capacity: 490 cc

Power: 20 bhp @ 5000rpm

Weight: 160 kg (352 pounds) with fluids

Top speed: 75 mph

Via Hagerty UK

The post Norton Model 18: Lean looks and a lively feel appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I hate CNBC. I hate CNN, Yahoo Finance, and MarketWatch. Well, it’s not that I actually hate them. More like I hate the fact that they are readily available to other people, and those people watch them and have equally brilliant ideas to my own.

Political turmoil, out-of-control inflation, and a formerly-disproved fiscal policy amounted to a recent exchange rate drop in the United Kingdom, the likes of which hadn’t been seen outside of a global conflict. So, methinks, if I send some cash over to the UK and hold it there until the upcoming Bonhams Stafford motorcycle auction, I should be able to buy some bikes on the cheap. I would have a 15 percent advantage just based on the exchange rate.

Fantastic.

So, I arranged finances and notified my international transporters of choice, Shippio in England and Schumacher over here, that the entire auction would be loaded up and shipped over to me at pennies on the dollar.

Only trouble is that apparently, others had the same idea.

As a dealer of all things on two or four (and sometimes even three) wheels, and having spent the first half of my life in England and Europe, I am most drawn to machines of that area of manufacture. So, when an auction house offers a plethora of motorcycles, I’m there, dressed in my buying boots, even if it is in the middle of the night California time. But, regardless of all that coffee and a trigger finger on the bid button, I only managed to snag a handful of what I believe are good bikes at reasonable prices.

According to sources, the sale was, and I quote, mental: 96 percent sell-through with over half of the 300-odd bikes heading overseas, and about a quarter of the sale heading Stateside. A shocking number for a country that has historically been importing collector bikes from around the world by the container load. Many of these bikes were bought by dealers, but a noticeable number went to individual collectors, including a Honda Z50 that was flown in for an impatient enthusiast. The bikes that stayed in the UK likely were those that didn’t have much appeal outside the country (such as those from a museum divested itself of British speedway racing motorcycles).

This auction wasn’t a fluke. Hagerty analysis of shipping data for classic cars shows a 15 percent uptick in imports from the UK to the States. For bikes, those in the know in international transport tell me exports from the United States are down—way down—and imports are up. It used to be about 80 percent for export, but now it is more like 50/50 in/out.

So, what does this say about the motorcycle market? That it’s global, and as a result, quite resilient. Despite (or maybe because of) a barrage of news about interest-rate hikes, inflation data, and downturns in stock and real estate, buyers believed that these motorcycles are unlikely to be cheaper over the next few months or years.

All to say, many more bikes are coming into the United States. Should you join the fray? If so, how does it work?

First, I can’t recommend buying from anyone but a reputable dealer or established auction company. There are too many horror stories about private party deals that don’t really exist. All the firms you would deal with have done this before and can recommend an international transporter to help you. Let them do the paperwork. Customs can be a relationship business, and for the nominal cost to get the paperwork right, these relationships are worth their weight in motorcycles. A seasoned seller will also take the bike to the port, get it loaded, and reverse the process at this end with nice, tidy import documents. Then it is up to you to work out how to get a title for it in the state in which you reside. Research that at the outset: It can be painful, arduous, and expensive.

What to buy and import? Therein lies the trick. You have to juggle interest rates, socioeconomic factors and tastes. That last nugget is the fiddly bit: what is worth more here than there, wherever “there” is? Simple to research, but asking prices are not reliable information, and tastes and associated prices move. A lot. I’d love to recommend a year, make, model, but with my luck that rose will shed its bloom before I finish writing this article. And prices will adjust as a taste shifts with remarkable speed, once word is out.

What we can be sure of is that all these external factors are cyclical, and that my handful of machines that are now bobbing their way across the Atlantic will be worth more in the UK as soon as economics and politics right-side. They will then have an exchange rate advantage and can afford to buy them all back. And so the world turns.

Nick Smith is a motorcycle and car appraiser and principle of motorcycle dealer Classic Avenue. He’s based in California but a Briton at heart.

Via Hagerty Insider

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The post Classic motorcycles are leaving the UK at an unprecedented pace appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Although weights, measures, and currency are adjusted for a U.S. audience, colloquialisms and contextual references reflect this story’s origin on our sister site, Hagerty UK. 

Italy’s motorcycle industry is on a roll right now. Ducati has just won the MotoGP title, Aprilia’s bikes have been impressing on road and track, and Moto Guzzi has launched its first liquid-cooled V-twin, the V100 Mandello. Recently troubled marques Benelli, Bimota, Fantic, and Mondial have been revived and are building exciting machines.

But one old favorite remains abandoned and ignored, more than four decades after it was famed for producing arguably the world’s fastest and most glamorous superbike. Laverda was a small firm from Breganze, near Vicenza in Italy’s northeast. Its flagship was the mighty Jota, a 981cc triple that combined handsome looks with all-conquering performance and an unruly reputation.

That reputation was well deserved, on the evidence of a blast on this particular example, resplendent in the company’s favored orange paintwork. My charge along traffic-free Suffolk country lanes was exhilarating, the sort of ride that forged the Jota legend.

Whenever I wound open the throttle, the result was fierce acceleration, hand-numbing vibration through the low clip-on bars, and a howling three-cylinder soundtrack from the exhaust. Through the bends, the Laverda’s firm ride shook my kidneys and sometimes made me feel as though I were trying to hang onto an uncontrollable wild animal.

That image of brutal power accompanied by marginal handling helped make Jota one of the iconic superbikes of the ’70s. It was certainly one of the fastest. With a top speed of 140 mph, it had a strong claim to have displaced Kawasaki’s Z1000 as the king of the road following its launch in 1976.

And there was much more to the Jota than merely speed. It combined Italian character, design flair, and chassis rigidity with ruggedness and reasonable sophistication. And it was born not in Breganze but in Herefordshire—by brothers Richard and Roger Slater, Laverda’s U.K. importers.

The Slaters were going production racing with Laverda’s 3CL triple and tuned its double-overhead cam, air-cooled engine with high-lift camshafts and high-compression pistons, as used by the factory’s endurance racers. Free-breathing pipes helped raise power output over 88 hp at 8000 rpm. The brothers offered the tuned triple as a fresh model that they named the Jota, after a Spanish dance in three-four time.

Its impact was spectacular. The Jota’s newfound power made it unbeatable in a straight line. And although the big Laverda required plenty of muscle to change direction, and could weave at high speed, its reasonably stiff frame and taut suspension gave very competitive cornering performance.

That was confirmed on the racetrack, where the Slaters’ rider, Peter “PK” Davies, wrestled a Jota to three National production race championships in the late ’70s. The Jota sold well in the U.K. too, despite its high price, prompting the Laverda factory to produce a similar model for other markets including the U.S.

The Jota’s reputation for wildness was exaggerated; previous examples I’ve ridden have been more rider-friendly than this gorgeous but not fully sorted example. That said, the triple was certainly best suited to riders physically big and strong enough to cope with its stretched-out riding position, tall seat, and hefty wet weight of 522.5 pounds.

That potent twin-cam motor was always the Jota’s main attraction, the key to both its speed and its barrel-chested look. That was certainly true of this very clean machine, borrowed from classic dealership Made in Italy. First registered in 1980, it made do without the half-fairing that the model often wore by that time.

The powerplant fully lived up to expectations, too. It started at the press of the button (Laverdas, with their partly Japanese electrics, were generally among the more dependable of Italian bikes), burbling a rich three-pot sound through its minimally silenced pipes. For a tuned motor it ran reasonably well at low revs, responding respectably cleanly through its bank of Dell’Orto carburetors.

As the revs rose towards the 8000 rpm redline the Jota came alive, storming forward with an exhilarating, high-pitched howl and with a force that made me grip those juddering clip-ons tightly. In a straight line the Laverda was magical. Its sheer speed and presence more than made up for a raw, almost crude feel that brought to mind the company’s background as a maker of agricultural machinery.

Corners weren’t quite so much fun. Smooth, main-road curves were fine but on country lanes the Laverda was a handful despite its thoughtfully added steering damper. Its Koni shocks were very firm despite being on their lowest preload settings—to give them as much travel as possible—and over some bumps had me wondering whether I was about to punch a Jota-sized hole in a roadside hedge.

Thankfully the excellent brakes prevented that from happening. The triple Brembo discs, plumbed with braided hose, lived up to the Italian specialist’s reputation. The Metzeler tires provided plenty of grip, too, though I didn’t manage to ground an engine cover, as can happen when the big triple is cornered very hard.

Laverda later improved the Jota’s ground clearance with an updated engine, and even reduced its vibration with a smoother-running, 120-degree (instead of 180-degree, with two pistons up and one down) crankshaft. But the small firm struggled to meet tightening emissions regulations, and suffered a series of financial crises and comebacks before finally disappearing from the scene two decades ago.

Current brand owners Piaggio show no sign of adding Laverda to the list of reborn Italian marques, but the Jota legend endures—as it surely will for as long as thunderous triples like this one are ridden. I finished my blast having enjoyed a bike that was gloriously fast, loud, and aggressive, albeit requiring some chassis fine-tuning in order to approach its full magnificence.

Given that many classic superbikes inevitably fail to live up to their reputations, perhaps it was no bad thing to find a machine that matched its hairy image. If riding this Jota was a bit scary at times, it was also one hell of a thrill.

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***

1980 Laverda Jota

Highs: Arm-stretching speed, spine-tingling sound

Lows: Palm-blistering vibes, back-straining weight

Summary: More of a ’70s legend than Don Corleone

__

Price: Project, $9700; nice ride, $16,800; showing off, $23,300

Engine: Air-cooled DOHC triple

Capacity: 981 cc

Maximum power: 97 hp @ 8000 rpm

Weight: 522.5 with fluids

Top speed: 140 mph

Via Hagerty UK

The post Laverda’s glamorous Jota is as unruly the ’70s said it would be appeared first on Hagerty Media.

The bright red paint catches the eye and the chrome gas-tank panels shimmer. You swing a leg over the low and firm bench seat. You tap the starter button. It fires almost instantly.

It’s a Honda, after all. The engine settles into a deep putter. It’s a CB77 Super Hawk.

The 305-cc Super Hawk was Honda’s “sportbike” of the 1960s. Along with the CL77 Scrambler and CA77 Dream, the CB77 was a major part of how the company planned to own the American motorcycle market. It’s hard to imagine today, but in the mid-1950s, the Japanese motorcycle industry was barely a blip on the map. England dominated the garages of everyday riders, that country’s bikemakers offering everything from entry-level, 150-cc singles to sporting twins of 650 or 1000 cc.

In 1953, BSA was the world’s largest producer of motorcycles. American manufacturers defined the large-bore touring market with their 1200-cc Harley Panheads and Indian Chiefs, but Indian went bankrupt that same year. And in 1959, a company born only ten years earlier—founded to produce bicycle engines, of all things—became the largest motorcycle manufacturer in the world.

Honda Motor Company Limited was founded in 1948. In 1959, it opened American Honda Motor Company, its U.S. arm, in Los Angeles. The goal was not to to make limited models, or to chase horsepower wars, or to develop a cult following. Honda engineered and built motorcycles that were clean, efficient, and meant for ordinary people. One of those bikes, the Super Cub, brought inexpensive motorcycling to the masses and sealed Honda’s success. But the firm’s 305-cc twins marked the beginning of the end of the British motorcycle industry.

In 1959 Honda released a 305-cc motorcycle first known as the C76 Dream. The Dream was a revelation, a reliable and quick machine at an affordable price, yet it offered technology, like an electric starter, that wasn’t a consideration for British bikes. (The Triumph Bonneville wouldn’t get an electric start until 1980, three years before its maker went bankrupt.) In 1960, the C76 became the CA77 (known outside America as the C77). Honda introduced the CB77 Super Hawk, the sportbike of the range, in 1961. Nineteen sixty-five brought the CL77 Scrambler.

Those three models represent different experiences, and liking one doesn’t mean you’ll like the other. They all share the same parallel-twin of around 28 hp. One might not expect a 305-cc Honda to make much of a noise, but the engine has its own throaty sound that surprises many. The CA77 Dream is the “touring” model in the lineup, with its relatively upright riding position and medium-width bars, and it feels right puttering around back roads. The CL77 Scrambler is by far the loudest, with the most British-like vibrations, especially since the removable muffler is now missing on many examples. The handlebars are wide and make you want to stand up on the pegs and let the bike flow between your legs.

Lastly, there’s the Super Hawk. The narrow bars give fast steering inputs. The riding position is only slightly forward, but these bikes are all small beasts, and they can be cramped for many. That twin arguably provides a perfect blend of sound, between noise from gearing, from the engine’s top end, and from the ignition system. The valves and timing chain aren’t the quietest, especially after 60 years of use, but each cylinder fires with a solid thump. The 180-degree crankshaft gives the engine a distinct note while revving smoothly to 9000 rpm.

All that noise just confirms everything is working in harmony.

The 305s are an example of classic Honda engineering: They just work, and they work well. Fit and finish is near-perfect, and great thought was put into the little details that make the bike easy to service. Lest we forget, this is a Honda, so parts are plentiful and affordable, and the bike will require little unplanned service. (I am actually English myself and own just as many British bikes as Hondas, so none of this is personal. British and Italian bikes just have an aura about them that says, Will it start today?)

Plentiful and affordable also describes the bikes themselves. These Hondas represent strong value—you can still buy a nice example of any 305 for under $5000. Some believe the relatively low displacement makes these bikes too small or impractical for modern roads, but in reality, most classic motorcycles rarely see more than 55 mph. Rather, they are used around town for ice-cream and coffee runs and for slower back roads. In that light, the 305s are a dream, no pun intended.

Wide availability coupled with that perceived low usability has traditionally held values back. The CA77 Dream has historically carried the lowest value and the CL77 Scrambler the highest, with the CB77 Super Hawk slotting in the middle. That pattern has recently been shifting, however, with all models rising sporadically. The CL77 has lagged slightly in this new market, possibly because it lacks the chrome and bright paint that might appeal more to online impulse buyers looking for garage candy.

1965 Honda CB77 Super Hawk #3 value: $5,400

1965 Honda CA77 Dream #3 value: $4,800

1965 Honda CL77 Scrambler #3 value: $4,800

These bikes were seen as worthless for the longest time—many owners simply chucked them in the corner of the garage rather than sell for pennies. The rise in values has led many of those examples to reappear on the market, and barn-find hunters, restorers, and flippers seem to continually find them. If you’d prefer a project, you’ll have no problem sourcing a 305 in rougher shape. Honda made around 250,000 of these twins and the engines last forever, so the market always holds plenty of suitable starting points.

Don’t be afraid of a bike that has been sitting, either. I’ve pulled more than ten 305s out of long-term storage, the bikes covered in an inch of dust. All but one required only a carb clean, a battery, and fresh gas to get running.

So here we have a relatively affordable 1960s bike that is reliable and trustworthy, that’s able to keep up in 50-mph traffic, that has plentiful parts availability, and that provides the unique riding experience only found with a small Honda twin. It’s hard to find another classic motorcycle that provides such joy for so little money.

Five grand for a sculpture you can take to coffee with your buddies? Why not? After all, friends and riding are what motorcycling is all about.

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With custom-bike culture exploding in recent years, the history and importance of early two-wheeled machines are often overlooked. Stock Stories tells the tales of these motorcycles. -Ed.

Alfonso Morini founded his namesake motorcycle company, Moto Morini, in Bologna, Italy, in 1937. Bouncing back after WWII, production resumed and the company’s T125 two-stroke, based on the successful DKW engine design, was so successful that that many marques copied it—the most famous being the BSA Bantam. Throughout the next two decades, Moto Morini would fulfill Alfonso’s passion for motorsport and win hundreds of races.

However, it wasn’t until after Alfonso’s death in 1969 that one of his company’s most celebrated bikes came into existence: the Moto Morini 3 1/2.

The heroic Heron

Daughter Gabriella took over control of Moto Morini. In 1970 she hired 25-year old designer Franco Lambertini. Born in 1944, near Moderna, Franco Lambertini took on an apprenticeship at a young age as a mill operator and technical draftsman of mechanical gears, presses and tools. He next worked for Ferrari, where he bounced around various departments designing engines, gearboxes and car chassis. During this time he found that his passion was in design, and he considered himself an artisan.

At Moto Morini, Franco was tasked with drawing up designs for a Heron-type combustion chamber for the Corsaro Regolarita set to race in the 1971 International Six Days Trial (ISDT). It marked the first time a Heron-type chamber had been used in a series production motorcycle, and this design would ultimately become integral to the 3 1/2 story.

A Heron-style chamber incorporates the combustion chamber in the top of the piston rather than casting it within the head of the barrel. The design uses a main bowl at the center of the piston top, along with two half moon squish areas. These squish areas compress the inhaled mixture, forcing it across the chamber and creating a very turbulent mixture which in turn allows for excellent combustion and thermodynamic efficiency. Manufacturing Heron chambers is also efficient; the barrel head is simplified and the machining is all within the piston, which can down the road be easily refined and replaced without changing the manufacture of the cylinder head.

The Heron design had seen success in the Repco Brabham 3.0-liter V-8 engine that dominated the F1 scene from 1966-67, beating the Ferrari 3.0-liter V12. Franco must have been very aware of the efficiency of the Heron design having worked for Ferrari and would have most certainly taken note.

Morini entered 12 single-cylinder machines into the 1971 ISDT, with a mix of 125cc and 160cc machines. Out of the full contingent Morini achieved six Gold and two Silver medals. With the success of Franco’s design work on the single, he went on to work with Gianni Marchesini (general manager) on the company’s first v-twin engine. Also using the Heron-style chamber, this 350-cc, 72-degree engine would go on to become Morini’s most successful powerplant.

V-twin for the win

In the early ’70s the European market were lapping up 350cc motorcycles, the most popular being sporty singles. Franco nevertheless identified the v-twin for the basis of a flexible and adaptable engine that could power wide range of motorcycles. Its modularity would ensure a longevity to the initial design and make the investment in tooling, production, and parts support cost-effective.

The chosen v-angle was 72 degrees, a value only really seen in aero radial engines at the time. This allowed for a shorter and more compact footprint, and the good balance factor also meant the front barrel was at a sensible cooling angle should they convert the design to a single. Franco also made the engine compact, with the layout including short pushrods with the cam centrally located and positioned as high as possible. The cams were originally driven by a toothed belt, but later variations of the engine would use gears for the timing—an innovative design.

The v-twin design incorporated a close-ratio six-speed gearbox. This transmission allowed the rider to be in the right gear at the  right time to maximize engine performance.

V-twins, however, suffered the age-old problem the cooling of the rear barrel. While Harley Davidson used alloy to improve cooling, Franco employed a more cost-effective solution: 50mm offset for the barrels, so that the rear would receive sufficient cool air (rather than the majority of the air being warmed first by the front cylinder). In the 350 v-twin, the difference in temperature between the front and rear barrels was never more that 15 degrees.

With all these innovations Morini insisted that some traditions stayed, including a righthand gear change and kickstart that were nods to classic British off-road singles. Though technically antiquated at a time when other motorcycles would have offered electric start and left had change, the old-school aspects of the 350 had specific appeal, particularly to the large U.S. market.

The 3 1/2 emerges

The first incarnation of the Morini 350 twin used an over-square barrel of 62-mm bore and 57-mm stroke. This large bore size was intentional; it helped the Heron piston work efficiently when paired with appropriate valve sizes, with inlets at a large 30 mm and outlets at a relatively small 22.5 mm. This design allowed a positive scavenging effect and maintained the speed of the exhaust flow. The fuel mixture came courtesy of a pair of Dell’Orto VHBZ 25BS concentric bowl carburetors, which also worked well with the efficiency of the Heron piston. The twin used a noteworthy high compression of 10:1 in the standard engine and 11:1 in the Sport version, ratios which were high for an air-cooled engine of the time.

First shown at in 1971, the prototype motorcycle first wore “350” on the oil tank rather than the now-established “3 1/2.” Morini made sure that not just the engine and chassis were Italian, but that all the ancillary parts such as the clocks, Grimeca brakes, Borrani wheel rims, and Marzocchi shock absorbers were all domestically produced.

Moto Morini formally made the 350 available in late 1973 as the 3 1/2 Strada (touring) model, distinguished by its conventional handlebars and blue paintwork. The more famous Sports model was red with dropped handlebars and a steering damper for a more athletic feel. Both models were fitted with a solenoid which switched on the fuel tap with the ignition. The Strada used a twin leading shoe brake to go with the milder tuning of its engine.

At the time in the early 1970s, the 350 twin was at the top of the charts for four-stroke power. The Sport put out 41.7 hp at 8500 rpm and the standard model made 37.5 hp at 8200 rpm. The Sport easily revved over 10,000 rpm—pretty high for an engine of this type—and paired with the six-speed gearbox the bike could easily hit 100 mph.

Dialing up the performance

Later ‘versions of the 3 1/2 would wear cast wheels by Grimeca with disc brakes up front and drum brakes retained at the rear. The 350 twin would go on to become the basis for developments for privateer racers as well as Moto Morini itself. First attempts by tuners were to increase the capacity to over 400 cc, and it wasn’t long before Franco followed suit, taking the factory engine up to 478 cc and fitting it into the Sport chassis.

Further adjustments to the engine resulted in the Moto Morini 507, which was developed for the use in Enduro bikes. The result was the Camel 501 with 71-mm Nikasil-plated bores and updated short skirt pistons, allowing the engine to rev like its predecessors while providing increased capacity and power. The larger capacity made the 507 taller than its predecessor but the weight remained about the same. With larger cooling fins and a design that stuck to 350’s lightweight and compact philosophy. In the case of the Camel 501, the dry weight was 335 pounds—lightweight when compared to one of the forefathers of enduro motorcycles, the BMW R80 GS that weighed in at 410 pounds.

Franco’s final evolution of the twin was a 500-cc turbo which produced 80-hp-plus. Unfortunately, in part due Gabriella Morini’s declining health, she didn’t want to take on any new developments. Amid struggles in the early 1980s that included falling sales, the company sold to the Castiglioni brothers’ Cagiva Group in 1987. The brand withered under Cagiva, but to this day there are Italian bike enthusiasts that enjoy and fondly remember the golden days of the Moto Morini 3 1/2.

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In recent months the United States military has supplied a variety of weapons and equipment to the Ukrainian war effort. Motorbikes have not featured on the list, but things were very different 70 years ago during World War II, when the two-wheeled equivalent of the Jeep was Harley-Davidson’s WLA, a 742cc V-twin that was derived from a popular civilian model, the WL45.

The WLA military bike—and the closely related WLC, built for Canadian troops—entered production in 1942 and were also supplied to forces including those of Britain, the USSR, and even China. During the conflict Harley built an estimated 90,000 of the robust V-twins, many of which were later converted to civilian specification by removal of parts including the blackout lights and leather gun-scabbard.

The 45, named after its engine capacity in cubic inches, dated back to 1928 and was a simple “side-valve” V-twin with cylinders set at Harley’s traditional 45-degree angle. In 1937 it was revamped to create the W45, notably with a new lubrication system that replaced the crude total-loss design. Harley’s L was factory code for high performance but, despite its increased compression ratio, the WL produced only about 24 hp.

Harley recommenced production after the war with few updates, so the WL still had a simple three-speed gearbox, with a hand lever and foot-operated clutch. Its chassis was similarly old-school, featuring springer front forks and no rear suspension. The “hard-tail” Harley relied on its sprung saddle and fat rear tire to isolate its rider from bumps.

This neatly restored bike was built in 1949, the year the WL’s front suspension was updated with a new Girdraulic damping system, in place of the simple friction damper used previously. The improved control this gave was doubtless welcomed by riders at the time, but riding the WL confirms that any resemblance to the traditionally styled V-twins produced in Milwaukee these days is purely visual.

A modern Harley fires up with a touch of its starter button, clunks into gear with a tap of the left boot, and pulls away as easily as any new bike. Not so the WL. When cold, it required numerous jabs at the kick-starter, some with full choke and others with the lever half-on, before it finally came to life with a low-pitched chuffing through its single silencer.

That was the easy bit: The WL’s foot-operated clutch ensured that years of motorcycling experience gave poor preparation for riding this one. After adjusting the ignition advance-retard lever on the left handlebar, I engaged the clutch with a press of my left boot, then selected first gear by pulling back on the lever to the left of the gas tank. I dialed in a few revs with the conventionally placed twist-grip, then slowly released the clutch by pushing down with my left heel, until the Harley started creeping forward …

And suddenly I was away, clutch kicked fully home and throttle wound back further, changing into second with another shuffle of my left foot and a firm push forward of the gear lever. The revs rose slowly—I reached for the lever again to change into top. By now the WL was doing about 50 mph, I had both hands back on the wide bars and was bouncing gently up and down on the sprung saddle as the Harley chugged along, feeling smooth and stable.

Riding an old foot-clutch bike like this certainly takes some getting used to, and the learning is best done far from other vehicles. After a morning spent pottering along some deserted Hampshire lanes, I was sufficiently confident to pull away, change gear, and stop without worries. But I wouldn’t have fancied venturing into town without more practice.

The clutch was the most difficult part. Especially when I needed to pull away and turn left at the same time—for example, when leaving a T-junction. Provided I remained positive, it was okay. But if for any reason I’d changed my mind while pulling away and leaning to the left, I’d have been in trouble; simultaneously disengaging the clutch and putting my left foot on the ground would have been impossible.

Once under way, things were much more normal. The short first gear meant that the change up to second was best accomplished almost immediately, and the WL was torquey enough to pull fairly smoothly, though very gently, in third (top) from as little as 30 mph. So at that speed I could select top with another push of the lever, then forget about the clutch and enjoy the ride.

More aggression was needed to make quick progress because, despite its respectable engine capacity and abundant charisma, a Harley 45 is not a fast motorcycle. The WL cruised happily with 60 mph showing on its big, tank-mounted speedometer, feeling pleasantly smooth and relaxed, but by 65 mph was feeling breathless and approaching its limit.

That’s not surprising, because W-series bikes were never noted for their speed. Indian’s rival, 45-cubic-inch V-twins were faster and lighter. The WL’s chassis also received criticism when new, but I was relieved to find that this bike’s relatively modern tires helped give better handling than it would have had back then.

In fact the WL steered nicely, helped by its wide handlebars. Considering their age, the forks did a good job of soaking up bumps. Even the unsprung rear end coped surprisingly well. It was a strange sensation to rock gently up and down in the saddle, conscious that the Harley was bucking beneath me—though on one occasion I was jolted back to reality when the seat spring bottomed painfully on a pothole.

This bike’s brakes are not its best feature. The feeble front drum, in particular, makes even the WL’s modest performance seem plenty. The larger rear brake had more power, but the need to lift my right foot off the board to reach the lever increased stopping distance and reduced control.

One thing the WL does have going for it, which helped make its reputation, is reliability. The Harley might not have been as quick as Indian’s 45s, but it was far more robust—which of course had been a vital attribute when it was modified to become the WLA and put to the ultimate test.

Despite its ability to carry a rifle or machine gun (plus a box of ammunition on the sturdy rear rack) the WLA was generally used for courier work, scouting, and transportation, rather than in combat. But it was popular with its riders, served with distinction throughout, and earned the nickname “Liberator” during the Allied advance in 1945.

After WWII, many returning U.S. servicemen bought surplus WLAs at bargain prices. Some “bobbed” or “chopped” them with cut-down fenders or longer forks, putting the 45 at the heart of the booming biker scene. By Harley-Davidson standards the WL was not particularly large or powerful, but few Milwaukee models have been as versatile—or as widely admired.

***

1949 Harley-Davidson WL45

Highs: The challenge and V-twin character

Lows: Traffic, until you’ve mastered the clutch

Takeaway: It has style and a unique place in history

—

Price: Project, $12,400; nice ride, $16,900; showing off, $35,800

Engine: Air-cooled side-valve V-twin

Capacity: 742 cc

Maximum power: 24 hp @ 4000rpm

Weight: 573 pounds without fluids

Top speed: 65 mph

Via Hagerty UK

The post A wartime relic, Harley Davidson’s WL45 calls for a cool head appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Welcome back to the Hagerty Bull Market List, our annual deep dive into the collector cars (and bikes) climbing the value ranks. This vehicle is one of 11 chosen for the 2023 installment of the List. To see the other 10, click here. 

Among the many American motorcycle manufacturers that existed before World War II, Harley-Davidson emerged a victorious survivor. It was with its first production overhead-valve motorcycle, the 1936 E/ES/EL (later known as the Knucklehead due to the shape of the valve rocker covers) that Harley sealed that victory. With that series, the company set out to fix the problems and the dirty image of previous motorcycles, such as the side-valve models with their total-loss oil systems that dumped the black stuff on the roadway. Harley turned to overhead valves and 61 cubic inches to create a cross-country touring machine.

The Knucklehead was available in three versions from 1936 to ’38: The E, with 37 horsepower; the ES, for sidecar use; and the EL—the “hot” version—with 40 horsepower due to higher compression. When buyers saw more horsepower, they paid for it, and in 1938, Harley dropped the E model from the lineup. That makes an E Knucklehead one of the rarest and most desirable models today.

The war ended civilian production for a time, and the last of the Knuckles was produced in 1947, before the new bike, later referred to as the Panhead (the valve covers looked like pie pans) was introduced in 1948.

Throw a leg over this low and long cruiser and understand what freedom and rebellion meant when your grandfather was in knee pants. Once you get it kick-started—that can be a workout when the bike is cold or, indeed, hot—the engine does the classic potato-potato while your bottom settles into the single seat like it’s a leather diaper. A brace of springs underneath (along with the balloon tires) serves as your only real isolation from the road. It’s an iron machine for iron riders, not heavy by today’s standards or even very fast, but boy does it make an entrance. Gear selection is via a shifter next to the tank, while the clutch and brake controls all reside in unfamiliar locations. Even if you’re a veteran of the twist-and-lean, it’s best to do your first miles on this one in a parking lot, away from traffic.

The Knucklehead is a bike that bends the norms in a market that is underappreciated by younger buyers. However, the motorcycle market doesn’t act like the car market. Although 1940s cars aren’t blossoming, 1940s American bikes have strong appeal to a surprisingly youthful audience, making them sound investments. The main competitor to the Knucklehead is the 1940–53 Indian Chief, a swooping beauty whose value is nearly a third of what a Knucklehead brings. The Harley brand itself is the difference; Hagerty data shows that the brand resonates far more with the younger audience, and a Knucklehead owner is more than twice as likely to be a millennial or Gen Z than is an Indian Chief owner. And they’re actually likely to quote a Knucklehead at a value higher than a boomer four out of five times. Surprise, there’s something about that sensory experience and mechanical art that younger buyers love. Go ahead—ride one and you’ll understand.

***

1938 Harley-Davidson Knucklehead

Highs: A solid and stolid hunk of genuine Americana; quicker than just about any car you could have from 1938; consistent youth appeal means the long-term investment prospects look bright.

Lows: No push-button start; can be as cantankerous as any 80-year-old; unfamiliar controls from before everything was standardized.

Price range: #1 – $143,000  #2 – $101,000  #3 – $68,800  #4 – $46,600

HAGERTY AUTO INTELLIGENCE SAYS:

Harley-Davidson resonates with enthusiasts of all ages, and this interest propels the Knucklehead to a starring role among WWII-era motorcycles. Knucklehead owners are nearly three times more likely than Indian Chief owners to be under 45 years old. And those younger enthusiasts aren’t bottom-feeding—they are insuring Knuckleheads for 15 percent more than boomers. Young buyers clearly preferring one model over another and paying more for it? A recipe for success in a market that would be shocked to see them reaching for anything other than sport bikes and supercars.

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Sixteen minutes into Top Gun on its opening weekend in May 1986, some 2 million people met the Kawasaki Ninja for the first time.

When a grinning Tom Cruise in Ray-Ban aviators and a flight jacket strafed a Navy runway alongside an F-14 Tomcat, the scene catapulted Kawasaki’s new superbike into popular culture in a way only a box-office hit can. Just as all photocopies were Xeroxes and all tissues were Kleenexes, from here on, all fast motorcycles would be known as “Ninjas.”

Of course, sensationally fast, open-class (or 750cc and above) superbikes already existed prior to 1984, including the Suzuki GS1100E, the Honda CB1100F and six-cylinder CBX, and Kawasaki’s own GPZ1100. These air-cooled machines basically incorporated decade-old engineering, whereas the 908cc Ninja uniquely featured a next-gen DOHC 16-valve inline-four engine to go with its novel overhanging steel truss frame and grand prix–inspired bodywork. Its liquid cooling—a feature shared with Honda’s contemporaneous and smaller VF750F Interceptor—helped reset the game board for motorcycles by letting the mills run cooler and more powerfully under hard conditions. And, thanks to these engines’ tighter internal tolerances and more precise carburetion, it meant sport bikes could evolve to meet increasingly strict emissions regulations.

By this time, “superbikes” had already been on a tear since 1969. That’s when Honda launched the sophisticated overhead-camshaft CB750 Four and Kawasaki debuted the H1 Mach III two-stroke triple. Seemingly every year after, displacement, power, and performance increased, until these screaming machines could produce astronomical quarter-mile times. The 1980s brought new-wave music, big hair, aerobics videos, spandex, and even further superbike performance, with machines now cloaked in plastic body panels and looking, for the first time, like their grand prix counterparts. The “crotch rocket” form we know today was born.

Referred to internally as the GPZ900R, the new-for-1984 Ninja also furthered Kawasaki street-bike tech by using its engine as a stressed frame member, a small-diameter 16-inch front wheel (later upsized to 17), and a fork with air-assisted springs, progressive damping, and anti-dive circuitry for improved chassis stability under braking. Best of all, the new Ninja was the hardest-hitting big Kawasaki yet, credited with savaging the quarter-mile in 11.18 seconds at 121.65 mph.

Its name was courtesy of Mike Vaughan, director of marketing for Kawasaki Motors Corp. (KMC) in the U.S. While serving in the Army, he’d lived in Asia and learned about Japanese mythology and the lore of the ninja warriors, who were celebrated for their wiliness and strength.

“Back in 1975, I was in Minnesota working on KMC’s snowmobile business, and I decided that ‘Ninja’ would be a great name for my sailboat—quiet and stealthy,” he recalls. “At the time, we were working with an outside designer by the name of Al Shimasaki. Al kind of designed how the logo would look, cut it out of blue vinyl, and affixed it to my boat.” By 1979, Vaughan had sold the boat and moved to Southern California. Kawasaki’s product planning department was considering formally naming its upcoming line of air-cooled GPZ sport bikes and he immediately thought, “Ninja!” “Ultimately, it took a decade and a lot of effort for the name to get from the idea stage through all the corporate channels here and in Japan, but in the end it was perfect.” The Ninja name first appeared in the U.S. market only, then expanded internationally.

The new warrior debuted in December 1983 at a media event at Laguna Seca Raceway in California. It was the usual kind of grubby morning in Monterey, cold and foggy. Not quite raining, but everything was damp. This meant hazardous, slippery conditions for the journalists racing around the track on two wheels—especially through exceedingly fast “old” Turn 2. On the track’s original nine-turn layout, Turn 2 was notorious for being the spot where, sadly, a rider had died in a 250 GP race a few years earlier. Adding to the pressure was a stack of international moto-journalists who had all developed the eye of the tiger once 1983 AMA Superbike champion Wayne Rainey was unleashed to ride with them. Peer pressure and performance anxiety, check!

Motorcycle journalists were primarily concerned with relaying to their audience the sensory experience of piloting the new $4599 Ninja, less so with the question that ordinary sane people might ask, which is why someone would want to ride one at all. Answer: Superbikes feed the senses and urges that helped our passage through the ages. Aggression and control; risk and reward.

Luckily, I’d gained a spot at the launch, working for an Australian magazine. Straddling the Ninja and cradled by its shallow “bucket” seat, I rocked the machine off its center stand and pulled the enricher lever for the quartet of racing-derived semi-flat-slide carbs—Kawasaki’s compromise between progressive round slides that control air volume through the carb in a way that is better for street bikes and flat racing slides that are basically on-off switches. I turned the ignition and tagged the start button; the black-finished engine growled through the airbox located between my legs and out its dual black-chrome exhausts (bright chrome was history when the Ninja arrived). A unique counter-rotating balancer, geared off the forged-steel, five-bearing crankshaft, helped quell engine vibration, but the buzz of the idling motor still permeated all touch points, even the sides of the humpback tank where knees interface. Just touch the throttle and, as Henry Frankenstein screamed, “It’s alive!”

The GPZ900R’s low-set handlebars and rear-set foot controls invite a sporty riding posture, crouched out of the wind behind a narrow fairing in an attack position. This has but a single purpose—going fast. As every Mario Andretti knows, speed delivers a rush we can’t get any other way, at least on land. And in doing so, it heightens our life experience. But unlike in a sports car, hurtling along on a bike, you’re 100 percent “in it”— exposed and vulnerable, bracing in the wind blast, glimpsing the asphalt skimming beneath our knees in the turns, all senses alive.

“Well, it’s one louder, isn’t it?” mused guitarist Nigel Tufnel in This Is Spinal Tap, about his amplifier’s volume controls calibrated to 11 instead of the usual 10. “You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at 10. Where can you go from there? Where?” Onto the Laguna Seca track. On the new Ninja.

Entering the circuit past the cresting Turn 1, a twist of the throttle sent the Ninja furiously ahead. With its rider clutching the handgrips, tucked behind and focusing through the fairing bubble, knees clenched against the tank and feet locked against the chassis, the Ninja banked through Turns 2 and 3 and charged uphill to Turn 4, a quick left on the backside of the course. En route, the tach needle flew to the 10,500-rpm redline and the six-speed gearbox caught fourth with a mere tug of the clutch lever and an upward nudge of the gear lever. Vaulting past 100 mph, the shapes of oaks, fences, a bridge, and earthen banks rushed into peripheral view, whisked past, and then were forgotten as new images arrived. It was a fast-paced video game, and oh-so-real.

Although there wasn’t room for top-end testing at Laguna, a later magazine test reported a 151-mph top speed for the bike. That’s fitting, because the Tomcat as seen in the ’86 film lifts off at 140 knots (161 mph)—only fractionally quicker.

As the DeLorean did in 1985’s Back to the Future, the Ninja serendipitously struck gold in 1986. Or, more accurately, gold struck the Ninja when it landed in the memorable Top Gun scene. “One day, I got a random call from one of the film producers,” Vaughan recalls. “It was late in production, and we didn’t know much about it. Tom Cruise also wasn’t a big star yet—Risky Business was his biggest role so far. The producer asked for three Ninjas, but we had been burned so many times by production companies that wouldn’t return bikes, I had adopted a policy of selling them units at dealer net.” Still, the producer insisted Kawasaki give them the Ninjas because the company would get “great exposure.” “But then, they all promise you that,” says Vaughan. “Finally, when he threatened to go to Honda instead, I said, ‘Fine, I’ll give you their number.’”

After hanging up the phone, Vaughan mentally shelved the idea—at least until the producer called back a week later and agreed to buy the bikes. “I sold him three Ninjas for something like 15 percent off,” Vaughan says. “I later heard that the Ninjas had been appropriated because Cruise insisted on it.”

Following the sale, Vaughan considered it a business deal closed, and he heard little more about the movie until it premiered. Then, big surprise! “As ‘punishment’ the production company took the Kawasaki name off the gas tank but left ‘Ninja’ on the side panels,” he says. “We were fine with it because at that point, getting the Ninja name noticed was more important than ‘Kawasaki,’ and we figured people interested in the bike would find out very shortly who made it.” Luckily for Kawasaki, though, Top Gun became the year’s highest grossing movie and has since grossed an estimated $357 million worldwide. That’s a lot of eyes on the Ninja.

A year after the Ninja 900R debuted, Kawasaki launched an all-new Ninja 600R, a smaller super-sport. Featuring similar liquid-cooled engine architecture and 35 percent less displacement (592cc), the so-called Baby Ninja was also significantly lighter (478 pounds versus 567 pounds, respectively) and cheaper to insure. That was important for the new and younger riders that Kawasaki hoped to attract. Its press launch wasn’t international, but it again focused on track sessions at Firebird Raceway in Arizona. There, the small Ninja proved plenty capable.

Retailing for $3299, the Ninja 600R was the first Kawasaki with a perimeter frame, which used rectangular steel spars that splayed from the steering head around the sides of the engine, wishbone-like, to join the rear suspension swing-arm pivot. Virtually all top-line sport bike and motocross frames use this general layout today, although the material is often aluminum. Besides utilizing relatively straight, triangulated tubing for structural stiffness, the Ninja’s new-order frame helped improve mass centralization and rider position on the bike. Like the Ninja 900R, the 600R had an anti-dive fork with progressive damping, triple disc brakes, and the same tidy 56.1-inch wheelbase.

With its smaller displacement, the GPZ600R was smooth and rev-happy. A venomous lightning bug out of its bottle, in Arizona it spent the day gobbling up area roads and darting around Firebird’s road course on its compact 16-inch wheels. That night, it hit the drag strip in a dramatic eliminator-style contest among journos.

Following these debuts, the Ninja name continued uninterrupted to the current Ninja ZX-6R and Ninja ZX-10R. Along the way, models ranged from the little 249cc learner Ninja 250R (1986–2012) to the maniacal 1441cc Ninja ZX-14R (2006–2020). Ninjas have won the Daytona 200 five times and earned four AMA Superbike and eight World Superbike titles. Today, the lineup contains nine Ninjas, from the 399cc Ninja 400 ($5199) to the track-only 998cc Ninja H2R ($56,500) boasting a reported 310 horsepower.

Fast-forward 36 years from ’86 and the new Top Gun: Maverick movie also features a Ninja, again with Cruise aboard at some imaginary Fightertown. Now, as then, it’s the top current Kawasaki street model—in this case, a blown H2. Debuting in 2015, the machine is worth noticing because it’s a 998cc four-cylinder hyperbike built around a tiny aerospace-grade 130,000-rpm centrifugal supercharger that stuffs 20.5 pounds of boost into the engine. That produces over 200 horsepower at 11,000 rpm. Frankly, it makes the first GPZ900R Ninja seem quaint by comparison. Oh, and the $30,500 H2 weighs 525 pounds, rendering a power-to-weight ratio well clear of a $3.3 million Bugatti Chiron.

The H2 launch was followed by the global launch of the Z H2 “hyper-naked” model at Las Vegas Motor Speedway in early 2020. Based on the Ninja H2 but eschewing bodywork (hence the segment’s “naked” moniker), the Z H2 offered nearly all the performance of the Ninja H2 together with a more comfortable riding position. The appetizer was hot laps on the road course situated outside the 1.5-mile tri-oval. And what do you know, it was a chilly winter day. What is it with Kawasaki launches? The morning air temperature was 42 degrees, and blasting around the 14-turn road course became a finger-numbing, teeth-chattering experience (wind chill 24 degrees at 100 mph). Of concern wasn’t the bike’s power, but how the Pirelli radials were going to get it to ground through contact patches about the size of a credit card.

Thanks to their high silica content for cold grip, they did, and lapping progressively faster, confidence in the machine grew. The handling was spot on—linear, intuitive, and predictable. For a 529-pound, wildly powerful motorcycle, it seemed almost telepathic in pointing where its pilot wanted—whether that was trail-braking into a hairpin turn or banging through upshifts until hell wouldn’t have it. As we’ve seen with chunky CUVs like Porsche’s Cayenne Turbo, big doesn’t necessarily mean bumbling, as it did in the 1970s. Much credit is due to the Ninja family’s modern technology, including a five-axis Bosch inertial measurement unit (IMU) and impressive onboard ECU firepower that enables launch control, traction control, throttle sensitivity, power delivery, ABS, and more.

So, as exciting as the first GPZ900R was at the time, the Z H2—or any of the four-cylinder Ninjas now available—would absolutely destroy it. Time and technology march on; Tom Cruise turned 60 this year and the F-14 took its last flight for the Navy in 2006. However, old soldiers like that original Ninja never die. They just become collectible.

This article first appeared in Hagerty Drivers Club magazine. Click here to subscribe and join the club.

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For some enthusiasts, motorcycling’s most exciting ever era is that of the two-stroke—when shrieking “stinkwheels” dominated the world’s racetracks, and street riders too could get their kicks on light, powerful bikes that made rasping exhaust notes and clouds of blue smoke.

The two-stroke’s racing dominance ended in 2002, when Valentino Rossi won the inaugural MotoGP title on Honda’s four-stroke RC211V, confirming the demise of the fearsome, 500cc factory V-4s that had ruled the tracks since the mid-’80s.

On the road, the two-stroke’s heyday was arguably the late ’80s and early ’90s, when the dream bike of young riders in a hurry was a sporty 250cc stroker—preferably Kawasaki’s KR-1, Suzuki’s RGV250, or Yamaha’s TZR250.

These quarter-liter race-replicas had engine capacities of no more than a cheap shampoo bottle, but they were a feisty breed. Their rev-happy twin-cylinder engines made 49 hp and gave top speeds of 130 mph, and their aluminum frames helped keep weight below 287 pounds.

Most importantly, their narrow power bands and sweet-steering chassis made every ride down a twisty road an opportunity to imagine you were lapping a Grand Prix circuit with factory 500cc aces Eddie Lawson and Wayne Rainey or 250cc maestro Sito Pons.

Kawasaki’s glory days in two-stroke racing were even further back, in the late ’70s and early ’80s, when the firm had won four titles with the KR250, a “tandem twin” whose cylinders sat in line with the bike. By contrast, the KR-1’s cylinders were set across its frame in conventional, parallel-twin format.

That twin-spar aluminum frame confirmed how far motorcycle technology had come since the days of the steel-framed KR250. The frame held thick front forks and a single rear shock unit operated via a rising-rate linkage system.

The KR-1’s full fairing could have come straight from a race bike, apart from its headlight and mirrors. It was finished in striking red, white, and black or the more traditional Kawasaki combination of white, light green, and blue.

Behind that fairing, the 249cc engine was liquid-cooled and featured a racing-style, six-speed gearbox that could be disassembled from the side. The exhaust system incorporated KIPS—Kawasaki’s power-valve system, designed to add torque at low revs. The maximum output of 54 hp was impressive for such a small powerplant.

There was no mistaking the KR-1’s aggressive intent, from the moment I climbed aboard. Its handlebars are clip-ons, mounted below the top yoke; the pillion seat is a thin piece of foam. At a standstill the Kawasaki seems almost ridiculously light, slim and manuverable, thanks to its claimed dry weight of just 271 pounds.

Starting is effortless. The lightest of pressure is required on the kickstarter to bring the two-stroke engine crackling into life, with a puff of smoke and that distinctive smell that has long been lost from high-performance bikes.

Pulling away is easy enough, too, though the little liquid-cooled lump is slightly rough until it warms up, and even after that its low-rev response is feeble. The Kawasaki chokes and wheezes below 5000 rpm, and pulls more strongly from that point, though still without any real enthusiasm …

Until its tacho needle hits about 7500 rpm, when the KR-1 awakes in a rage. Suddenly it was all sound, fury and aggression, screaming forward with the tacho needle flicking towards the 11,500 rpm redline while my left boot jabbed at the gearlever to keep up.

In the first three gears there is high-revving fun to be had at legal-ish speeds. By 8000rpm and into the power band in fourth gear, it was doing an indicated 80 mph, tearing forward with two cogs and 50 mph still to go.

The leant-forward riding position encourages throttle-to-the-stop behavior, especially as the fairing and screen give a useful amount of wind protection. Some riders have complained of numb hands from vibration, and there was a bit of a buzz at around 7000 rpm, but that wasn’t a problem on my relatively short ride.

If the little Kawasaki’s straight-line speed was impressive, its handling was better still. That stout twin-spar frame feels sufficiently rigid to have coped with twice the engine’s power output. And the bike’s light weight, racy geometry and 17-inch diameter front wheel mean it can be flicked into bends with a caress of the bars.

Suspension is firm without being harsh and sufficiently well damped to keep things under control. The KR-1 sometimes felt slightly twitchy on a bumpy road, but I had to try hard to get it seriously out of shape. Its brakes and tires are excellent, too.

That all adds up to a deliciously quick, agile, responsive, and enjoyable machine with the potential to make any road ride feel like a GP. The Kawasaki lived up to expectations on the track back in ’89, too, with numerous production race victories.

Inevitably with such a focused bike, there are drawbacks. The thin seat quickly becomes painful. Fuel range from the 4.2-gallon tank could drop below 90 miles with hard use (and why would you ride it any other way?). And the motor drank two-stroke oil almost as fast as it did gas, requiring frequent replenishing of the under-seat tank.

More seriously, the KR-1 was far from the best finished or most reliable model that Kawasaki has ever produced. The fact that many were raced and most were ridden hard doesn’t excuse the fact that the engine suffered with a variety of problems including piston failure.

At least Kawasaki acted quickly to update it. Just a year after its launch the model was replaced by the KR-1S, which produced an extra 5 hp and featured a new frame, suspension, and front brake—all of which made the two-stroke an even quicker and more track-ready machine.

Unfortunately for Kawasaki, what the revision didn’t do was make the KR a commercial success. Despite the twin’s performance, and some notable production racing successes, the 1S sold in relatively small numbers. At the end of 1992, after just four years, it was dropped from the range.

The rev-happy twin hadn’t lasted long, but it had given Kawasaki’s image a boost, and had become a cult machine for a small group of enthusiasts. Three decades later that passion remains. The era of two-stroke race-replicas is long gone. But for as long as bikes like the KR-1 are ridden and enjoyed, the stinkwheels will be fondly remembered.

***

1989 Kawasaki KR-1

Highs: Race bike–style thrills on the road

Lows: Race bike–style comfort and cost

Summary: Addictive speed, sound, and smell

—

Price: Project, $7K; nice ride, $11K; showing off, $15K*

Engine: Liquid-cooled, two-stroke parallel twin

Capacity: 249 cc

Maximum power: 54 hp @ 10,500rpm

Weight: 271 pounds without fluids

Top speed: 130 mph

*The KR-1 was not sold in the U.S.; note that these prices do not factor in cost of importation. 

Via Hagerty UK

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There is no electric starter, just a polished kickstart lever rising vertically from the left side of the bike. I stand to the side, swiftly yet softly kicking it down, perpendicular to the bike and out. A well-tuned BMW doesn’t require much force—even a fluid hand push can ignite the gases in the boxer twin-cylinder engine. This is my introduction to a motorcycle that for the cognoscenti needs no introduction—the 1967 BMW R69S, arguably the most reliable and effortless touring bike from the 1960s, and, just maybe, the best motorcycle ever made.

That’s a heady statement, but the fact is that the market has favored these BMW cruisers. Now considered a blue-chip bike worth investing in—not just riding on long journeys—these bikes have surged in value of late, some more than doubling their worth since 2020 to around $50,000 for the best examples. That’s a hefty sum for an old motorcycle. Even BMW capitalized on the popularity of this bygone era, launching the R18 in 2020, a new cruiser designed to evoke their cross-country bike roots. Enjoyable though that new bike may be, today I am after the real thing.

The engine fires and my visceral interaction with the R69S begins in earnest. At idle, the engine’s arrangement—crankshaft running front to rear and opposed cylinders protruding on either side above the rider’s feet—gently twists the bike with each ignition in the combustion chambers. I swing a leg over the low seat and begin my unforgettable journey as rider and owner.

After it gets to temperature, I pull the clutch lever and tap the shifter down into first. It engages with that metallic clunk, a feeling and noise familiar to riders of BMWs old and new. With an audible whir, the clutch slowly engages and the bike surges forward. At this point, it’s just me, the fresh Colorado air, the scenery, and sensations of the motorcycle beneath.

The term “/2 BMW” (pronounced “slash-two”) is catch-all term nowadays for BMW’s top of the line twins from 1956 to 1969, rather than merely referring to the actual /2 bikes. From 1956 until 1960 they were only called the R50 (500cc, touring/sidecar), R60 (600cc touring/sidecar), and R69 (600cc, sport with higher horsepower). 1960 brought a slew of updates, most of which focused on improving the bike’s power and reliability. These new models were called the R50/2, R60/2, R50S and R69S. BMW modernized them again in 1967 with the same telescopic forks that would feature on the upcoming /5 series. The bikes now went under the monikers of R50US, R60US, and R69US. Each model and update through these years provides its own unique riding experience, especially when fitted with different seats and handlebars.

All were offered with either rubber Denfeld saddle seats and two-up bench seats (which came in two widths) from the factory, and each provides a differing riding experience. The solo saddle seats are preferred nowadays for looks by many (let’s face it, these help make the /2 one of the coolest looking motorcycles ever) but are more upright and provide less of a connected riding feel; they tend to wiggle a little bit and provide a more spongy ride. This isn’t a bad thing at all on a comfortable cruiser like the /2. If anything, I prefer the feel of the saddle over the bench. It’s also a more unique look, and that’s half the fun. Riders can further differentiate the look and feel of their /2 with low sport bars without a cross brace and higher, more relaxed ones with a brace.

It’s hard to imagine a bike that can be worth upwards of $50K today being ridden hard across the country in the ’60s, but when you realize Ferrari 250 GTOs were once thrashed on the race track and passed between owners like the used cars they were, it makes sense that the best touring motorcycle of the day was going to be used and trusted as one. The R60 became the first motorcycle to ride from the Arctic Circle at the top of Alaska to the tip of South America when Danny Lisko completed the journey in the 1960s. Even the 1967 BMW R69S pictured above has touring pedigree. It was bought new in 1968 from Recreation Equipment Inc. in Denver and quickly was put to work as intended. The husband and wife owners took it across the country and from Colorado to Canada. Many owners on more modern bikes today wouldn’t even consider trips like that.

Despite most having lived out their touring bike duties to the fullest, it seems more /2 BMWs survive today in good original condition than other bikes from the ’60s. They’re even frequently owned by the original owner or passed down in the family. After my own time on the saddle, I’d say their longevity and duration of ownership likely stems from a combination of two things: the /2 is a bike you can trust to get you to the end of your journey, and you’re unlikely to find a mechanical companion that offers such an engaging rider/bike connection during that adventure. There aren’t a lot of other bikes out there that offer both.

The engineering on these 1960s BMWs bests bikes 20 years newer, even from the same brand, and that’s what fosters the trusting relationship between owner and machine. Even the effort you can’t see will impress you: most other bikes of the era employ ball-end cables wrapped around a disk in the throttle housing. These can stretch over time, creating slop in throttle application. On a /2, the throttle cables are linked to a tiny chain wrapped around a geared cam disc. When you twist the throttle, a gear on the throttle tube rotates the cam disc, meaning there’s no opportunity for wear or slop within the throttle housing. The /2 is the antithesis of planned obsolescence, and that’s why buyers today are undaunted when they see a /2 for sale with 20,000 miles. A ’60s Triumph 20,000 miles would be unheard of.

As one of the most collectible motorcycles ever and the most expensive of the line during the time, the R69S would logically sit atop the pedigree of the model range in terms of values. Yet the R50S, the R69S’s less powerful and less-expensive-in-the-day model, takes top honors at $48,600 compared the R69S’ $47,500. This is thanks to the R50S’ limited two-year production and its riding characteristics: many prefer the 500cc sports model due to its smoother engine.

This doesn’t mean every #1 R50S or R69S sells for that amount. Rather, these values ballpark their respective market’s averages. What’s behind the strong values #1 condition bikes? Two primary reasons: original parts are hard to come by, and production for the whole range was relatively low. For instance, while the R50US was the least expensive of the bunch, it’s also the rarest by far. A perfect #1 R50US is a unicorn among unicorns, with its production numbers representing 25% of the R50S and less than half that of R69USs. As a result, when a R50US comes up for sale, it commands a premium above its original status in the lineup.

Dig deeper and you’ll notice an evolving valuation brought by certain features. Earles fork-equipped earlier versions tend to fetch more than the US bikes because of their classic /2 look, for instance. That said, US bikes have come into their own recently and are increasingly appreciated by collectors. Don’t be afraid of them, but don’t expect them to be viewed the same by the true purists.

Considering the mechanical strength of the /2, you don’t need to worry about finding a #1 bike. Just find one specced to your taste and ride it—you won’t be disappointed. Care for your /2 like its prior owners did and it’ll thank you with years of reliability and an experience that’s truly like no other in the classic bike market.

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Welcome to a new weekly feature we’re calling In the Moment!

This all started in Slack, the messaging software we use for staff communication. Several weeks ago, Hagerty’s editor-at-large, Sam Smith, began kicking off our mornings by plopping a random archive photo into our chat room. 

In addition to being a lifelong student of automotive history, Smith drinks a lot of coffee. Each photo he dropped into the conversation was accompanied by a bit of caffeine-fueled explanation. 

We liked these drops a lot, so we’re sharing one here each Thursday. Enjoy, and let us know what you think in the comments! —Ed.

**

Bonneville is one of those places you do not forget. The salt is so wide and white and uniform that depth perception goes momentarily hinky. If the flats have not been flooded by recent rain, they will look like snow. The surface is hard and crusty when dry, a spreadable paste when moist, and a Dead Sea soup when in flood. 

People have used it for engine-powered record-breaking for almost as long as we have had engines and records.

In the Moment usually lingers on one image, but the shot at the top of this post is unique. It carries story but lacks detail. Let’s briefly switch to another photo.

The man in dark clothes is the same one from up top: Roland “Rollie” Free. In 1950, when this picture was taken, he was 49 years old. He is at Bonneville, in front of a Vincent Black Lightning, the same model of motorcycle he is riding in the top image. It is a two-cylinder, chain-driven, girder-fork, 70-hp English device. The moment captured by this photo was not the first time Free had taken a Vincent to the salt.

Four decades later, an Englishman named Richard Thompson wrote a piece of music. Sharing that music while discussing Vincents is stout cliché, but to hell with it, life is short, we don’t cover Vincents often. Plus, it’s a good song.

I suspect Thompson could look at Vincents forever. So could I. This Vincent, double forever. Note the Mobil “pegasus” on the tank. Note, also, how there is no seat or front brake. The cylinder between rear fender and fuel tank is the rear spring-shock assembly.

There is so little to the thing! The engine is the engine, obviously. Two finned cylinders with a gearbox and primary drive underneath. But there is no frame beneath that assembly. There isn’t much of one above it, either; the frame on a postwar Vincent twin is mostly just the oil tank, which lives under the gas tank. It looks like this. 

In load-bearing terms, that tank is trivial; the engine literally holds the bike together. Its case was designed to be fed suspension load, steering load, the heft of a rider, everything. Remove the powerplant from certain Vincents, you have no more Vincent. 

This practice is known as stressed-member construction. Done right, it saves weight. It has been used in motorcycles and racing cars for decades. In 1948, however, the idea was not widely trusted or understood. Most motorcycles then used “cradle” frames, the engine carried in a perimeter of load-bearing steel tubes.

So. The Black Lightning. On one hand, we have that forward-think layout. On the other hand, there is that lightly prehistoric front suspension. Those two long vertical pieces on each side of the wheel—the “girders”—are tied to each other by two horizontal links running forward from the tank. One shock lives behind each girder, angled to the rear.

Seen from the side, the girders and their links form a box. On a Vincent, a coil spring sits in that box, above the bottom link and between the girders. Remove the spring, the front suspension will collapse.

Those circles on the fork and its links, silver in the black, represent the pivot points.

If none of that makes sense, watch this.

Back to the top photo. Again, that is Free, in 1948, same salt, same model of bike. This image has been called “the most famous picture in motorcycling.” 

Look at the salt stuck to the bottom of his shoes! Look at the helmet! The helmet is comical! The man is virtually naked, riding across what might as well be the world’s largest piece of sandpaper, and he is so concerned about safety, he is wearing a helmet.

As a young man, Free worked in motorcycle retail and began racing. In World War II, he was stationed in Utah, with the Army Air Force, and he saw Bonneville for the first time. After the war, he went back to competition. He grew familiar with Vincents and developed a relationship with their maker.

Philip Vincent grew up in a wealthy family of cattle farmers. In 1925, while in school at this place, he began building a bike of his own design. Three years later, he decided to make motorcycles for the masses. He bought a defunct English bikemaker, HRD.

British motorcycles of the time were often designed around bought-in parts. A marque’s engineering head would call an engine company for engines, a gearbox company for gearboxes, and so on. Vincent did this at first. His bikes were used hard, however, and they broke. In the early 1930s, he hired a man named Philip Irving as chief engineer. The two men grew tired of all the breakage. In 1934, in a moment fit for the movies, they entered three factory race bikes in the Isle of Man TT. Mechanical trouble downed all three.

Screw it, Vincent said: He and Irving would make their own engines from scratch. 

The bikes were called Vincent-HRDs. Later, they would simply be Vincents. At first, they wore relatively durable single-cylinders. One day in 1936, however, Irving was working in his office. Two engineering drawings of a company single, he noticed, had been casually laid over each other on a table. Their shapes made a V. 

Ah, he thought: a V-twin. And so that engine soon appeared, in a new, 1.0-liter Vincent, the 45-horse Rapide. 

War paused everything. When Vincent production restarted in 1946, the Rapide had been improved. The engine and gearbox, formerly separate components, now shared a single, stiff case. Critically, the bike had lost most of its frame—that stressed-member idea—and 1.5 inches of wheelbase. Ads called it “little big twin”: the size of a 500-cc bike, the power of a full liter.

There was a hot-rod model, because of course there was. It made such a dent in humanity that good examples are now worth six figures. The 55-hp Vincent Black Shadow, launched in 1948, received more compression, polished rods, larger carbs, and so on. The engine cases, once bare aluminum, were now black enamel. Top speed went from 110 mph to more than 125. It was the fastest production bike on earth.

At this point in history, the world’s popular motorcycles essentially fit into two groups. American bikes were durable but generally heavy, built on cubic inches. European bikes were mostly lighter and more nimble; the English in particular placed a priority on healthy power from small engines. The Black Shadow was essentially the two ideas crashed together.

My favorite part of this lore: In 1948, many motorcycles could not reach 100 mph, the myth-laden “ton.” The Rapide’s speedometer stopped at 120. The Shadow’s main clock was this five-inch, 150-mph Smiths pie plate used on no other bike. The 100-mph mark wasn’t even labeled. It wasn’t a destination.

The Black Shadow gained a reputation. People saw it as a mystical idea, a figment. It was in reality a locomotive, Harley grunt plus good handling and brakes, with virtually unbelievable numbers. Add to this the traditional British motorcycle aesthetic—deep plating, artful castings—and people went nuts. Californians in particular. 

Back to Rollie Free. In the late 1940s, he is friendly with a West-Coast racing enthusiast named John Edgar. He convinces Edgar that a tweaked Black Shadow would demolish the American motorcycle speed record, then 136 mph. Free writes the Vincent factory and proposes another hot rod. Vincent the man is interested. Irving engineers and builds the bike in just ten weeks. Edgar pays for it. It is stripped and massaged and runs on methanol. George Brown, in Vincent’s comp department, hurries to a nearby airfield for testing. He comes back and tells Vincent that he saw 143 mph, engine still pulling, before he ran out of runway.

The machine is shipped to Los Angeles. Free takes it to Bonneville. Mobil kicks in funding. The world does not get excited, because almost no one is told. On the salt, stretched across the bike’s rear, Free lays flat, to minimize drag. He wears motorcycle leathers. 

An early run produces 147 mph. This is deemed too slow. Nonplussed, our man sets those leathers aside.

Remember: The previous record was just 136 mph.

What followed beggars belief. If photographs did not exist, the specifics would have long ago been chalked up to hype and tall tale. But our man . . . our 47-year-old man . . . that barrel-chested and balding American . . . my dude in the fantastic leather boots . . . 

Well, this dad-bod bad-ass simply got back on the bike. In a bathing suit.

Clarification: There was also a pair of sneakers.

One hundred and fifty miles per mother-of-God hour on that seatless motorcycle, mostly naked, at a time when ordinary citizens did not, could not, easily go that fast or faster by simply walking into the nearest Honda dealer and putting a CBR on some overheated credit card. Free had laid on a bike in that manner before, but this was different. He reset that land-speed record. Shortly after, Vincent made Free’s hot-rod spec a production model, the Black Lightning. The new fastest in the world, replacing the other fastest, the thing from which it was built.

Several weeks ago, I walked into my kitchen and saw a glass of orange juice I had left out, overnight, by accident. I grabbed the glass out of habit, raising it to my mouth, then paused. 

“Probably shouldn’t drink that,” I thought. “Bad odds.”

Modernity has made us all weenies.

We all choose to take risks. A select few of those risks are compelling enough to be remembered after we are gone. They stand apart from their background, dense with story, like that vast pan of salt. The salt is shrinking, but it will still outlive us all. The choices, on the other hand, are only around while we have time to make them.

It is enough, I think, to simply be reminded that we should, to coin a phrase, occasionally just drink the juice.

Have a good day, guys!

—Sam

The post In the Moment: Sweet lord, it’s the Rollie Free shot appeared first on Hagerty Media.

A goal is a heavy thing. A weight of planning that consumes mental capacity, money, and time—and comes with no guarantee. Any multitude of factors can throw it askew. Often it’s only a mix of scrappy attitude and luck that allows us to persevere through setbacks, which may range from unexpected financial issues to a global pandemic.

Earlier this month, a mix of planning and luck had me racing motorcycles at Barber Motorsports Park in Leeds, Alabama. Only after shutting the bike off after the Sunday race did I begin to reflect on the five years of effort it took to make that happen. I realized why goals are so important—and why meeting them is only part of success.

The old saying about the fate of best-laid plans applies to everyone. Maybe that’s why half a decade elapsed between uttering “I want to do that” while watching the knee-draggers hustle around the 2.38-mile rollercoaster at Barber and becoming one of them myself. That first visit to Barber Vintage Festival was on a Hagerty ticket that included instructions to gather insurance quotes under a tent in the swap meet. A weekend of hearing the buzzing pipes in the distance while talking deductibles and coverages made the track feel a lifetime away. It was just a dream. Then it became a goal.

That’s only one small change. A dream is a thing you wish you could do. A goal is a thing that you are putting effort into making happen. See how simple that is?

The process started when my day was done talking insurance quotes. Freed from the tent and table, I walked the paddock. Still handing out insurance brochures, if it made sense, but also asking questions about how to start racing and who to talk to. Those conversations led me to racing off-road on a Yamaha YZ125 whose value barely nudged four digits. I learned how to maintain a motorcycle on a race schedule, how to prepare for a race weekend, and what to expect when traveling. Basic stuff, all done in a low-stakes environment and on a cheap machine.

Which brings up the second step in goal-setting: Budgeting. Whether thinking about a project car that needs repair or setting a land-speed record, you need a picture of the financial outlay and a strategy for making the balance sheet, well, balance. Having been lucky enough to spend five weekends at a race track this year, I can proudly say that none of my racing has gone on a credit card. Not even onto a card that I paid off at the end of the month. Zero financing—my personal habits would let that spiral too fast. Years of planning leading up my first weekend allowed me to save up, spending slowly so as to never go underwater. It also gave me time to research everything. With only a few dollars to spend, you need the best value for your dollar. Finding out where can you save and how to adjust a budget based on what you learn can make a goal more attainable.

The last thing: None of us should be scared to use our resources. For me that was picking up the phone to talk to companies and leverage Hagerty’s digital pages to help those companies gain visibility in exchange for access or products. For you, that might mean reaching out to a local club and asking whether a veteran rider is willing to sponsor a newbie’s entry fees for one race. I’ve seen this second method succeed in a Facebook group. When my bank account says I can join in, I will.

Resources are different for each person, but they all stem from relationships. Asking for sponsorship from a business takes effort and requires being prepared for rejection, but just about anything worth having requires some work. Making friends and networking with those in the game you plan on joining is powerful for a multitude of reasons. You want to be in a band where everyone is playing the same song, right?

And just like that, you understand the best part of goals: They steer our lives. Declaring in 2017 that I was going to go road racing at Barber Vintage Festival in the next five years helped me chart a course. Dreams don’t chart courses. No, dreams are the lazy brother of goals. A brother that will introduce you to scratch-off tickets and cheap beer at the bowling alley. Goals show us how to study, focus, and prepare us for the things that will bring us joy. The effort required to make realize goals is what makes makes success feel so good.

Mine took place the second weekend of October, 2022. Emotion welled up as I turned my 2001 SV650 out to start my first practice laps. Before entering the blend line to turn three, my voice echoed inside my helmet: “I’m doing it!”

You may be able to race on a much smaller scale, so it takes less time. Maybe you can stretch the timeline to race with less spend. Whether you’ve got a goal to race the Baja 1000 or drive your project car to the local cars and coffee, that feeling of success is something we can all achieve. Then, right after, we get to ask the same question: What do I do now?

For me, I’m going to go faster. You’ll have to set your own goals.

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Triumph builds some very attractive motorbikes these days, including stylish Scramblers, the pared-back Bonneville Bobber and mighty Rocket 3. But it’s debatable whether any recent model matches the visual impact that the old Triumph firm made half a century ago, with the X-75 Hurricane.

Not that the Hurricane’s elegant, wasp-waisted looks were the only thing for which the 740cc triple was memorable. Its 60bhp engine, a lower-geared version of the unit that powered the T150 Trident and BSA Rocket 3, made the Triumph one of the world’s quickest-accelerating bikes when it hit the road in 1973.

Given the Hurricane’s style, performance and rarity—fewer than 1200 were built, all between June 1972 and January ’73—it’s no surprise that it is among the most admired of Seventies classics. It has one of the most unusual back-stories, too, because it was designed without the bosses at Triumph’s former factory at Meriden, near Coventry, even knowing about it.

The X-75 was shaped not in Britain but in the United States—in top secret, by a young freelance designer named Craig Vetter. In fact the whole concept originated in the U.S. with Don Brown, the vice-chairman of BSA’s American company.

When the original Trident and Rocket 3 triples had been revealed in late 1968, American market reaction had been very poor, mainly because of the bikes’ unusual, angular styling. “The only way we were going to sell the triples was by restyling them,” Brown later recalled. “And I knew that because BSA Group executives approved the original Rocket 3’s styling, I’d have to get the bike restyled on my own, in the U.S.—and in secret!”

Brown approached Vetter, who had started a business in Illinois making fairings, and had just displayed two stylish bikes of his own design at a show in Daytona, Florida. Vetter flew to BSA’s base in New Jersey with some initial sketches that impressed Brown. “He was a long-haired, hippie-type guy—a free spirit—but he was a keen thinker and ambitious,” the BSA man later recalled.

It was agreed that the project would be kept secret even from the BSA Group’s chairman and managing director, and Vetter was provided with a standard Rocket 3 on which to start work. His prototype retained the BSA’s angled-forward, pushrod-operated engine and twin-downtube steel frame.

Vetter extended the cylinder head’s fins to make the motor look bigger and more impressive. The handlebars were higher, clocks were mounted above a new chromed headlight, and front forks were lengthened by 50 mm. Three exhaust downpipes slanted across the front of the motor, then ran back to the bank of shiny, upswept silencers on the right side.

Most importantly, the original slab-sided bodywork was replaced by a slender fiberglass form that blended the fuel tank into the sidepanel area, above which was a dual-seat with a chromed pillion grab-rail. The arrangement was inevitably impractical—the tank held only 10 liters—but the visual effect was striking.

Despite the secrecy surrounding the project, the American BSA firm’s president Peter Thornton heard about the prototype, and asked Vetter to bring it to New Jersey. When he arrived, the reaction was so positive that Thornton had the bike shipped to Meriden the same day – complete with instructions that it was to be built with no changes.

Even so, the Hurricane’s progress to the production line was far from smooth. Brown and Vetter had envisaged the triple as a BSA, and the first pre-production bike assembled at Triumph’s Meriden plant wore the rival marque’s badges. But BSA’s financial collapse ensured that the model was eventually marketed as the Triumph X-75 Hurricane.

Incorporating remarkably few changes from Vetter’s original prototype, the Hurricane turned plenty of heads when it was launched. It still looks stunning, at least from the right. The view from the rider’s seat is captivating, too; dominated by the narrow petrol tank, chromed headlight and a round friction steering damper.

The handlebars are more wide than high, giving a bolt-upright riding position with feet well forward. Ignition is on the left, below the steering head; the choke lever sits on the bank of Amal carburetors. There’s no electric start but, given a gentle prod of the kickstart, the Triumph burst into life with a pleasant three-cylinder warbling.

With its flashy looks, potent engine, feeble fuel range (realistically as little as 60 miles, given the triple’s 30 mpg thirst) and short gearing, the Hurricane was aimed unashamedly at urban cruisers and traffic-light racers. Although fairly tall, at 191 kg it was respectably light, too—a useful 20kg lighter than the Trident.

That helped make the Triumph feel refreshingly quick as I set off. The three-pot engine traditionally likes to be revved, but the Hurricane pulled fairly well from low revs, kicking harder above 4000 rpm and emitting a wonderful exhaust wail as the revs rose towards the peak power figure at 7250 rpm.

The impression of acceleration in the lower gears was terrific by Seventies standards, enhanced by the exposed riding position and short gearing. I had plenty of opportunity to practice my right-foot change on the five-speed Hurricane, whose top speed of about 115 mph was 10mph down on the T150 Trident’s—although it was half a second quicker over the standing quarter-mile.

The Hurricane earned a dubious reputation for handling thanks to its combination of high bars, kicked-out forks and ribbed front tyre. This bike was stable in a straight line, and delivered a fairly sporty ride thanks to firm shocks and front forks that, although long, were reasonably well-damped. Its twin-leading-shoe drum front brake gave a soft feel at the lever but worked reasonably well, aided by the smaller rear drum.

Ultimately the X-75 was less about performance than style and attitude. The Trident was a better all-round motorbike—faster, more stable, better braked, more comfortable at speed and with better fuel range. But the Hurricane had the looks and acceleration that made it more popular with many U.S. riders.

Unfortunately, by the time it was released the BSA Group (of which Triumph was a part) was in a financial crisis. This affected Craig Vetter, who was not paid for his work for many months. Even then, he only got his cheque for $12,000 after a personal appeal from Don Brown, who had left the company.

Vetter went on to become famous in the bike world for his firm’s aftermarket fairings and luggage systems. But as long as the Triumph X-75 Hurricane is ridden and admired, its designer will be remembered as the man who brought a touch of Stateside glitz to the classic British triple.

***

1973 Triumph X-75 Hurricane

Highs: Looking at it from across the parking lot

Lows: Too-frequent fill-ups

Summary: Seventies cool … with a kick

—

Price: Project: $12,000 Daily rider: $19,800 Showing off: $28,500

Engine: Aircooled transverse triple

Capacity: 740cc

Maximum power: 60bhp @ 7250 rpm

Weight: 191 kg without fluids

Top speed: 115 mph

Via Hagerty UK

The post The Triumph X-75 Hurricane’s speed will blow you away appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Moto Morini, revitalized in recent years by its Chinese owners, has announced a new pair of 650cc twins called the Seiemezzo; Italian for “Six and a half”. The name is a nod to the Seventies, when the firm from Bologna was known for its 344cc V-twins – and especially for the 3¹/₂ Sport.

The original “And a half” was a mini superbike, offering style, handling and rev-happy performance despite being much smaller than most firms’ flagship models. Its high price, on a par with the likes of Honda’s CB500 four and Suzuki’s GT750 triple, meant sales were modest but it earned a devoted following.

Moto Morini, like the bigger and better-known Ducati factory from the same city, had begun by producing small-capacity single-cylinder machines. In 1963 a Morini ridden by Italian ace Tarquinio Provini finished second in the 250cc world championship.

But the firm’s reputation owed most to the following decade’s pair of 3¹/₂ roadsters, the base-model Strada (Street) and Sport. The Strada had a conventional layout, with raised handlebars and single-color paintwork. It was an attractive and capable bike but admirers of Italian exotica had eyes only for the Sport, with its striking two-tone finish.

Low, clip-on handlebars and a humped seat gave a lean, aggressive look. On early Sports this was enhanced by a big, double-sided front drum brake. There was an appealing simplicity to the heavily finned, air-cooled V-twin engine, whose cylinders were set at 72 degrees apart.

Morini’s motor was most notable for its unusual Heron cylinder heads—flat-bottomed, with the combustion chamber in the concave piston crowns. The firm was the first motorcycle manufacturer to put this layout into production, although it had been used by car manufacturers including Alfa Romeo and Jaguar.

The two 3¹/₂ models shared most engine parts, including an electronic ignition made by the local Ducati electronics firm from which the bike company was descended. The Sport’s hotter camshaft and different pistons gave a higher, 11:1 compression ratio. Its maximum output of 39bhp was healthy for such a small engine.

In Seventies fashion the chassis was based around a frame of tubular steel, with simple but firmly sprung telescopic forks and twin shocks. This 1976-model Sport was fitted with the single-disc front brake that replaced the original model’s drum at around that time.

Few bikes are as distinctive in their look and feel as the Sport, which established its personality as soon as I threw a leg over the low seat and reached forward and down to the clip-ons. The view was basic: a pair of black-faced Veglia clocks, three warning lights above a large “Sport” logo on the top yoke, and tinny, typically Italian switchgear on the handlebars.

After locating the ignition key down by my left thigh I flicked up the choke levers of the tiny Dell’Orto carburetors and swung the left-sided kickstarter. (And on the occasions when the engine didn’t fire after the efforts of my left foot, I hopped off again and kicked harder with my right …)

The riding position was a rather strange blend of low bars and forward-set footrests, which put too much weight on my wrists and rear for comfort. But the Morini felt low, slim and light, especially when stripped of mirrors and indicators like this bike. There’s was no mistaking the red-and-black V-twin’s sporty nature.

The little motor was unhappy at low revs, vibrating slightly and spluttering when its throttle was wound back at 4000 rpm. But with the engine turning faster it was a different story. At about 5000 rpm the Sport came alive, feeling better the higher it revved.

The real power was between 6000rpm and the 8500-rpm peak. When I kept the V-twin spinning with frequent flicks through the six-speed gearbox, the Sport hammered along at an indicated 80 mph, keen to stretch its legs towards a top speed of about 100 mph.

The need for frequent shifting made it important that the six-speed gearbox worked well, which it generally did—provided I remembered that the lever was on the right. The box was less impressive at a standstill, when the Morini’s lack of a neutral light meant I occasionally discovered a neutral between second and third, then invariably stalled when I tried to pull away in second.

Such irritation was quickly forgotten when the sun came out and I found a winding road that gave the Sport the chance to show off its handling. This is a small, light bike that weighs barely 150 kg (330 pounds), so was not compromised by its old-fashioned steering geometry and 18-inch front wheel.

Stability was excellent at all speeds, and the sweet-steering Morini went round corners effortlessly, aided by suspension that was well-damped without the traditional Italian harshness.

Other cycle parts were excellent, too. The Grimeca front disc brake was spongy by modern standards but capable of hauling the light Morini to a halt very sharply, aided by the small rear drum. And the Pirelli tires gripped well enough to make good use of the narrow V-twin’s generous ground clearance.

The Sport is a singleminded little machine, built for performance rather than comfort. By sports bike standards it was not particularly fast even when new. But on the right road the Morini was hugely enjoyable. Its revvy engine and excellent chassis encouraged me to ride it hard, reassured by its reputation for reliability.

The 3¹/₂ Sport is also economical to run, and these days it’s far more affordable than classics from the firm’s Ducati neighbor. It’s no wonder that many Morini owners are enthusiasts who have owned several models. Or that the marque’s current owners have been using its classy back catalogue for inspiration.

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***

1975 Moto Morini 3¹/₂ Sport

Price: Project: $2800 – Nice Ride: $4800 – Showing Off: $6000

Highs: Style, rev-happy character, agility

Lows: The lack of comfort—and neutral light

Takeaway: Italian V-twin charm at a bargain price

—

Engine: Air-cooled pushrod V-twin

Capacity: 344cc

Power: 39 hp @ 8500 rpm

Weight: 153 kg (337 pounds) with fluids

Top speed: 100 mph

Via Hagerty UK

The post The Moto Morini 3.5 Sport is a singleminded Ducati alternative appeared first on Hagerty Media.

I ’m not going to lie, Brian, I got lost.”

That’s not a sentence I thought would ever come out of my mouth when I began racing motorcycles. My only consolation for saying something that sounded so profoundly stupid was a knowing nod from Brian’s wife Tammy. She would understand; it was her place I had taken for the last 15 minutes aboard a black-red-white motorcycle sidecar as Brian and I lapped Blackhawk Farms raceway. “Yeah, that can happen.” Another nod. Maybe the role of a sidecar “monkey” was even crazier than I had expected.

Like a dozen or so adventures before it, this one began as I was holding a red Solo cup, into which a fellow—and now forgotten—racer was pouring free whiskey. This was a decent-sized gathering onto which I had stumbled into while returning from the track showers. Turns out the sidecar racers at Blackhawk Farms had another plan. As I mingled with the bench-racers, I watched one of the few folks who weren’t drinking as they dialed in a few adjustments to an inline-four-powered sidecar rig.

“I’m not going to lie, being monkey kinda looks fun sometimes.”

The group pounced. Brian Rammer was first to offer me a “ride” during the next day’s practice session. He said he would drop by my paddock spot and review a few things before we went out in group five right before lunch—It should be no big deal. With dozens of laps at Blackhawk under my belt from that weekend, let alone from the year prior, I believed him.

During the early practice sessions Saturday, I did a couple hot laps on my SV650 to get my blood flowing and shake out a couple minor changes to the bike. Back at the pits, I looked up to see a Yamaha-powered sidecar rig. A smiling face looked up from atop the comically low series of tubes surrounding the bike’s engine.

“You still want to do this?”

First, we had to divvy up tasks. Brian might hold the handlebars, but he was only responsible for throttle and brakes. Steering was up to me. If I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, the bike would understeer right off the track. Our fate might not be that dramatic at the 50–60 percent pace he would be running, but things wouldn’t end well.

Next was communication, a three-signal system. If I was comfortable and wanted to go faster, I would put my hand in front of his handlebars and point up. A downward point meant “slow down.” Tapping my hand on the top of my helmet translated as: “We are done here, please take me home.”

Third and final tip was, appropriately, the rule of three: As a monkey, I should always have three points of contact with the rig. Brian warned me that, as I shifted from one side of the bike to the other, I would be tempted to overlook the various hand holds and rely on the wind to brace me; but if I released my grip, I’d soon put my Alpinestars suit to the test. Got it.

The conversation drifted away from track riding. Before we knew it, the speaker in the pits crackled. First call for practice group five. The routine began: Back protector, ear plugs, suit zipper, gloves, helmet. This time, I didn’t finish by straddling a bike; I knelt down and crawled into a roughly three-foot by three-foot, lightly padded “sidecar.” I shifted my weight all the way to the back to keep the steering system from flopping wildly as we pointed towards pit out and slowly rumbled down the front straight. Brian had already explained the track-oriented geometry of this rig: Bike and sidecar worked best at speed, so I shouldn’t be thrown by their goofy behavior as we left the paddock.

Brian hit the gas as we started down the blend line of Blackhawk Farms’ front straight. The acceleration took me off guard for a moment, mainly because I was not in control of it. The blend line led immediately into turn one, a near 90-degree right hander. It was my first call to do my job: With my right hand, I found the grab handle behind Brian’s right foot, locking my grip before shifting my entire upper body so that my weight centered on or to the inside of the rear tire. About when I felt settled, it was time to move again. The race-tuned 650cc twin spun up as we exited turn one and thundered toward the left kink, which provided a slight checkup before a big, sweeping right hander.

Two was a fast little turn that didn’t require me to do much more than return to a neutral position. I knew this because one of the other, more experienced sidecar monkeys had dropped by my pit area after Brian’s rundown in the morning to offer turn-by-turn advice. Off to the big sweeping right. Locking my grip into the same holds as I had in turn one, I took a deep breath and tried not to gorilla grip the steel tubing. As when piloting a motorcycle, a death grip saps energy—I needed to be strong but loose.

The Yamaha’s revs rose again we exited turn three and pointed towards 3A. (Blackhawk named its corners weirdly, don’t be mad at me.) The slowest corner on the track, 3A is a tight right hander that links to a quick complex of left turns. Overwhelmed with where I needed to be and what Brian was doing and where my handholds were and when other racers might appear, I lost my mental location. My flustered brain decided it was time to fling myself to the left and counterweight for a left-hand corner—but I was wrong. The next turn was right, not left. Remember when Brian said I was the steering, and if I placed my weight wrong, the thing wouldn’t turn?

Luckily, he could feel me preparing for the wrong position. Before I got too far, his left hand signaled a flurry of gestures, which I interpreted as Hey idiot, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be over here. And hurry up. (See below.)

We tiptoed through 3A and into the next stretch of lefts, where I finally got to put my weight to work. I hung out to the left of the rig, becoming the counterweight my six-foot, 150-pound frame was never designed to be. During the rest of the lap, I felt like I was finally tuning in. Then, carrying a good amount of speed through the final right hander, Brian opened the throttle onto the front stretch. I was floored—almost literally. Neither acceleration nor speed was more aggressive than it was on the SV650 I was racing that weekend, but once again the lack of control was disorienting. Rolling into our second lap, I had the chance to clean up my mistakes and … I didn’t. I still got lost. Turn 3A arrived and I shifted the wrong way again. Brian signaled the same message, prompting my hasty correction.

Not until we were back in the pits after the 15-minute practice session did I finally realize why I struggling: All of my visual reference marks had changed. My entire perspective of the track had shifted because I was sitting significantly lower in the sidecar than I would on a bike. Plus, Brian and the motorcycle blocked my view to my right. All the cues I would use to locate myself on track were in the wrong places, even if I could see them—and, most of the time, I couldn’t.

It was an interesting reminder of just how important those personal markers are. When I first starting track riding I read a lot about picking out these markers and how they were critical in turning consistent laps. Little did I know how much those same markers helped in turning safe laps. Life isn’t a video game where the race line is projected onto the track.

Of all the decisions Brian made, his smartest was removing the bike’s transponder for our practice session. Even without the data I know we were slow. I began to realize the amount of time it would take to become a well-connected team. The near constant adjustment to what each other are doing—without vocal communication—is a dance, and I don’t know I could ever truly master its steps. Brian and his wife have years and hundreds of laps together but, as Tammy pointed out afterwards, there is only so much you can be told about being a monkey. You just have to do it.

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Tabloid moral panic over “the youths” is far from a new concept—or a culture-specific one. Tastes in two-wheelers, music, and fashion defined two of Britain’s subcultures of the 1950s and 1960s, the Rockers and the Mods, and those aesthetic allegiances brought the two groups to blows.

Rockers favored motorcycles, while Mods rode scooters, often decorated with multiple mirrors and lights. Rockers dressed in leather jackets and jeans—think Marlon Brando in The Wild One. The Mods were more sartorially refined, with a style you’d more closely associate with Swinging Sixties London. Rockers’ music tastes originated in 1950s rock ‘n’ roll, while mods listened to ska, jazz, and R&B.

While reports were frequently exaggerated, the two groups did clash on several occasions, with fighting, riots, and hooliganism. As tastes changed, so did the subcultures. The papers went elsewhere to vent their outrage, but the fashion and music, and especially the bikes, have never really been forgotten.

The annual “Brighton Burn-up” takes place on the first Sunday of September, when hordes of bikes roar off from London’s Ace Cafe towards the south coast. The intention is to recreate the spirit of ’60s bank holidays, when leather-jacketed Rockers and scooter-riding Mods headed for coastal resort towns, and sometimes fought on the beaches.

The Rockers’ bikes were far more powerful than the Mods’ mirror-festooned Vespas and Lambrettas; typically sporty twin-cylinder models from Triumph, Norton and BSA. Arguably the fastest and most desirable of all was an exotic hybrid: the Triton, whose name came from its blend of Triumph engine and Norton frame.

Back then Triumph made the most powerful engines, notably for the 650cc Bonneville, and Norton’s “Featherbed” frame gave its bikes the best handling. Putting the two together created the ultimate British café racer. The Triton proved its class on the track, too, with victories at many prestigious events.

Nobody knows for sure who built the first Triton, and it’s likely that several individuals did so independently of each other in the mid-’50s. Triumph was reportedly less than pleased. London-based Doug Clark, one early constructor, raced his Triton at Silverstone and shortly afterwards received a letter from the firm, threatening legal action if he continued with the project.

Triumph’s hostility could not prevent the Triton’s steady increase in popularity, which was accelerated in the early ’60s when firms including Dresda Autos of west London began producing conversion kits and complete machines.

Dresda boss Dave Degens did much to make the Triton famous, with his victory in the Barcelona 24 Hour race in 1965. He was swamped with demand after that, and built literally hundreds of Tritons. He also produced large numbers of his own frames, similar to the Featherbed, around which owners assembled bikes of their own.

Demand for Tritons faded in the ’70s (although Dresda went from strength to strength, building frames for Japanese bikes including Honda’s CB750). But as classic motorcycling became popular in the ’90s the Triton made a recovery. Degens, now 83 and still working with long-time business partner Russell Vann, has been busy ever since.

The classical Triton look is unchanged, featuring an aluminum petrol tank, low clip-on handlebars and rearset footrests. At its center is Triumph’s parallel-twin motor, surrounded by the distinctively curved steel tubes of the famous Featherbed frame, so named in 1950 after Norton works racer Harold Daniell had described his smooth-handling bike as like a feather bed to ride.

If the secret of the Triton’s success was that it combined the best British engine and chassis, it’s also true that much of the Triton’s appeal has always been its lean and simple style. Not that any two Tritons are ever identical, any more than was the case in the ’60s.

Engines can range from early 500cc “pre-unit” devices to later 750cc unit-construction (engine and gearbox all in one) twins. The choice of frame includes narrow Slimline and earlier Wideline Featherbeds, plus original Manx racebike frames as well as Dresda’s reproduction. Tritons feature a variety of tanks, seats, suspension parts and exhaust systems; some even have fairings.

Whatever the bike’s specification and level of tune, the rider’s view is likely to be much the same. From the low seat you reach forward across the shiny tank, grip the low clip-ons and glance down at the pair of black-finished Smiths instruments set in a polished aluminum plate.

The footrests are high, but not especially rearset by modern sports bike standards. The twin Amal carburettors require tickling; pressing a button to get the petrol flowing. Then you fold up the right footrest and kick to send the engine into life with a crisp bark from the two-into-one exhaust.

The Triton I’m riding here is fairly representative of the bikes that Dresda have built, but it is far from a normal roadster. This, Degens said with understandable pride, is the very machine that he rode to victory at Barcelona’s Montjuic street circuit in 1965.

After that historic win Degens raced the Triton a few more times, then sold it and heard nothing more. About 30 years ago he rediscovered it, stored in someone’s loft. He bought it back, restored it and still owns it, although knee problems have stopped him riding it in recent years.

Despite being rebuilt to original specification, the 650cc Bonneville motor was not in a high state of tune, due to its former racing requirement to run at high revs for 24 hours on poor-quality petrol. Its low compression ratio meant the Triton fired-up easily given a swing of the kick-starter.

It pulled away effortlessly, too, although a generous handful of revs was required due to the four-speed former racing gearbox’s very tall first ratio. At least this allowed me more time to remember the unfamiliar right-foot, down-for-up gearchange pattern before selecting second.

Roaring around the roads on this piece of two-wheeled history was great fun, not least because of the punchy performance of the Bonneville motor. At low and medium revs the Triton felt nicely loose, pulling crisply to about 5000rpm without too much of the vibration traditionally generated by British parallel twins.

The Triton was making about 50 hp and showed a fair turn of speed when revved harder, its acceleration above 6000rpm sending the bike thundering (and by now shaking) towards a top speed approaching 120 mph. But the bike’s competition background—more specifically its racing-specification camshafts—showed up in a flat-spot around 5500rpm. Degens recommends softer standard cams for roadgoing use.

There were no such compromises in the chassis, which in this bike’s case was based around the Featherbed frame from a single-cylinder Manx racer. For Triton use, Dresda modify the Norton steel tubes by altering and removing brackets, and adding a rear subframe.

They also fit new shocks and overhaul Norton’s Roadholder front forks. The standard internal springs are often replaced by coils outside the legs, and damping rates are typically reduced to give a smoother ride.

This bike’s wheels were in traditional 19-inch diameters, but Degens recommends 18-inch wheels because this allows a fatter rear tyre. Despite its narrow rubber the Triton’s roadholding was reasonable and its handling very stable, thanks in no small part to the rigidity of the sturdy Featherbed tubing.

The suspension took enthusiastic cornering in its stride and also did a good job of soaking up bumps, despite the aggressive riding position and thin seat. The only real chassis weakness was the front drum brake, which was feeble despite benefiting from the Triton’s light weight of only about 160kg.

Overall, this old warrior’s performance was sufficient to make it a wonderful companion for an afternoon blast—whether locally or on a burn-up to the coast. It drew plenty of admiring comments when parked, too, and no wonder. The Triton is essentially a mongrel but its look, racing record and café racer reputation give it a charisma that few pure-bred classic bikes even approach.

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***

1965 Dresda Triton

Price: Project, £5000 (~$5680); nice ride, £7500 (~$8520); showing off: £10,000 (~$11,360)

Highs: Speed, handling, café-racer cool

Lows: Wrist pain at slow speeds

Takeaway: Classical combination still rocks

—

Engine: Air-cooled parallel twin

Capacity: 649 cc

Power: 49 hp @ 6500 rpm

Weight: 353 pounds without fluids

Top speed: 115 mph

Via Hagerty UK

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Vehicle enthusiasts tend to remember the ’80s as an era when manufacturers slowly found their way from the prior decade’s malaise while simultaneously striving to meet ever-stringent safety and environmental regulations. That’s painting with a bit of a broad brush, though: If you take a look at the two-wheeled world, the ’80s were some of the best times ever for cheap and powerful fun. Japanese brands began selling race bikes for the street, turbocharging engines, and seeing dramatic improvements in outright performance. Access to these thrills could be yours for about a third of the price of a contemporary Honda Accord.

Now, as back then, motorcycles from this era represent an incredible bang for the enthusiast’s buck. In contrast to the uptick in hype and valuation for Radwood-era cars, ’80s bikes, with some exceptions, have yet to see a dramatic valuation spike. Other eras of motorcycles, old and new, draw more attention. For instance, Millennials love 1940s Harleys, and retro-modern bikes from early 2000s are some of the strongest performers of late. Let’s take a look at some of the best bike offerings from the ’80s and why they’re worth your attention.

1985 Yamaha V-Max

#3 condition (“Good,” or daily rider) value: $4300

For $4300 you can get the first, most recognizable, and highly rated muscle-bike ever made. 1985 wasn’t a time when bike manufacturers were going easy. Debuting that year, the V-Max is a prime example: a 143-hp V-4 shoved in a naked bike frame with unforgettable looks to produce the most powerful cruiser made to date. Add to that a four-gallon gas tank so it only has a 100-mile range when pushing it. Unapologetic fun and character defined the V-Max. Thanks to a 35-year production run with minimal visual changes, there are tons of these personality-rich bikes available, and that plentiful supply means the V-Max is a muscle-bike bargain that can’t be beat. Go for the 1980s version, it’s that much cooler.

1986 Suzuki GSX-R1100

#3 condition value: $6300

The mid-1980s sportbike craze created some true legends, and those bikes now sit at surprisingly low values compared to chrome-adorned bikes from previous eras. The plastic fairings that helped define the aero sportbike look have longstanding appeal within the niche, but the trait has yet to gain mainstream collector love, with the exception of Japanese homologation specials, like the Yamaha OW01 and Honda RC30, and icons like the Ducati 916.

As a result, values for bikes like the more mass-produced yet still race-bred and monumentally fast GSX-R are trending upward but remain reasonable. Considering these bikes are the ’80s exotics of the bike world, $6300 will get you a lot of bike, even if it might have a couple cracked plastic pieces. On the note of plastics, you’ve found the holy grail if you come across a GSX-R with original, uncracked panels: Most have been laid down at some point.

1984 Kawasaki GPZ-900

#3 condition value: $5300

Top Gun helped make the GPZ-900 famous when Tom Cruise’s Maverick raced his alongside F-14s and, later, F-18s. You can ride the same bike for a mere $5300. That price is shocking given the GPZ’s performance, but perhaps more importantly, this was the first Ninja—the bike that put Kawasaki posters up in rooms of aspiring riders around the world. Its attractive, stripped-down look bridges the gap between the earlier, full-naked bikes and the later, fully-faired models, and it’s a joy to both cruise on and push hard. Thanks to a smooth, liquid-cooled inline four and Japanese reliability (and a strong parts supply), the GPZ can thrive in modern day riding while keeping up with modern bikes costing twice as much. With all the GPZ-900 has going for it, it’s surprisingly cheap.

1987 Ducati 851

#3 condition value: $8400

The Ducati 851 is one of the most important successes in the brand’s history. Sporting Ducati’s first water-cooled engine and first four-valve-per-cylinder head along with excellent riding dynamics, the 851 was a gem in its own right and paved the way for hits like the 916 and 998. Despite its importance, the 851 stands in the shadow of the later Ducati 916 (which can be forgiven, as the 916 is known as one of the most beautiful motorcycles ever made). If you want some Italian verve for less money—about $8400 for a daily rider—in the 851 you can have Ducati’s first modern day superbike and a visceral riding experience that is tough to match.

1982 Harley-Davidson FXRS Super Glide II

#3 condition value: $5800

Harley-Davidson had a tough time finding its way in the 1980s, but once it broke away from AMF, radical machines returned. The FXRS Super Glide II came out in 1982 to a mixed reception: Consumers thought it lacked the bad-boy Harley appeal and wouldn’t look out of place on a Japanese brand’s showroom floor. The FXRS was simply early for its time, however. It ended up being the basis for the successful, lightweight, stripped down cruiser known as the Dyna. Today values sit at $5800 for a #3 condition FXRS. That’s an appealing entry point for a bike that will stand out at Harley gatherings and command the respect today that it didn’t get in the ’80s.

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Lamborghini and Ducati have teamed up for another knockout limited edition sports bike. The Ducati Streetfighter V4 Lamborghini is the second collaboration between the two Italian brands after the Siàn-inspired Diavel 1260 Lamborghini of 2020.

This time it’s the Huracán STO that provided the vision for the bike’s look and the Panigale V4 S that sits beneath the bodywork. Unique forged wheels echo those of the STO, while the front mudguard, tank cover, belly pan, and tail have all been sculpted to emulate the supercar. Visible carbon fiber is used extensively throughout, and even the saddle takes its lead from the Huracán’s seats. The adjustable rider foot pegs, brake and clutch levers are formed from billet aluminum, and a rorty Akrapovič exhaust provides the finishing touch—plus a suitable soundtrack.

The 1103 cc Desmosedici Stradale engine outputs 208 hp and drives through a dry clutch from the Streetfighter SP. The motor is also a stressed element in the aluminum chassis which features Öhlins Smart EC 2.0 semi-active suspensio, and stopping power by Brembo 330 mm discs.

The new bike will offer the same 630 production run as the Diavel with an additional 63 bikes for special Lamborghini customers who will be able to specify their two-wheelers to match their four-wheelers. As standard the Streetfighter will be delivered in the vivid Verde Citrea green /Arancio Dac orange color scheme pictured, but Lamborghini’s Speciale Cliente will be able to work with Centro Stile Ducati to create doppelgängers of their cars from a wide range of hues. As if that’s not enough owners will also be encouraged to dress the part in custom Dianese leathers.

Deliveries will begin in April 2023 and, although prices have yet to be released, you might have a fight on your hands to get one. The Diavel Lamborghini sold out within weeks.

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This year’s lack of rainfall has sparked not only wildfires but also much reminiscing across the U.K. about the summer of 1976—the last time that rivers disappeared, lakes resembled the surface of the moon, and using a hosepipe constituted high treason.

The nation’s motorcyclists, though, had never had it so good. While the sun blazed in ’76, Barry Sheene was riding his Suzuki to the 500cc world championship, and his good looks, Cockney charm, and celebrity lifestyle were making motorcycling cooler than ever before.

Especially for those fortunate enough to own Suzuki’s new GT550A. As a sporty two-stroke of roughly similar capacity, the air-cooled triple was the closest that mere mortals could get to a bike like Bazza’s all-conquering works RG500 square four.

This was just the infancy of the superbike era, which had begun at the start of the decade with the arrival of Honda’s CB750. Suzuki had introduced a 750cc rival in 1972 but the GT750 was a big, heavy, liquid-cooled triple whose Grand Tourer designation was apt.

The Japanese firm had also launched the smaller, sportier GT550 to compete with Kawasaki’s 500cc H1, a high-revving, fuel-gulping, air-cooled triple whose acceleration had earned cult status. Suzuki’s challenger was less of a party animal than the H1 but it was enjoyably quick and a better all-rounder.

The revamp and new GT550A designation that Suzuki awarded the triple for 1976 gave the model a boost. But it was arguably Sheene’s efforts on the world’s racetracks—not to mention in nightclubs and TV chat-show studios—that added most to its appeal, especially to easily influenced teenagers.

Since is launch the GT550 had gained a disc front brake, a few horsepower, and some fresh details. It also featured Suzuki’s Ram Air System, which was not some ingenious form of forced induction, but merely referred to a piece of bent metal that helped direct a cooling breeze over the 543cc engine’s cylinder head.

The engine itself was in a fairly modest state of tune. Exhaling through a bulky four-pipe exhaust system, the GT produced a respectable but not spectacular maximum of 50 hp at 7500 rpm. Perhaps more significantly, it made useful torque throughout the rev range, with a peak at 6000 rpm.

In ’70s style the chassis was based around a simple tubular steel frame, which held non-adjustable forks and twin rear shocks. Unlike earlier models the 550A didn’t have fork gaiters. But its slightly dumpy styling, thick dual-seat, and its fuelled-up weight of 452 pounds—porky by middleweight standards—all suggested a fairly practical bike.

That being the case, I was pleasantly surprised by the feel of this lovely red 550A. I’d expected a large, heavy bike. But although it was tall and roomy the Suzuki felt quite light and sporty as I hit the button (a kickstart was also provided), prodded it into gear, and set off for a spin.

The engine took no time at all to confirm just what a torquey and relaxed lump it was. The bike pulled away easily, with no need for the high-revving histrionics of many two-strokes. And its pleasantly crisp midrange performance was well-matched to the not-too-frantic pace encouraged by the wide, slightly raised handlebars.

When I kept the revs down, short-shifting through the slick, five-speed gearbox, the Suzuki responded with a surge of midrange acceleration that would have left many of its four-stroke rivals feeling gutless. The rubber-mounted triple generally felt reasonably smooth, too, though from about 5000 rpm it began to buzz through its bars and the fairly forward-set footpegs, before smoothing out again towards the 7500 rpm redline.

Top speed was close to a genuine 110 mph, but sometimes the triple had to be worked hard to get there. On a windy day, it ran out of steam approaching 80 mph in top gear and only responded when I put my chin on the tank and changed down to fourth gear to get the rev needle nearer the red.

That blustery wind also brought out the worst in the Suzuki’s chassis, triggering a gentle wobble at higher speed. But the bike never threatened to get seriously out of shape, and its handling at slower speed was pretty good, let down only by too-firm rear suspension that sent bigger bumps hammering straight though the seat.

On smooth roads the GT could be cornered pretty rapidly, aided by its narrow but respectably grippy Pirelli tires and ground clearance that was much improved over the previous model. The wide bars gave enough leverage to allow fairly quick direction changes. Brakes were reasonably good, too, the Suzuki’s single front disc slowing the bike efficiently, with help from the cable-operated rear drum.

That all helped make the GT550A a deceptively rapid roadster by mid-’70s’ standards, and it was practical in some ways, too. Switchgear and instrumentation (including a digital gear indicator) were competent, and the seat was large and comfortable. But the headlamp was feeble and the motor’s 35 mpg-or-worse thirst, combined with a small, 4-gallon fuel tank, gave a disappointing range of only about 100 miles.

That and the harsh ride handicapped the GT550A’s long-distance ability and helped explain why the model was not as popular as Suzuki must have hoped. It was competitively priced but by 1976 the opposition from four-strokes such as Honda’s new CB550 four was strong, and the GT had improved little in several years—partly, presumably, because its makers realized that time was running out for smoky, thirsty two-strokes.

A year later, in 1977, Suzuki joined the four-stroke middleweight market with the competent GS550 four, leaving the faithful two-stroke on the sidelines. Although the four-stroke was more expensive and no faster, it handled better—and, more to the point, was more economical, more environmentally friendly. Clearly, it was the machine of the future.

The GT550A’s days were numbered—but, along with Barry Sheene, Suzuki’s two-stroke triple had helped make the original long, hot summer a memorable time for motorcyclists.

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***

1976 Suzuki GT550A

Price: Project, $2700; nice ride, $7700; showing off, $11,100

Highs: Two-stroke speed and smell

Lows: Back pain on a bumpy road

Takeaway: It’s bursting with ’70s spirit

—

Engine: Air-cooled two-stroke triple

Capacity: 543cc

Power: 50 hp @ 7500 rpm

Weight: 452 pounds with fluids

Top speed: 110 mph

Via Hagerty UK

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Learning requires discomfort. At least I thought it did. That’s why I loaded three motorcycles into my van and drove six hours around Lake Michigan to go racing last weekend. I went to Blackhawk Farms Raceway with the hopes of breaking out of my comfort zone and seeing how much I had learned since last year and put that into numbers that couldn’t lie. It was a plan that kind of worked.

This weekend was of particular interest because of the timed nature of racing. The clock simply cannot lie, a fact that had been long established in my brain from years of foot races and other feats of human-powered speed. Equipment, training, or environment may change, but a minute is 60 seconds no matter where you go. That fact allows us gearheads to compare drivers, cars, and tracks over generations—for better or worse. My road racing experience runs shallow, and thus it is difficult for me to know if my skills truly are progressing since I have but a handful of weekends at the track …  and none of those were the same track—until now.

Talking about this weekend does require some honesty though. My time at Blackhawk Farms was not a pure A-B test, where the only thing that changed was my skill level. This year I came prepared with a better-built Honda XR250R motard and also my track-prepped Suzuki SV650. This “new” XR is very similar to the XR250R I raced last year as part of Six Ways to Sunday, but this second time around, the one I built came with more horsepower, thanks to a small port job on the cylinder head, a bigger carburetor, and also a better flowing header and exhaust. The power bump was probably good for a little faster lap, but at the end of Friday practice I ran my finger down the white paper printouts stapled to the side of the registration building to find that I was already lapping four seconds faster than last year. It takes more than a meager bump in horsepower to see that kind of time drop off. The track didn’t change at all. The weather was all but identical. Therefore, the reason for quicker times on track was that I got faster. Exciting.

Last year I was just over the moon to check the results and see that my transponder clicked off a single lap where I just barely dipped into the 1-minute, 39-second range. This year I opened my weekend by shaving a full second off that in my first practice session. Before you go off to Google land to see if that is a good time for a lap of the track, I’ll save you the effort: It’s not. The leaders in the motard class were running in the low 1:19s with relative ease. They are also all on new Husqvarna FS450 bikes that not only pack nearly three times the power of my XR but benefit from nearly 40 years of additional chassis technology and knowledge. Stiffer in the right places, better angles in others, and better riders turning the throttle to boot. No excuses, though, as I am not really in the motard class to win races, but rather to learn about bike setup and become a better rider.

Which is a great goal for track riding. While turning race laps I get to compare taking turn one in a particular fashion versus doing it a different way the next lap. It may feel faster to me, but the transponder does not feel. It only tells me the hard facts of which laps were faster. For instance, in the Sound of Thunder 3 race on Saturday, I piloted my SV650 to clean laps in the 1:24 range, which was good enough to finish mid-field. This was markedly faster than my laps in practice, mainly due to traffic. In my practice session I rarely had “clean” track, as I was out with much faster bikes that would cause me to change lines as they passed or I passed other riders. Those passes eat up time, and in the race I found myself in the no-mans land between the best and rest. It allowed me to really focus on my lines and see the result of that work.

The most interesting take away though was how comfortable I was. Both on and off track I had the experience and knowledge to be wound up when I needed to and also relaxed when that was appropriate. It’s the first weekend I’ve felt that way and it was addictive. Likely a combination of going back to a track rather than being in a new place, along with taking bikes that I already knew and was familiar with riding. Getting in a groove is a powerful thing, and to a point it counters my long-held thought that growth requires discomfort. I was not only faster, understood the track and the bikes better, but also was more relaxed and had more fun. Couldn’t ask for much more. After all, the clock was telling facts, and the fact is I am faster than I’ve ever been and still have a lot of room to grow.

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Racing is an expensive pastime. No two ways about that. That’s why, when I was presented with a need for two safety items by the AHRMA rulebook, I rooted around the garage before I slipped out my credit card. Luckily, I found two pieces of trash that solved my problems and will hopefully keep myself and the other racers on-track safe.

In 2022 I’ve been slowly chipping away at a big project: Building up another XR250R into a focused road-race bike. If that seems like an odd choice, it is. The motard class is exclusively comprised of dirt bikes with 17-inch wheels and street tires and is a downright fun class to run. The XR250R is an odd choice for this because though I race within a vintage racing organization, this class does not require machines to be of that aging quality, meaning the air-cooled thumper is often extremely outgunned. I tried it out last year as part of the Six Ways to Sunday project and got hooked even as a back marker. With suspension, wheels, and tires ready and sitting on the bench, I needed only everything else to assemble a race-ready bike. Thankfully, I had a shelf stacked with enough spares to make that that first build happen.

Said rack was comprised of just about any XR250 part or piece I could get my hands on for a reasonable price. A bare frame emerged, and the process started. I built the Six Ways to Sunday bike with little concern for appearance and a priority on performance. The second time around, I wanted a less scruffy build—one that showed the time that I put into it.

The process went pretty smoothly. (In other words, just behind schedule.) True to form, I am putting the finishing touches on the machine the week of the race event, this time an AHRMA race weekend at Blackhawk Farms raceway in Illinois. A few things slipped the last-minute order list, and suddenly building a safe, predictable bike came down to “figuring it out” with the things I had on hand.

I needed a catch can and belly pan but had nothing of the sort. What to do?

Some of you may recall that my solution to this exact problem last year was an aluminum baking pan, since this vintage Honda is not typically raced in this manner and thus lacks bolt-on parts support. That pan worked well, but this new XR is so much nicer it felt insulting to bolt that estate-sale dish to the bottom of the frame. I pillaged my shelves and found a rear fender I had ordered at some point and set aside when it arrived in the wrong color. It had a couple of bolt holes and a shape that could work—with some imagination. I have the latter. What I didn’t have was time or money.

On went the rear fender to the bottom of the XR chassis. I then went about hacking at with whatever sharp objects were within reach to refine the shape. It bolted on upside-down, which produced a natural, trough-type shape, but the nose extended too far upward and hit the exhaust. Cut here, trim there, drill a hole, and bend some scrap aluminum stock to hold the front of the belly pan in the right position. The rear just needed to be tucked up to the bracing just under the swing-arm pivot. The final step: Take a heat gun and heat the whole thing while it was bolted and zip-tied in place. This relaxed the plastic and conformed it to the new shape, making the whole thing easier to install and remove. A quick coat of paint followed, simply because I want this bike to match my other race bike.

The belly pan prevents fluids that may be expelled during an engine failure from leaking onto the track and creating a hazard. Since my little 250 only holds 1.5 quarts of oil and no coolant, this pan doesn’t need to be very deep to fulfill that mission. The final product looks factory-fit except for that aluminum piece, but that’ll get re-done this winter.

What doesn’t look original-spec is the other piece—the catch can.

One of the interesting and annoying things about carburetors and crankcase breathers is that they will happily puke out everything they can if they end up in an orientation other than the one for which they are designed. Can’t fault the parts, but if I were to experience a low-side, or any other accident in which my bike ended up lying on the track surface, the carb and case would drain onto the race surface without inhibition. Obviously a bad thing. A catch can prevents this by essentially routing the overflow and breather lines to one place, thus keeping the track surface clean.

One thing to remember: My XR250 races in a class that is open to all years of motorcycles. The top four places in any AHRMA motard race are Husqvarna FS450 machines, a purpose-built race model which left the factory with slicks. Its single-cylinder engine makes 63 hp from 450cc of displacement and the whole bike weighs in at a scant 240 pounds. My XR has nowhere near 63 horsepower—more like mid-20s, if I had to guess—and is close to 220 pounds as it currently sits. Adding more horsepower is expensive, but keeping weight to a minimum is fairly easy.

That’s why I grabbed a 6.5-ounce Starbucks Doubleshot can out of the recycle bin and zip-tied it to the frame. After carefully drilling a couple holes to keep the hoses tidy, I routed the large crankcase-breather through the opening that once allowed me to pour coffee into my face and used the pop-tab to keep that rubber hose in place. Sexy? No. Functional and light? Very much so. The fact it was free is just a bonus.

Two problems solved with a little bit of sweat and scavenging. Now, I can continue to lie to the missus about how affordable my hobby is. Pay no mind to the machine-shop bill, sweetie—look at how I repurposed this garbage! There is also the satisfaction of solving a problem with my brain rather than with my checkbook. That’s the takeaway here: Use your brain first, hands second, and financial resources third. I’m willing to bet you will be happier.

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There was sad news recently for many admirers of the original two-wheeled tourer: the Gold Wing Road Riders’ Association is closing after 45 years of service to Honda’s mighty mile-muncher.

The last ever Wing Ding rally took place in June in Shreveport, Louisiana, attended by far fewer riders than in the GWRRA’s heyday, when the organization had more than 80,000 members in over 50 countries.

It seems most touring riders prefer adventure bikes these days. Or maybe it’s just that many “Wing Nuts,” as members call themselves, are getting too old to ride.

Either way, there’s no disputing the impact that Honda made in 1975 with the launch of the GL1000 Gold Wing, which revolutionized long-distance motorcycling and arguably generated more controversy than any bike before or since.

“Two Wheeled Motor Car?” sneered Bike, Britain’s best-selling monthly, before describing the Wing as ugly, overweight, too complicated and boring. That was enough to lose the magazine Honda’s advertising for a year.

Not all reviewers were so negative, and Cycle, the best-selling U.S. title, began a rave review with: “If Honda is going to sell a motorcycle for $3000, then by all that’s holy it’s going to be worth it.” Soon the Wing was on its way to becoming not just a Stateside sales success but a two-wheeled phenomenon.

Riding a well-maintained GL1000 years later, the slightly weird thing is how ordinary it seems. Despite its high bars, bulbous styling and big flat-four engine, this 1976-model GL is more noticeable for its vivid yellow paint than its size. Cruising along at a lazy 60 mph, it feels far too inoffensive to have been remotely controversial.

By modern touring standards the GL1000 is not so much complex and overweight as basic and under-equipped. It has no fairing or luggage; no radio, cruise control or reverse gear—let alone the fancy sound system, navigation, heated seats, or countless other features that so many bikes now have as standard.

Motorcycles were very different in the early Seventies, when a group of Honda engineers led by Shoichiro Irimajiri—legendary designer of the firm’s multi-cylinder race bikes of the previous decade—sat down to plan the “King of Motorcycles.” The new model was to be the world’s fastest and best—a grand tourer that would bring back to Honda the glory that the CB750 four was set to lose to Kawasaki’s recently launched 900cc Z1.

After rejecting a flat-six engined prototype, Irimajiri and his team opted for a 999cc flat-four unit that produced 80 hp. It was the first liquid-cooled four-stoke from a Japanese manufacturer, and the first shaft-drive unit for export markets. Its single overhead camshafts were driven by toothed rubber belts, a first for a bike motor.

The tubular steel-framed chassis was relatively conventional, notable mainly for the dummy fuel tank that contained some electrical components, a kickstart lever and a modicum of storage space. Fuel lived under the seat, which helped lower the center of gravity of a bike which, at 639 pounds with fuel, was far heavier than most contemporaries.

Plenty of bikes are far heavier these days (the current top-spec Wing weighs 809 pounds), and my impression on stepping aboard was very different to that of testers in ’75. The motor started easily, breathing out quietly through its twin exhausts and emitting very little noise from the water-jacketed cylinders in front of my shins.

In other ways, though, the GL felt just as it must have done back then when, with the exception of the Z1, it was the world’s hardest accelerating production bike. It still surged forward with a fair bit of enthusiasm as it headed towards a top speed of about 120 mph.

But its greatest attribute was long-legged cruising ability. The GL purred along smoothly and effortlessly at 80 mph, and had sufficient midrange torque that it rarely required revving close to the 8500-rpm redline. Combined with its light five-speed gearbox (this bike’s liking for false neutrals was typical) and a competent shaft drive system, this gave the impression that the Wing would cruise to the ends of the earth in relaxed comfort.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. The exposed, high-barred riding position was ill-suited to long distances, and the seat soon became a pain. That was less of a drawback that it should have been, because the fuel tank held just 19 liters (5 gallons)—good for barely more than 100 miles of fairly hard riding.

Handling was not the Wing’s forte, although its low center of gravity aided low-speed maneuvering, and it was less of a handful than I’d expected. Its narrow front forks were fairly firm but the soft shocks began to feel vague and underdamped under moderately hard cornering.

The main problem came when all that weight had to be slowed down in a hurry. The twin front and single disc rear brakes worked fairly well provided the handlebar lever was given a firm squeeze. But using the front brake with the bike banked over even slightly put too much force through the spindly chassis, resulting in a disapproving shake of the head.

The Wing was enjoyable provided I stuck to a fairly gentle pace, though, and its flat-four engine gave it an appealing character. It felt nothing like a tourer; more like the predecessor of the modern breed of giant cruisers like Triumph’s Rocket 3.

The GL1000’s unsuitability for spirited riding was a big factor behind its mixed reception and slow initial sales in Europe. But that was no drawback for many older, more affluent, touring-oriented American riders, who adopted the Wing with enthusiasm and founded rider groups including the GWRRA.

They also soon started modifying and decorating their GLs with accessories, production of which soon grew to become a major industry. First came touring items including fairing, top-box and panniers, followed by custom seats and upgraded suspension units. Before long, you could upgrade your Wing with everything from footboards to a supercharger, plus a vast array of lights and chrome parts.

Honda was slow to produce accessories itself, but in 1980 it finally released an updated GL1100 plus De Luxe and Interstate models with fairings and luggage. By then, more than 200,000 Gold Wings had been sold worldwide, and the name had become synonymous with long-distance comfort and refinement.

In many ways the testers on both sides of the Atlantic had been right back in 1975. The original, naked GL1000 had many flaws, not least for long-distance travel, but it also had unprecedented potential.

All these years later the original touring legend seems remarkably basic and down-to-earth. Yet there’s still something distinctly special about the Gold Wing.

***

1975 Honda GL1000 Gold Wing

Average Price: $2400 (#4, Fair condition); $4000 (#3, Good); $7300 (#2, Excellent); $12,200 (#1, Concours)

Highs: Long-legged flat-four feel.

Lows: Braking into a bend.

Takeaway: Old tourer is now a classic cruiser.

—

Engine: Liquid-cooled SOHC flat-four

Capacity: 999cc

Power: 80 hp @ 7500 rpm

Weight: 639 with fluids

Top speed: 120 mph

Via Hagerty UK

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MotoGP comes to Silverstone this weekend for the British motorcycle Grand Prix, with its spectacular sight of insanely fast motorbikes and a soundtrack of high-revving, four-stroke race engines that will echo across miles of surrounding Northamptonshire countryside. Maybe for a few in the crowd, that sound will prove as memorable as the one that greeted this 14-year-old boy as he cycled towards the track in 1974, with practice for the John Player International Grand Prix already under way: the high-pitched shriek of numerous two-stroke race engines, including that of Barry Sheene’s Suzuki, occasionally punctured by the deeper, four-stroke howl of 500cc world champion Phil Read’s lone factory MV Agusta.

Read would retain the title at season’s end, but that would be MV’s and the four-stroke’s last stand before the two-stroke hordes took over, led by Giacomo Agostini and Sheene. We were nearing the end of a remarkable era that had seen the “Gallarate Fire Engines” from MV’s factory north of Milan win 17 consecutive 500cc championships, ridden by riders including John Surtees, Mike Hailwood, and Agostini.

All of which made it even more special to be accelerating away on a stunning, fully faired MV four, complete with yellow world champion’s No.1 plates like those Read’s bike wore in ’74. Especially when the tacho needle hit 6500 rpm for the first time, and the deliciously sculpted, matte-black pipes emitted the loudest, most outrageous, and most utterly thrilling racket that I’d ever experienced on a motorcycle.

Already, the sensation of riding this MV Agusta Magni had been heightened by its glorious noise. The moment the red-and-silver machine had fired up, a warbling, deeply soulful bellow had raised the hairs on the back of my neck. As I’d pulled away, the exhaust note had risen in pitch and volume, drowning out the busy whir of the big motor’s fast-spinning cam gears.

But it was with the throttle on its stop that the real magic happened. As the revs rose towards 7000 and the bike surged forward more strongly, its exhaust note was suddenly transformed. The tuneful howl became a hard, aggressive, shatteringly loud, and almost metallic waaaaaaaaaaa that threatened to split my eardrums, which were shielded only by the leather sides of a period-style, pudding-basin helmet.

It was an utterly unforgettable experience, and along with that rich racing history helps to explain why MV’s mighty fours were so revered in their heyday in the mid-’70s—and why they are still so sought-after now. This bike is even rarer and more desirable than a standard MV. It’s an 832cc Magni, based on one of the special-framed, chain-drive machines produced by legendary former MV race-team boss Arturo Magni.

This bike is exotic even by Magni MV standards, since it was built by Arturo for a close friend in the late ’70s, and later owned for many years by Midlands engineer Dave Kay, who sadly passed away in February, aged 82. Dave founded MV Meccanica Verghera, now run by his son Mark and grandson Mitch, who specialize in producing replicas of multi-cylinder MVs and Gileras, using original factory drawings to make many parts themselves.

If few bikes can even approach the sound of a Magni MV, the same is true of the looks of a roadster that is wonderfully evocative of Read’s last title-winning works racer. Its shape and detailing are classically elegant: the long, subtly curved tank leading back to a small and delicately shaped single seat; the holes drilled for lightness in the steering damper knob, foot controls, and rear sprocket; the curve of the Magni pipes.

It was a treat just to sit on the bike, leaning forward to the narrow clip-on bars and admiring the black-faced instruments, the simple pair of warning lights (just high beam and low oil pressure), the temperature gauge set further into the cockpit, and the damping adjusters at the top of fork legs that poke through the top yoke.

Each of the outer two 27mm Dell’Orto carbs has a choke lever, so I flicked them on and pressed the tinny-looking switchgear’s button. The starter-motor—tacked on below the motor, linked by twin toothless belts, and doubling as the generator—hauled the four-cylinder lump into raucous life.

First gear went in smoothly with a flick up of the right boot, and I let out the fairly light clutch to pull away, immediately impressed by the unexpectedly smooth and tractable nature of the big, fire-breathing powerplant. Even so the MV was not really the bike for dawdling ’round town, where its aggressive riding position and lack of steering lock made life uncomfortable.

Once on the open road, it was a very different story. This Magni motor’s 832cc capacity had come by increasing the bore of the original 789cc unit (from MV’s 750S America) by 2mm to 69mm and retaining the 56mm stroke. With a high compression ratio and lightened engine parts, it was making usefully more than the 76 hp at 8500 rpm that the factory claimed for the America.

There was certainly enough power to make for strong acceleration, even before getting the Veglia tacho’s needle near the 9000 rpm redline. Carburetion was crisp down to below 3000 rpm, and the MV gained speed with a smooth, steadily increasing force in the midrange. The five-speed gearbox was generally good, too, though the change from second to third required a firm press on the lever.

At 6500 rpm the bike suddenly pulled harder, as it came on the cam with that ear-splitting sound. No doubt the din made it seem even quicker than it was, but the flat-out Agusta certainly gave a mind-blowing impression of speed and excitement. Top speed was about 140 mph. This bike’s speedo cable came adrift early in my ride, so there will be no incriminating details here.

Despite their expense and racetrack heritage, MV’s standard roadster fours did not handle particularly well at high speed, partly due to the factory’s insistence on specifying final drive by shaft instead of chain. Magni’s chain-drive conversion cured that problem, and the maestro’s frame, which has twin top tubes instead of the conventional MV single spine, gave welcome extra rigidity.

This was still a pretty long and tall motorcycle, with old-fashioned steering geometry and a rather high center of gravity. But overall weight was a reasonable 441 pounds compared to the 518 of a standard MV. And with a combination of Magni frame, hydraulic steering damper and relatively modern suspension parts, the handling was pretty good.

Low-speed steering was predictably slow by modern standards, and attacking country lanes at a spirited pace required a fair bit of force through the clip-ons, but the firmly suspended Agusta went where it was pointed. Even in faster curves, only the odd slight wobble got through.

Braking power from the twin front discs and four-piston Brembo calipers was reassuringly strong, and the Metzeler tyres provided respectable grip. It was a magical experience to come screaming up to a bend, blip the quick-action throttle a couple of times as I braked and hooked back a couple of gears, then force the bike into a bend and wind open the Dell’Orto carburettors to go howling off again.

Every motorcyclist should have the chance to do that just once, though inevitably the bike’s sky-high value makes it impossible for all but a fortunate few. ’70s MV fours were and still are hugely expensive; Magnis even more so. This one last changed hands for a six-figure sum. If that sounds excessive, ride it and you might just change your mind.

1978 MV Agusta Magni

You’ll love: Sound, speed, looks, heritage
You’ll curse: Your inability to afford one
Buy it because: Ultimate ’70s race-replica
Condition and price range: project, $55,000; nice ride, $75,000; showing off, $110,000
Engine: Air-cooled DOHC four
Capacity: 832 cc
Maximum power: 81 hp @ 8500 rpm
Weight: 441 pounds without fluids
Top speed: 140 mph

Via Hagerty UK

The post MV’s race-proven, 1978 Agusta Magni is utterly unforgettable appeared first on Hagerty Media.

When it comes to learning a new skill, there’s no substitution for the watchful eye of an experienced instructor. Want to get better on the race track? A certified driving coach is the best way to go. Skiing? Most mountains have licensed teachers on payroll. Trying to get into golf? Call your local PGA professional. Learning to ride a motorcycle is no different. And more than many other hobbies, the right kind of instruction can make or break your early days on two wheels.

As someone who had spent the previous 27 years vociferously denying any interest in motorcycling, my about-face attitude this spring was full of reservation. Digital Editor and resident two-wheel evangelist Kyle Smith had spent the better part of two years repeatedly encouraging me to consider giving motorcycles a try, offering rides on his machines, and generally whittling away at my negative perception of them. And now I was pulling into Gaylord High School’s parking lot on a Friday evening in early May to learn how to ride—a clear indication that his persistence had paid off.

The Motorcycle Safety Foundation is a non-profit organization that functions as a resource and advocate group to help keep those riding on two wheels safe while out and about. The group offers a host of classes for all skill levels, from those meeting a bike for the first time to seasoned riders with thousands of miles under their belts who just wanted to keep their skills sharp.

Although a dismaying number of riders go without, the state of Michigan technically requires that riders obtain an endorsement on their driver’s license to be legal on the road. The MSF Basic Rider course is one of very few state-sanctioned ways to obtain said endorsement. It’s also the method I’ll recommend to any and every moto-curious person I meet from here on out.

The instruction begins well before your scheduled in-person dates. An online portion of the class, which can take anywhere from four to six hours, walks through every aspect of smart, safe riding. Lessons like lane positioning, body posture, types of motorcycles, basic controls, and much more are all covered at a pace and depth that even someone who’s never seen a motorcycle could follow. There are skill checks along the way, as well as an evaluation at the end that must be passed in order to proceed in with in-person instruction.

Come class-time, the first evening is spent in, well, a classroom. We retraced key components from the online modules in an entertaining manner that kept me and my peers—who were attending the course with varying levels of experience—engaged the entire time. Credit for the experience lies squarely at the feet of our instructors, Tim McPherson and Jennifer Mitchell. Both have countless hours of ride-time under their belts, but more importantly, both understand how to make the daunting task of learning to ride a motorcycle approachable.

“Rarely do we get someone in [a class] that doesn’t come out the other side as a better rider,” McPherson remarked on night one. “We’ve had folks in here who have been riding for years, but even they regularly discover something about riding that they didn’t know before.”

To whit, he shared a story of a class a while back where one of the participants said in the opening hour something to the tune of, “I bet there isn’t one thing in this class that I don’t already know how to do.” McPherson graciously accepted the challenge, and by the conclusion of the next morning’s practice session, that rider was the first to raise his hand and admit that he’d already discovered multiple holes in his skill set. “When he went back to riding with his friends after that, they all were shocked at how much better at riding he’d become,” McPherson said, with a chuckle.

The following day began early, but the prospect of throwing a leg over a bike was more than enough to get me out of bed. One of the greatest benefits of the MSF basic rider course is that you don’t need to have your own bike to participate—the course supplies small-displacement motorcycles of various styles upon which you’ll spend the duration of the two days. There were Suzuki GZ 250s, Yamaha TW200s, Kawasaki Eliminators, and even a Yamaha V-Star or two.

I hopped onto one of the Yamaha TW200s for this course (you stay with the same bike the entire time, and the instructors encourage you to pick a type of bike that best reflects the type of riding you’ll do). The chunky tires and upright seating position felt like the closest approximation for the Honda Grom I’d be riding a few weeks later for a Michigan road trip story.

Throughout the day, each group (our class of 20 split into two groups of 10) was given two three-hour sessions during which we went through basic bike control exercises. Because the class often has total newbies in it, we started with learning how to operate the hand clutch, finding what the instructors referred to as, “the friction zone” where the slipping the clutch begins to connect a rotating engine to the rear wheel. As the day progressed, our exercises grew in complexity but never overmatched the fledgling skill set we were beginning to accumulate.

Day two involved a bevy of drills that built upon the more basic skills learned the day prior—close-quarters turns, a cone weave, signaling, collision avoidance, and more. If a rider was struggling to grasp a concept, McPherson or Mitchell were right there to help them fine tune everything from body position to where they were looking to the types of inputs they were missing.

As is required for the endorsement, lunchtime involved a written test that called into question our knowledge of the paper skills learned in the online module and classroom portion, but also aspects of the dynamic exercises we’d been working on. I hadn’t taken a multiple choice test of any consequence since my college days, but thanks to the instruction from the course, I passed with flying colors.

That afternoon, we walked through each of the exercises that would be on our riding evaluation, with both instructors dropping helpful hints to keep in mind at every turn. The day culminated with a riding evaluation for each person, which, I thankfully had no trouble with.

Riding a motorcycle—whether on public roads or through trails—is not without its dangers. But if you’re at all curious about obtaining an endorsement in your state or getting some seat time in a controlled, instructive, relatively low-consequence environment, the MSF’s basic rider course stands in a class of its own. Endorsement in hand, I’ve begun to appreciate the finer aspects of two-wheel travel—with the careful instruction from McPherson and Mitchell always top of mind.

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With custom-bike culture exploding in recent years, the history and importance of early two-wheeled machines are often overlooked. Stock Stories tells the tales of these motorcycles.

The Norton P11 is among the rarest and most sought-after motorcycles of the 1960s. At the time of its release in 1967, it was advertised by Norton’s U.S. importer, the Berliner Motor Corporation, with slogans such as “Dynamite on wheels!” and “The world’s finest all-purpose motorcycle.” It was a bike specifically aimed at a riding audience keen on both performance and adventure. Adapted from the Norton Atlas and Norton/Matchless N15CS and G15CS models, Norton envisioned the P11 as a motorcycle for desert racing.

The sport had been active in North America since the early 1920s, popularized in part by high-profile competitions such as California’s Big Bear Motorcycle Run. Desert racing only increased in popularity in the following decades, and by the 1950s events could attract 500 competitors—all in need of competitive motorcycles. At this juncture, British vertical twins (mostly Triumphs) were dominating the sport. Manufacturers could prove the durability of their machines as they tackled hundreds of miles of desert terrain and hard riding. Success in racing would inevitably result in more bikes sold to active competitors, cementing a model’s reputation and in turn better sales in the public.

Norton produced a small run of a U.S.-specification desert racer, called the Nomad, between 1958 and 1960. Sold to privateer race teams, the Nomad used the reliable Norton 600cc engine, which succeeded in showing up the Matchless G12 CS scrambler that suffered issues with its three-bearing crankshaft. Norton then upped the ante and increased displacement to 750cc for its Atlas engine—a simpler and more rugged design which proved reliable and produced a decent amount of power. Norton’s ambitions were soon outgrowing the capacity of its Bracebridge Street works, which kicked off the search for a new factory. Parent company AMC (Associated Motor Cycles) had other ideas and moved Norton to the existing AMC facility in Plumstead in 1962. This decision had long-term implications; suddenly, all under one roof, AMC could add the Atlas engine, Norton gearbox, and Roadholder forks to its own bikes. Norton-AMC hybrid machines started to materialize from the London-based company.

For 1964, a batch of 200 Atlas scrambler models named the NC15CS were sent to  American distributer Berliner Motor Corp. When the NC15CS hit U.S. soil it was the most powerful off-the-shelf desert racer you could buy. A fair amount of these scramblers were destined for desert racing privateers on the west coast, by way of Berliner distributer ZDS Motors of Glendale, California. It was an important step, and the Atlas motor put out a fair amount of power, but the the frame and overall considerable weight worked against the NC15CS. AMC’s next big leap came for 1966—a lighter version of its ten-year-old Matchless G80CS model, developed to compete in a televised scrambler event on the BBC’s Grandstand. Dubbed G85CS, the new bike used a lighter-weight Reynolds 531 frame which took notes from the Rickman design with a one-piece head stock and frame tubes that were pressed into the head stock and brazed. Together with all-aluminum tanks, lighter Teledraulic forks, and skimmed hubs, the weight was trimmed down to 318 pounds—some 40 pounds lighter than the G80CS. Despite all this, within Europe the G85CS was already being outclassed by the two-strokes which were dominating with high revving engines and lightweight frames. Only 96 G85CS were made and 70 of them immediately went to the U.S. West Coast, where the desert racing crowd would eat them up.

One such customer was Steve Zabaro, mechanic and parts manager at ZDS Motors, who rode his G85CS extensively until he hit a rock in the Mojave Desert, collapsing the front wheel and bending the forks. Understanding the potential of both the powerful NC15CS and the lightweight G85CS Zabaro and Bob Blair (owner of ZDS Motors) deduced that a combination of the two could be a winner. AMC thought it wasn’t possible, but Berliner was happy for Blaur and Zabaro to build a prototype. Just in case.

They got to work on what would ultimately become the Norton P11. Zabaro donated his defunct Matchless G85CS as a donor for the frame, rear magnesium hub, handlebars, and seat. New Teledraulic forks were installed with an Akront 19-inch rim laced to the Matchless hub. The engine and gearbox came from a brand-new N15CS with various spacers and plates fabricated to get the Atlas engine to line up perfectly. Whereas the G85CS had a fiberglass tank, Blair deemed the Norton Steel tank a nicer-looking piece. Most of the parts were off-the shelf apart from the oil tank, which was made by local racer and fabricator Paul Crowell; Zabaro welded up the high-rise exhaust system. The build took three weeks and the initial tests showed great promise. Seasoned racer Mike Patrick put it through its paces in the desert and was very impressed with the prototype, finding it very capable. He suggested AMC change almost nothing for final production.

The prototype was called “Project 11” and displayed at the Earls Court show in 1966, where it caught the attention of Dennis Poore, the new owner of Norton-Villiers. He was so taken with the P11 that he pushed it into production in 1967. Norton developers implemented some changes for the production version, largely for the better. Modifications included a switch from magneto to twin coil capacitor ignition—a first for Norton. Amal Concentric carburetors were also used instead of the older Monobloc units, all in the name of better performance and reliability. “Cheetah 45” was tossed around as a possible name in pre-production, but the Project 11 prototype name was soon abbreviated to P11 and that was that.

Those high up saw the obvious financial advantages of using up existing stock to build the P11. With essentially all the parts on the shelf already, there was no costly development to be done—just some assembly and marketing. Less investment meant more profit, which was essential for struggling AMC. (As production went on, the P11’s specifications changed slightly depending on available stock, which makes tracking subtle model updates tricky for historians and restorers.)

Buyers in 1967 must have been chuffed to be able to lay their hands on the same lightweight frame and engine arrangement as the prototype, along with a solo seat and high rise exhaust which maintained the P11’s iconic off-road look. The tin work was coated in a candy apple red and the tank had the round Norton badge with grey pin stripes. Less obvious improvements were the weight-saving skimmed hubs and forks with off-road internals; after all, this was an “all-purpose motorcycle” and Berliner was advertising it to the public with capability front and center.

With the first batch of P11s delivered to ZDS, test rider Patrick got his pick of the bunch for the P11’s desert run in which it could prove its worth. Patrick made his own modifications, including changing out the Teledraulic forks for his preferred Roadholders and extending the rear swinging arm by an inch and a half. Both changes improved handling, with the latter helping with stability at speed. Larger, more serviceable air filters were fitted at right angles to the carburetors while a more rugged oil tank was fitted to handle abuse in competition. Patrick was clearly on to something, because he went on to win the heavyweight championship in 1968 on his P11. His victory proved the ability of both rider and machine, and blooming P11 sales certainly made Berliner pleased.

1968 would be the final year for competitive four-stroke twins in desert racing. Having ridden out the last of the desert competition with the P11, Norton looked to improve practicality for its successor, the 1968 P11A. Designed primarily as a road-going machine, the P11A benefited from low-slung pipes with an upswept back section—an aggressive styling decision which was a first for Norton. The exhausts also featured removable end caps and baffles, and Norton extended the seat to a wide dual seat for more comfortable touring with friends. Initially the P11A retained the alloy front mudguard that tended to crack under stress, so dealers would often replace them with chrome versions; it wasn’t long before AMC did the same on the production line. Like its predecessor, the P11A was another exercise in using up parts from the AMC bins. It came in a non-chromatic blue as well as the standard candy apple red.

The P11A became known as the Ranger by the end of 1968, but Norton only built it until November of that year. It is distinguished by the painted Norton decal on the tank and its stainless steel mudguards.

These are rare bikes built over an extremely brief span of time. With 2500 P11s made over a 20-month period, the P11 can be seen as a flash in the pan. But with its roots in desert racing and its superior power-to-weight ratio, the Norton P11 is a seriously desirable motorcycle among those with an affinity for off-road racing. Its hybrid components are also a fascinating example of Norton’s tie-in with AMC, all of which planted the seed for the Commando that followed.

The post Stock Stories: 1967 Norton P11 appeared first on Hagerty Media.

It produced less than 50 hp and had a top speed of not much more than 100 mph, but for many riders Yamaha’s raw, racy RD350LC was the high-performance bike of the ’80s.

In many ways, the LC had it all: acceleration, excitement, and handling—plus reasonable practicality, reliability, and economy. Although it had an appetite for fuel and two-stroke oil, the LC was relatively cheap to buy and to run. And it looked great, too, with a restrained style that contrasted with its exuberant personality.

Introduced in 1980, the RD350LC, its LC standing for “liquid-cooled,” was a descendant of the string of outstanding air-cooled two-stroke twins that had earned Yamaha an unmatched reputation for middleweight performance. The line had begun with the 347cc YR1 in 1967, and continued through the ’70s with models including the RD350 and RD400.

The familiar RD initials stood for “race developed,” and were well deserved. Yamaha riders including Britain’s Phil Read had won 250- and 350cc world championships in the ’60s and ’70s, firstly on air-cooled twins and then on the liquid-cooled TZ250 and 350.

The RD350LC was developed alongside an RD250LC sibling that was visually near-identical apart from its front brake having one disc rather than two. The larger, 347cc engine produced 47 hp, a few up on the air-cooled RD400. The LC’s liquid cooling allowed steadier engine temperatures and closer tolerances, and it also reduced noise.

Chassis layout was also influenced by Yamaha’s racers: Instead of a twin-shock layout like the RD400, the LC had a TZ-style monoshock system with the unit angled diagonally under the seat. The 18-inch cast wheels had stylishly curved spokes but in other respects the chassis was conventional, with a twin-downtube steel frame, non-adjustable front forks, and slightly raised handlebars.

Initial reaction was not all positive; some testers wondered whether the LC was too aggressive to appeal to more than a limited section of the market. It didn’t appeal to everyone—but for riders looking for high performance on a low budget, no other bike came close. With a 110-mph top speed, wheelie-popping acceleration, and racetrack credibility, the “Elsie,” as it was soon nicknamed, was the bike of a speed-crazed teenager’s dreams.

Decades later, it still has a rarely matched ability to put a smile on its rider’s face. The entertainment begins the moment you kick the engine into life; there’s no electric starter. The two-stroke powerplant fires with a burbling, rather harsh sound through the twin pipes, which belch a fair bit of smoke and fumes.

Along with good, clear instruments, the Yamaha has excellent controls and a light clutch. Its low-rev performance is pretty feeble; there’s not much power available below about 6000 rpm. That contributed to the Yamaha being docile and easy to ride in town, where its relatively upright riding position also helped make it comfortable. [This is starting to sound like the bike equivalent of the Honda Integra Type-R. —Ed.]

On reaching the open road, though, the RD350LC comes alive. One moment the bike was dawdling along behind a line of cars at about 50 mph; the next, a gap appeared in the oncoming traffic, I stamped down two gears, wound back the throttle, and held on tight as the Yamaha streaked towards the horizon with enough force and noise to send a tingle down my spine.

Somehow the wind-blown riding position and the high-pitched shriek of the exhaust combined to make the bike feel as though it was traveling faster than it really was. In reality, the realistic maximum cruising speed was about 85 mph, so the LC wasn’t fast even by early-’80s superbike standards. At least this now means it can now be caned enjoyably hard on main roads without too much danger to your license.

The Yamaha also provides plenty of entertainment in corners, where its light weight (308 pounds) contributes to very flickable handling. The frame was sufficiently stiff, and its basic geometry and chassis layout good enough, to allow hard riding. This bike’s suspension feels a bit soft and bouncy at times, more than I recall when the LC was new, but still encouraged me to aim into turns with plenty of enthusiasm.

This bike was fitted with non-standard braided front brake lines, which helped the twin discs’ old-fashioned single-piston calipers deliver a respectable amount of stopping power. The narrow Pirelli tires can’t match the performance of wider modern radials, but they gave enough grip to exploit the slim Yamaha’s abundant ground clearance.

Following the LC’s launc,h its impact was boosted by a spectacular one-make racing series. The RD350 Pro-Am championship was contested by a mixture of professional and amateur riders (hence the name) including future 500cc grand prix star Niall Mackenzie. They rode identical bikes that were prepared by Yamaha and allocated by drawing keys from a hat. The result was close, aggressive racing that made great TV and helped earn the LC a cult following with speed-crazed youths.

As well as being quick the Yamaha was also improbably versatile, as one of my favorite trips confirmed. In 1982, I rode to the south of France and back on one, loaded with pillion passenger, throw-over panniers, and tent. The little two-stroke was hardly a tourer but it cruised at an indicated 80 mph-plus on the highway, was quick and agile over winding Alpine passes, and didn’t miss a beat in over 1500 miles. I don’t even recall it being uncomfortable, perhaps partly because we had to stop for fuel every 90-odd miles.

The original LC’s reign was quite short; for 1984 it was replaced by a revamped model, characterized by a new exhaust power valve, which opened and closed to optimize performance throughout the rev range. Other new features, including a bikini fairing and some chassis upgrades, helped make the “Power Valve” LC another hit. Later variants included the fully faired RD350LC F2, which was built in South America rather than in Japan, allowing a more competitive price.

By the time Yamaha retired the LC in the mid-’90s it had been produced in its various forms for well over a decade, and sold in huge numbers all over the world. Almost 30 years after that, its reputation is intact and the original model, in particular, remains one of the best-loved bikes of all time.

1981 Yamaha RD350LC

You’ll love: Rev-happy two-stroke thrills
You’ll curse: Often abused, so buy carefully
Buy it because: Sublime small-bore superbike

Condition and price range: Project, $3500; nice ride, $5500; showing off, $8000
Engine: Liquid-cooled two-stroke parallel twin
Capacity: 347cc
Maximum power: 47 hp @ 7000 rpm
Weight: 308 lbs without fluids
Top speed: 110 mph

Via Hagerty UK

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Whether you have a passion for motorcycles or not, this report from Hagerty UK‘s Colin Goodwin at one of Europe’s greatest riding events is truly immersive. The vibe, thanks in part to the eye of shooter AJ Boothman, presents a bit like America’s own Race of Gentlemen in Wildwood, New Jersey, albeit on two wheels. So, are you more croque-monsieurs or pork roll, egg, and cheese on a bagel?  –EW 

At my school we had a film club, and one Sunday evening a screening changed my life. It was called On Any Sunday and it was about motorcycle racing in the United States. Many of you will have seen it, I’m sure. Steve McQueen, who was a talented off-road motorcycle racer (far more accomplished than he was on four wheels), stars in the film. On Any Sunday showed a variety of bike sports from road racing to flat track to motocross, but above all it showed how cool motorcycling is as a pastime. I came away from that film knowing that I had to own a motorcycle as soon as I was old enough to do so.

Almost fifty years later and five decades of biking behind me, I am at an event that has an atmosphere that reminds me of that film. It is called Wheels and Waves, and it is held in Biarritz, France. Biarritz is on France’s western coast, the last big town before you hit the Spanish border. A town that rivaled Monte Carlo as a hang out for the wealthy and the beautiful and today is much more attractive and appealing than that famous enclave. There is a large casino and several fabulous beaches. But for five days at the beginning of July it is invaded by thousands of motorcycle enthusiasts.

Now in its eleventh year (and after a break of a couple of years due to you know what) the Wheels and Waves festival is a celebration of motorcycling, and in particular the custom scene. Choppers, bobbers, café racers, classics, vintage off-road bikes; you’ll see them all here. So big has it become, so cool is its reputation, that several motorcycle manufacturers not only attend and have stands showing their latest models, but most commission special machines for the event. Triumph, Royal Enfield, BMW and Honda are all here in force, each with a couple of very special custom machines on show.

You could get away with rocking up at Wheels and Waves in a classic ‘60s American pickup truck, but to arrive in a Hyundai rental car or something as equally dull would be unthinkable. After all, what would Steve McQueen have thought? BMW France kindly lent me an R18 cruiser that wasn’t being used on its stand or for test rides (most of the manufacturers offer test rides on their machines). This imposing bikem with its 1800-cc twin-cylinder boxer engine, gives one immediate cred in Biarritz. And you need transport at the event not only so that you feel like you’re taking part, but because there are events that take place outside of Biarritz that are essential viewing.

The first is a hillclimb that was held on the the first day of the festival on Wednesday, across the border in Spain at the wonderfully named town of Jaizkibel. We weren’t in Biarritz in time for the hillclimb but we won’t make that mistake; if it has half the atmosphere of the other attractions that we did see then it’s not to be missed.

The first of those was ‘The Race of the Lords WAW vintage rally’, essentially a vintage motocross gathering at a massive off-road facility outside the town of Magescq about an hour north and inland of Biarritz. The ride there was magic (and even better on the way home thanks to the dramatic view of the Pyrenees as you approach Biarritz).

Hot, dusty and dramatic, it was a scene straight out of On Any Sunday. That film was released in 1971 and the machines that featured in the off-road part of the movie were classic two-stroke Maicos, Husqvarnas, Suzukis, and Yamahas, as well as the odd big four-stroke Triumphs that McQueen himself adored. There are more modern bikes at the Race of the Lords, water-cooled ‘strokers from the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, but it’s the earlier stuff that is the most cool.

As its name suggests, the Rally is more an opportunity to wheel out some great bikes and give them a thrashing than it is a race. That said, clearly some of the riders are very experienced off-road competitors. You expect to see a modern Honda airborne but to see a rider in a ’70s-style jersey fifteen feet up in the air on a Triumph twin is something else. I’m rubbish at off-road riding but I desperately wished that I was there with a Husqvarna like the one McQueen rode, along with similarly-mounted mates along a beach in the film. (Wearing an open-face helmet of course.)

During a break in the action there is a sand race in which a pair of riders blast off down a course, round a couple of oil drums a few hundred meters away, and then charge back to the finishing line. It’s a simple discipline but made very dramatic for riders and spectators by the machinery that’s used. There’s an early Triumph but most of the riders are on 1940s or earlier Harley-Davidson and Indian V-twins. Hand gearchanges, foot clutches, often a front brake lever on the “wrong side,” these old machines take a bit of controlling, especially on sand. The riders all look the part, wearing period kit.

If you live in the UK and ride bikes like me, and have been doing so since the late ‘70s, you will remember that riders used to wave at each other when passing on the road. It seems to have died out today but they still do it in France. More usually it’s a foot taken off a rest and waggled so that the throttle doesn’t close, but the effect is a great feeling of camaraderie and fellowship. All the way back to Biarritz, Moto Guzzis, Harleys, Triumphs, and BMWs flash past, their drivers offering the greeting.

In the evening we wander around the WAW village, down by the sea in an area of Biarritz suitably named Cité de l’Océan. Here there are numerous stalls selling bike gear, others selling vintage spares and yet more manned by custom bike builders who have brought along their latest creations. Almost all are impressive but some are utterly breathtaking. There’s street food, live music, and a short walk to the beach for surfing competitions that run throughout the five-day event.

I suspect that the Waves part of the scene is one of the reasons why there are so many young people here. That said, judging by the number of young people riding around on bikes, it is the Wheels also that appeal. I find it immensely uplifting to see my favorite passion being taken up by a new generation.

Saturday we’re back at Magescq for another day of heat, dirt, and the smell of hot oil. Today it is El Rollo Dirt Track. If you’ve seen On Any Sunday you’ll have never forgotten the amazing scenes shot at flat track races. Harley-Davidson XR750 twins racing at up to 120 mph on the straights and with no front brake. A much shorter course has been built for El Rollo so the speeds are less dramatic, but the action is no less tame and the falling off equally wince-inducing.

The riders and machines are separated into classes based on period. In the earliest group we meet again our friends from sand race the day before riding their flathead American V-twins and pushrod vintage Triumphs, sliding bravely through the turns while making adjustments and managing 80 year-old controls. The races are brilliant to watch and as with the motocross and enduro bikes, there is nostalgia to be had for anyone over forty years-old—and a new experience entirely for those younger still. I’d make even more of a hash riding flat track than I would have done on the motocross track, but still I wish I was on the other side of the barrier.

In truth, every rider is part of Wheels and Waves. The village at Cité de l’Océan is the hub of the event but on every street in Biarritz centre ville, stunning bikes line the curbs. A parking lot on the ocean front, just off a road that must be several hundred feet above sea level, has been shut off to cars and each evening is crammed full of hundreds of bikes and riders who watch the sun dip into the Bay of Biscay.

I left school at the end of the 1970s with a set of low grades, but it wasn’t time wasted. That film club started a love affair that has yet to wane. Visiting the Wheels and Waves festival has supercharged that passion. If you have an old Maico motocross bike (we called it scrambling back in the days of flares and glam rock) covered in dust and cobwebs, let me know. I have little talent, and even less bravery, but I have within me a burning desire to further absorb the Wheels and Waves atmosphere. On Sunday or any other day.

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We’re sharing this report from our friends over at Hagerty UK. The legislation is surely troubling to bike enthusiasts across the pond. If you feel passionately about regulations of this sort gaining traction in the U.S. or Canada, it’s never a bad idea to reach out to your local elected representatives. –Ed.

 ***

An eerie silence is set to descend over motorcycle showrooms, from 2030. Sales of new petrol-powered mopeds and motorcycles are set to be banned from 2030 and 2035 respectively, the UK government has announced.

A consultation was launched yesterday, and will close on 21 September. However, most within the motorcycle and wider automotive industry expect it’s a foregone conclusion, given sales of combustion-powered cars are already set to end from 2030.

The government estimates there were 1.4 million motorcycles licensed for the road, in 2020. While some riders had hoped that new bikes would avoid any switch to electrification, the Department for Transport has said it doesn’t want bikes to continue with fossil fuel “as the rest of the vehicle fleet cleans up.”

It says: ‘Zero emission motorcycles and other powered two wheelers are an efficient and clean form of mobility that can reduce congestion, improve urban air quality and reduce noise – we will take forward measures to remove these emissions, including consulting on a date to end the sale of new non-zero emission motorbikes, ensuring we support the development of new industrial opportunities for the UK.’

In preparation, the DfT says it has earmarked £582 million for grants toward plug-in motorcycles, vans and taxis.

However, the Motorcycle Industry Association (MCIA) has criticized the government’s strategy. It says the bike industry needs more time to phase out larger, combustion-powered motorcycles, and says smaller, petrol-powered bikes are more efficient and cleaner than most electric cars.

“The Government has not considered the complexities of the L-Category sector in terms of what is and isn’t feasible when it comes to phasing out the other key segments of the market,” MCIA Chief Executive Tony Campbell said.

“The MCIA and its members will be continuing to push the case for why large capacity motorcycles need more time to phase out and are looking forward to fully engaging with the consultation process to ensure the best outcome for industry”.

However, Harley-Davidson has already brought an electric motorcycle to market—the Livewire. And British motorcycle brands are already working toward electrically powered large motorcycles. Norton has secured what it calls ‘significant funding’ funding from the Advanced Propulsion Centre to research and an electric motorbike satisfies the brand’s criteria for performance, touring range, and lightweight handling. Triumph, meanwhile, has been learning from its first prototype electric bike, the TE-1, which offers a 100 mile range, 175bhp kick and weighs 220 kg.

Those who have a craving for their first or indeed last petrol-powered motorbike now face the head-scratching moment where they’ll have to decide when to take the plunge, before such new bikes vanish from showrooms.

Via Hagerty UK

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There is likely no such thing as a do-it-all motorcycle. Compromise degrades capability in the vast majority of cases. A sports machine will not make a great touring bike, and a touring bike won’t be leading the A group at a track day. This isn’t news to you or me. What is news? How little compromise is required on modern machines. And the bike that reset my brain was the 2021 Aprilia Tuono 660. 

Aprilia is young in the motorcycle game. Founded just after World War II, the Italian marque began life as a bicycle company before transitioning to scooters and, eventually, small-displacement motorcycles. The firm didn’t produce a large-bore motorcycle until the 1990s, but for fans of Italian machines, it was worth the wait. Ducati may be most associated with peninsula-production tropes and jokes, but older Aprilias carry the same fussy, high-maintenance reputation that Ducatisti are so proud to endure. Things shifted in 2004, when the company was acquired by the Piaggio Group. This move made Piaggio the world’s largest motorcycle production group, and the Tuono, introduced shortly thereafter, became the award-winning staple of the Aprilia line. 

The Tuono is an interesting experiment: Take an unbridled, 1000-cc superbike, then strip off most of the fairing. Ditch the clip-ons in favor of a tubular handlebar bolted to the top triple clamp, then shorten the gearing a bit. The end result is a hoon machine that gives a rider lots of leverage on the front tire plus tons of power on tap. Comfortable and fast, the Tuono became the superbike for those who couldn’t or didn’t want to deal with uncomfortable, track-focused superbike ergonomics. Now that package has downsized to supersport level—same basic idea wearing a smaller engine, for more approachable power.

The Tuono 660 shares its chassis and powertrain with Aprilia’s RS660 sportbike. That means a 660-cc, dual-overhead-cam parallel-twin. Interestingly, where most parallel twins feature an engine case split vertically—two castings mated to make one case, with the seam between running up and down—the Tuono’s case is split horizontally. The cylinders themselves are machined into the top half of the case. What that means for service access in the hands of an ordinary mechanic is unknown; this engine design is only a few years old. 

The Tuono’s 95 hp and 50 lb-ft come on in extremely linear fashion. That twin doesn’t really come alive until 7000 rpm, but Aprilia says that 80 percent of the Tuono’s 660’s peak torque is available from just 4000 rpm, and that’s partly why the Tuono is so much fun to ride. 

Combine that flat torque curve with low gearing—like most superbikes, the RS660 is geared for track work, while the Tuono is aimed at back roads—and you have a bike that happily squirts in and out of traffic. The Aprilia’s personality also makes canyon carving a dream, as the shifter is nearly set-and-forget. You’d be missing out if you didn’t shift it, though, as the factory-installed quickshifter is downright slick. It’s one of, if not the best, that I’ve tried, and it made snatching gears a delight. Both that shifter and all other rider controls are adjustable, which is a nice touch. 

Also customizable are the five riding modes: Commute, Dynamic, Individual, plus the track-focused Challenge and Time Attack. These modes adjust the intervention of the Aprilia’s standard traction control and wheelie control, along with the bike’s ABS calibration and engine-braking strength. Switching through the modes brought noticeable changes, but happily, none outright neutered the machine or its character. Dial back the wheelie control in Individual—that mode allows you to adjust each electronic parameter separately—and the bike is just one small bounce of the front end from nice, stable wheelies. 

The mode-select controls live on the left grip, and the results are displayed on a tidy dashboard tucked behind the minuscule windscreen. The dash can get a little busy at times, displaying a lot of information, but it remained bright and readable in our test conditions, even in the high Southern California sun. The bar-shaped tachometer enjoys prominent placement and works in non-linear fashion, with idle to 3500 rpm occurring vertically on the left while the remainder of the rev range is displayed horizontally. This is a sneaky way to make a rider subconsciously keep the revs a little higher than they regularly might, and it works. The gear indicator just to the right of redline is also nice and clear, always obvious as you row through the gearbox and surf that nice, flat torque curve. 

Keep the front wheel on the ground like a boring person, you still won’t be disappointed. The rider triangle was quite comfortable for each of our small group of test riders, with heights ranging from five-ten to just over six feet. The leverage offered by that broad handlebar makes hustling down canyon roads a breeze. Those same bars did give a slight buzz at cruising speeds, as did the pegs, but it’s not annoying—more like just enough to remind you that you’re riding a motorcycle. Set the cruise control on the right grip, you can knock off miles with comfort that most bikes this quick can only imagine. 

The Jekyll-and-Hyde switch was nearly unnoticeable. Come to the end of a back road after hanging off the bike in your best MotoGP impression, and before you’ve merged with commuter traffic, the Ape will feel like it’s just tootling out for coffee.

One of the most impressive things about the Tuono is how that split personality manifests in the suspension. The front features 41-mm forks with adjustments for preload and rebound damping, while the rear is a linkage-free monoshock (one end of shock pivoting on the frame, one on the swing arm, no other links) with the same adjustability. The tuning and geometry required to make this kind of arrangement work in a world where finely tuned progressive linkages are common is not insignificant. 

We rode the Tuono back to back with a good sportbike and a good standard motorcycle, and the experience illustrated how the Aprilia falls into an interesting place. It somehow succeeds at being a jack of all trades. That phrase traces back pretty far in human history, but the second part was added—or at least documented—only recently: “A jack of trades, master of none, but oftentimes better than master of one.” 

The Tuono lives out that modern revision. All-round motorcycles aren’t a new concept, but the Tuono 660 is the latest spin on the idea. If you’re in the hunt for a nicely appointed and practical fun machine with just enough character, this one is very much worth shopping for. 

2021 Aprilia Tuono 660

Price: $10,499

Highs: Punchy, usable power in confidence-inspiring chassis. Italian flair without being overkill. Handlebar helps with comfort.

Lows: Insectoid styling will be polarizing. Engine is young, so reliability is yet to be proven.

Summary: Not a forever bike, but a fling you’ll never forget.

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Silent and immovable, the King of the Roads sits at the crest of a treeless hill. Below rise the sounds of motorsport’s most dangerous discipline: shrieks of engines, static-laced loudspeaker broadcasts, hum of thousands of spectators. A patina of gray and green has covered Joey Dunlop and his Honda RC51 motorcycle, except for one spot—the throttle, rubbed to bronze by visitors hoping to carry home some of the racer’s magic.

Though the King has become legend, he was once an ordinary man. William Joseph Dunlop was born near Ballymoney, Northern Ireland, in February of 1952. His cottage home was typical of rural Ulster—no running water, rudimentary electrical system rigged up by the father. Dunlop Sr. was a mechanic, and there were eventually six in the family to feed. Every summer, wee Joey was out picking potatoes in the fields with his friends from school.

Motorcycle road racing boasts a hundred-year history in Northern Ireland, dating to immediately after 1920’s Government of Ireland Act split the island north and south. The old days had a piratical spirit, Nortons and Imperial-JAPs dicing it up on roads that weren’t officially closed. To ensure the sport’s continuation, owners quickly became organized, and the first official Ulster Grand Prix was held in October of 1922.

Dunlop was introduced to motorcycle racing at age fifteen. His friend, Mervyn Robinson—whom everyone called Robo—had begun racing in 1968. Robinson was a skilled mechanic, expert at cobbling bikes into roadworthy machines with parts scrounged on a thin budget. Joey started racing the following year on a Triumph Cub. Since they didn’t have enough parts to keep both motorcycles competition-ready, the pair occasionally swapped parts between bikes.

In 1971, local racer Ray McCullough rode a two-stroke 500cc Yamaha prepared by the mechanical engineering department at Queen’s University Belfast to victory at the Ulster Grand Prix. As a hometown lad who beat several world champions, McCullough became a hero to many, and any race he entered had a cheering section. But some noted that a short, perpetually greasy young fellow was often keeping up on a bike that looked barely held together.

By 1975, Joey Dunlop had a proper sponsor—John Rea of Rea Haulage—and he won his first race in the 500cc class at North Ireland’s Temple 100. The Rea and Dunlop families were already friends, and motorcycle racing would become a shared lineage: John’s grandson Jonathan Rea is Superbike’s first six-time world champion (2015–2020). Despite his North Ireland roots, however, Joey Dunlop would solidify his place in the racing annals on the roads of another island.

Starting May 28 and running until June 11, the Isle of Man Tourist Trophy (TT) races resumed in 2022 after a two-year hiatus. It’s a week-long spectacle you can’t imagine anywhere else in the world: Packs of motorcyclists yowling through narrow streets flat-out, unforgiving stone walls just inches away. Riders casually refer to life-ending obstacles as “the furniture.” On the high mountain sections, flocks of seabirds sometimes cross the road, shredding fairings if hit at speed.

Since Ayrton Senna’s fatal crash in 1994, only one driver has died because of Formula 1 competition (Jules Bianchi passed away in 2015 from injuries sustained during the 2014 Japanese Grand Prix). In that same time, 90 riders have been killed while contesting Isle of Man races. Even when riders avoid death, they are wise to prepare for maimed bodies and broken bones.

(Then again, you could say the same thing about non-competitive motorcycle riding. If bikes did not already exist, would any government safety agency allow people to ride them at highway speeds protected by no more than a crash helmet and a leather jacket—sometimes, not even those? The danger is always there: but it’s not the point of riding, it’s the byproduct.)

For Joey Dunlop, racing on the Isle of Man was like coming home. Following his debut in 1976, he won his first race there in 1977. By 1981 he had signed with Honda’s team, and it was game, set, and match. Over the course of his career, he would win twenty-six TT races, more than anyone else. In 2000, his last year of competition, the 48-year-old won three different Tourist Trophy races (F1, Senior, and Junior) during a single week of racing … for the third time (his other two “hat tricks” occurred in ’85 and ’88). Today, the overall champion at the Isle of Man TT (according to World Championship points) is awarded the Joey Dunlop trophy.

Dunlop’s racing resume speaks eloquently of his skill, but it says little about the man’s character. Though he would race, and win, time and again, little changed for Dunlop from those early days. He was painfully shy when interviewed, with a thick Ballymoney accent that overseas audiences struggled to understand. When back home, he’d happily stop and chat with the locals, absent any superstar airs. He insisted on wrenching on his own racing bike in his home workshop, often to the frustration of Honda’s team of engineers. He continuously spent his offseasons in quiet charity work, filling up his transporter van with supplies and traveling alone to eastern European orphanages to distribute them.

Withdrawn and self-effacing, Joey Dunlop forged his fame in an era of religious tension unfamiliar to most in the Western world. From the late ’60s through the 1990s, Northern Ireland was rent by political and nationalist divides that were exacerbated by religious sectarianism and frequently flared into violence. The IRA agreed to a ceasefire in 1994, and 1998’s Good Friday Accords disarmed remaining paramilitary groups, but, to this day, those rifts lie barely under the surface. Though the Dunlop family belonged to Northern Ireland’s Protestant majority, motorcycle racing surely represented a rare and precious kind of freedom for Joey.

The cost, however, was high. In 1980, Dunlop lost three friends to racing crashes in a single year, including Mervyn Robinson. Though Dunlop was married for nearly thirty years to his childhood sweetheart, Linda Patterson, none of his statues wears a wedding band, since a crash that cracked his pelvis lost Joey his fourth finger at the age of 46. Motorcycle road racing would claim his brother Robert, his nephew William, and, on July 2, 2000, Joey himself.

Not a month after he captured his historic triple at the Isle of Man TT, Joey Dunlop was killed while leading a race in Estonia. Conditions were wet. After appearing to lose control, he crashed into a stand of trees and died instantly.

Dunlop’s funeral was the largest held in Northern Ireland for decades. Riders and fans came from all over the world to pay tribute, some 50,000 people or more. The moment was so powerful it quelled protests at Drumcree, a flashpoint for Catholic-Protestant conflict heating up for the July 12 march. Standing, heads bowed, the people buried their hero, the man they called the King of the Roads. A memorial was set up in the place he died, another in his home town.

The motorcycle community also commissioned a statue and placed it atop the Snaefell mountain course on the Isle of Man, with Dunlop’s bronze gaze directed to Bungalow Bend. You can drive there yourself and climb up to the memorial, looking down to trace the road until it disappears over the hills against the backdrop of the Irish sea. If you do, touch the Honda’s throttle for luck.

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If you were asked to describe BMW’s 1972-model R75/5, it’s unlikely that words like “flashy,” “extravagant,” or “impractical” would spring to mind. Apart from shiny tank panels, the 745cc boxer looks every bit a sensible old-school boxer, with its big mudguards, gaitered forks, and a generously sized dual seat.

But half a century ago this updated R75/5 caused a rumpus when BMW, aiming to shed its dowdy touring image, introduced a smaller, 18-liter gas tank with chromed panels to its top-of-the-range roadster. The firm had already broken with tradition following the R75/5’s launch three years earlier by offering its 24-liter tank not just in black paint but in alternatives including blue, green, and mustard.

The color choice was popular, helping the boxer compete against the new generation of superbikes like Ducati’s GT750 V-twin, Honda’s CB750 four, and Suzuki’s GT750 triple. The smaller tank capacity might have worked, too, but the chromed “toaster tank” would prove a step too far for BMW’s conservative customers, the vast majority of whom opted for the larger-tanked, more modestly finished version instead.

This period was already one of big change for BMW, whose boxer engine layout dated back almost another 50 years to the R32 of 1923. The R75/5—along with its smaller siblings, the 599cc R60/5 and 496cc R50/5—began a new era. They were built on a new production line in Berlin rather than in Munich, leaving the old factory to the car division.

They were more modern too, notably with their use of telescopic forks in place of the old-style Earles units. A new frame had twin downtubes that curved upwards just behind the engine, giving a look reminiscent of Norton’s Featherbed. The bolt-on rear subframe disappointed some traditional BMW riders because it was too weak to support a sidecar.

The engine retained the basic layout of air-cooled, pushrod-operated flat-twin. But the /5-series unit was larger, partly because its tall top section incorporated an electric starter. Aluminium cylinder barrels and a one-piece forged crankshaft helped give the R75/5 a maximum output of 50 hp at 6200 rpm.

The toaster tank might have been too flashy for most BMW riders back in 1972 but on a dull day decades later it adds a welcome touch of sparkle to this boxer, whose original chromed sidepanels are missing despite a recent restoration. Instant starting was not one of the early 75/5’s strengths (later models had a larger battery to help), but this bike came quickly to life at a press of the button on the narrow handlebars.

I barely noticed the BMW’s traditional flat-twin torque-reaction lurch to one side as the engine fired up. First gear went in with less of a clonk than I’d expected, too. But the bike still felt every bit an old-school boxer as I pulled away, its rear end rising in characteristic shaft-drive fashion.

At slow speeds the 75/5’s manners are every bit as good as might be expected of an aristocratic machine whose 1972 price of almost £1200 (~$20,700 today) meant it cost several hundred pounds more than Honda’s sophisticated CB750. The BMW had a pleasantly flexible feel, with no sign of the heavy throttle action that was criticized in one contemporary magazine test.

The BMW was respectably light by 750cc standards, at 419 pounds, which helped make it quick off the mark despite being softly tuned. Its 0-to-60 mph time was less than six seconds, impressive at the time. It rumbled through the standing quarter-mile in a respectable 14 seconds, heading for a top speed of about 110 mph.

Even so, the BMW’s flexibility and long-legged feel make more of an impression than its outright pace. At most engine speeds the engine is very smooth. Although the gearbox has only four ratios, with a big gap between third and fourth, the bike sat at an indicated 80 mph in top feeling relaxed and unburstable.

In corners the 75/5 lives up to old BMWs’ reputation for reliable if less than sporty handling. The forks were quite well damped, and didn’t dive as much as I’d expected when I gave the reasonably powerful front drum brake a squeeze. Although the shocks were quite soft they worked fine, especially after I’d wound on some extra preload using the levers at the bottom of each spring.

Steering into a tight turn required a fair heave on those narrow handlebars, thanks partly to the BMW’s conservative geometry and 19-inch front wheel. Once into a turn the twin held its line well and felt pleasantly planted, though care had to be taken not to cause the shaft-drive rear end to move down by closing the throttle. Especially as this bike’s crash-bars scraped before the Metzeler tires ran out of grip.

The 75/5’s levels of handling and engine performance made it one of the fastest bikes on the roads in the early ’70s. But the BMW’s practicality and long-distance comfort were just as important to the minority of motorcyclists who could afford one.

Minor drawbacks included pillion footrests that were too close to the silencers, resulting in some burned boot heels. But most details were good, including the roomy riding position, thick seat, and sturdy pillion grab-rail. If you had distance to travel in a hurry 50 years ago, few bikes even came close.

BMW managed a neat piece of promotion in 1973, when two R75/5s were taken to the Isle of Man in an attempt to win the Maudes Trophy, a historic award for endurance that had been achieved only twice since World War II. A team of 14 riders aimed to lap the TT circuit for seven days and seven nights.

They didn’t have it easy, suffering with continual rain, a crash, and clutch problems. But by the end of the week they’d covered more than 16,600 miles, which was deemed worthy of winning the Trophy and earned plenty of publicity.

By this time the chromed toaster tank was history, having been dropped after just one year. The R75/5 itself didn’t last much longer. For 1974 it was replaced by the R75/6, featuring a new disc front brake and five-speed gearbox.

At the same time the engine was enlarged to 898 cc and a handlebar fairing added to create the glamorous R90S, with its 125-mph performance and striking smoked paintwork. The R75/5 was gone, but it had been instrumental in dragging BMW from the monochrome ’60s into the colorful superbike scene of the ’70s.

1972 BMW R75/5

You’ll love: Flat-twin charm and practicality.
You’ll curse: Occasional reluctance to start.
Buy it because: Aging boxer still punches its weight.

Condition and price range: Project, $5500; daily rider, $8200; showing off, $18,300
Engine: Air-cooled pushrod flat-twin
Capacity: 745cc
Maximum power: 50 hp @ 6200 rpm
Weight: 419 pounds without fluids
Top speed: 110 mph

Via Hagerty UK

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There are two kinds of motorcycles: those where you fall in love immediately and later regret the feeling, and those where you slowly get to know the bike and long for it more with each passing day. The BMW R nineT Urban GS 40th Anniversary slots somewhere in the middle. If you’ve got the patience to warm up to it, it might become your favorite.

To understand the words “Urban GS,” we need to go back 40 years. A few people in Germany in the late 1970s had the crazy idea to assemble a motorcycle that could work for long-distance touring and off-road. “Ze people like ze adventure!” they said. From that came the first BMW G/S, the 1980–1987 R80 G/S. The letters stood for Gelände/Straße, or “off-road/road.” And my God, was that a good business choice. We can credit that bike with not only saving BMW Motorrad—the carmaker’s motorcycle division, then struggling—but also with winning the 1981 Paris-Dakar off-road race and birthing the now-booming adventure-bike segment.

Bravo. Next came the redesigned 1987 R80 GS and R100 GS (slash between the letters now omitted), and after that, the 1997 R1100 GS. The R1100 brought the styling language used on the “modern” GS: Picture big side luggage, unique Telelever front suspension, a front fender shaped like a bird’s beak, and looks best described as, “I’m not sure if this is pretty—what do you think?”

BMW’s lineup currently holds five GS models, from the small G310 GS to the hunky R1250 GS Adventure. The latter comes in at nearly 600 pounds wet, 50 pounds of that as fuel.

Alas, times have changed. Somewhere along the line, “Ze people like ze adventure!” became “Ze people like ze pavement!” Over the last 40 years, the GS range has skewed more toward on-road comfort. Now we have the confusingly named but brilliant R nineT Urban GS 40th Anniversary, aimed mostly at pavement. Where nostalgia meets a well-executed plan. Clocking in at $15,995, this odd-looking machine might not be immediately captivating, but it’s worth a ride before you decide.

When the R nineT was launched in 2014, BMW pitched the bike as a base for customizers. At the time, the company hoped to capitalize on the mass-market appeal of the retro-modern styling then driving new-motorcycle sales. (Ducati announced its successful Scrambler range at the same time, and for the same reason.) The R nineT quickly spawned a slew of variants, from cafe racers to scramblers, and the Urban GS joined the lineup in 2017. For 2021, all R nineTs received an array of updates: redesigned engine components for Euro 5 compliance, LED lighting, a new rear shock, road and rain ride modes, an optional dirt mode, cornering ABS, adjustable engine braking, a standard USB port, and minor cosmetic changes. The 40th anniversary model is, of course, unique to 2021.

Your first question will be whether the anniversary model’s “bumblebee” paint scheme is cool to you, or just to your BMW club, or to all your friends, or to nobody. When our test bike was delivered, Hagerty’s motorcycle-media staff stood around and pondered the question. There were comments like, “I like the gold wheels,” yet no one that was brave enough to speak up and call the thing good-looking. The yellow hand guards look almost identical to the ones on sale for $15 at your local dirt-bike shop. (BMW’s website says, “the yellow hand protector proves the attention to detail.” No kidding—parts-bin detail.)

Polarizing lines aside, there is history here. The R100 GS featured a similar paint scheme in the late Eighties and early Nineties. The 1170-cc, air-and-oil-cooled mill hanging from the nineT’s steel trellis frame is also nothing new. This engine was used in the previous R1200 GS and retired there in 2013, just as its life in the nineT began. The R1200’s replacement, the R1250, features water cooling, but the older motor offers a more vintage look and a more mechanical feel. Perfect for a retro bike meant to stir emotions. This is where my love affair begins.

If you haven’t ridden a boxer twin, it is an experience. These engines don’t whir or start slowly, as an inline-four might. They pop to life. The bike torques to the left as one of those 585-cc jugs hits top dead center. The Akrapovic exhaust barks a quick surprise. You smile a bit. The machine rocks a little between your legs.

Riding here is effortless when you want and engaged when you don’t. If many bikes ask you to be focused and involved, the BMW lets you go at your own pace and enjoy every moment. The twin’s torque means you don’t feel the need to change gear at every turn. This is important if you’re looking for a bike to truly enjoy and spend time on—for those times when you almost say, “I could just take the car,” then choose the bike instead.

The controls line up as one would expect. At six-foot-one, I didn’t feel cramped in arms or legs. The Urban GS gets a 19-inch front wheel and 1.7-degree shallower rake versus the standard R nineT’s 17-incher and steeper fork. This adds a more wallowy feel and slower turn-in, at least on dry pavement. Once again, don’t kid yourself and think you’ll be racing off-road or begging for a track day—this is a capable machine, but it’s not a sport bike. Think of a Swiss Army knife: It began life as an item of pure function, then eventually became a fashion accessory.

As useful as it is, the Urban GS comes with a few issues. First: the classic BMW gearbox clunk that every GS has had for years, that BMW says is normal despite the two million forum posts from owners asking why their gearbox is broken? It’s gone, replaced by a vast cavern in the transmission, below first gear on the shifter. My typical check for being in first gear is to tap down on the shift lever—if it’s solid, I’m in first. Simple. In first gear, the R nineT transmission instead feels as though it’s in a false neutral. In neutral and ready to go to first? It’s impossible to do that without letting the clutch out to spin the transmission first. A nuisance.

Second complaint: When the nineT was launched in 2014, basic analog dashes and simple controls were fine. Riders now expect more: TFT dashes and full electronic chassis aids are all but standard, and found on bikes far less expensive. (The similar Triumph 1200XC, for example, comes with a TFT dash, six ride modes, and keyless ignition, all for less cost than the BMW.) On top of that, the Urban GS offers a more basic dash than even the original, 2014-model nineT. You get a single analog gauge with a single-line digital readout for mileage and auxiliary information, nothing else.

So what is this bike, really? Gelände/Straße plus urban, so… urban off-road road? Weirdly, it all works, an unexpected balance. Any concerns disappear when nostalgia comes together with a well-executed plan. Forty years after BMW had an unexpected sales success with the original G/S, the R nineT represents another unexpected win. The Urban GS version is a nice nod to history, even if it does sear your eyeballs.

The post Review: 2021 BMW R nineT Urban GS 40th Anniversary appeared first on Hagerty Media.

If you’ve ever been in the perfect car but on a far-from-perfect road, then spare a thought for previous owners of the Moko Powa D10. Anything less than the neon-lit, vector-drawn world of Tron must seem like a disappointment after climbing into the saddle.

That futuristic dream could soon be yours, as one of only ten Moko Powa D10s ever made is coming up for auction through Car & Classic, when bidding opens on June 20.

Built in 1985—though you probably didn’t need telling—the D10 was the work of Powa Design, a Swiss firm led by designer Hans Walther that apparently made just a handful of bikes during the mid- to late-1980s.

The D10 was based on the altogether less-radical Yamaha FZ750, with the aim of maximizing its aerodynamic performance (and, one imagines, looking completely rad). Not an unusual concept in the motorcycling world, of course, but Walther took it to greater extremes than anything outside of salt-flats racers, covering the full length of the bike in an aerodynamic fairing.

An anteater-like nose stretche nearly to the floor, with extra fairings for the front brakes, while the twin exhausts and even the rear wheel feature covers to help air slip by undisturbed. Mechanically, though, the D10 was unchanged, its 20-valve inline four making just over 100 horsepower.

The effect—particularly with its futuristic (for the time) blue-tinted screen and matching seat and decals—ended up like a cross between the light bikes from Tron and hero Kaneda’s motorcycle from the cyberpunk manga Akira, both of which had emerged a few years previously in 1982.

If there were any inspiration from these two icons of pop culture, then perhaps the D10 itself went on to inspire others too, with Ducati’s fully-faired Paso and BMW’s K1—with its half-faired front wheel—emerging before the decade was out.

Neither of those is as rare, however, which is why this bike could be a real catch. It has covered under 7000 km (4350 miles) in the hands of three owners from new, and is said to be in very good, unrestored condition, with only minor blemishes.

There’s no estimate as yet, but a previous sale in 2016 (apparently of the same bike, registered in France in 2000, albeit listed as a 1988) was offered with a 20,000–26,000 Euro estimate (roughly $24,200–$31,450 in today’s dollars). Sure, you could find a regular FZ750 for less, but when that digitized grid world or post-apocalyptic cyberpunk city finally presented itself, you’d really want to be on the right bike.

Via Hagerty UK

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Some vehicles have a reputation that demands to be experienced firsthand, and the Vincent Rapide is definitely one of them. The bike’s name explains, though possibly doesn’t excuse, the fact that shortly after setting off on this 1950-vintage V-twin I was crouching over its petrol tank on a quiet dual-carriageway at a speed best not recorded here.

It was a magical feeling. The big, 988cc V-twin engine between my shins revved softly away and the needle of the big circular speedometer clicked around the dial. As I leant forward into the wind gripping the narrow, near-flat handlebar, the bike stayed stable, feeling as though it could maintain this pace until its petrol tank ran dry.

Speed was always the key attraction of the V-twins from Vincent, the Stevenage firm that produced some of motorcycling’s fastest and most glamorous bikes in the decade after World War II. They were also some of the most expensive. Still are, in fact—a few years ago, one sold at auction for almost $1M in U.S. dollars, a world record for a motorcycle.

Hence the title Speed is Expensive, given to a new movie that tells the glorious but all-too-short story of the firm and its founder Philip Vincent. As narrator Ewan McGregor puts it, the firm’s string of speed records “proved that the Vincent motorcycle was the work of a genius.”

Vincent’s reputation meant that I’d long wanted to ride one, but in doing so I risked disappointment. The Rapide might have ruled the road back in 1950, but it was long ago eclipsed by much more mundane machinery. Maybe this once mighty so-called “snarling beast” will seem old, heavy, and dull in the 21st century?

Not a chance. I was captivated from my first sight of a machine whose elegance gave no hint that this bike’s forebear, the original 1936-model Rapide, also earned the nickname “plumber’s nightmare” due to its abundance of external oil lines.

That first Rapide engine, designed by Vincent’s Australian chief engineer Phil Irving, had cylinders set 47 degrees apart. Legend has it that Irving’s inspiration for the V-twin came when two drawings of his single-cylinder Comet engine were blown into a vee shape by a breeze.

The subsequent Series B and C versions of the Rapide were powered by a modified, 50-degree engine with an integrated gearbox and a much neater appearance. The motor dominated the bike visually and was a stressed member of the chassis.

This Series C model’s engine cases were dulled in places but still looked good, enhanced by the marque logos on rocker covers and oil filler cap. There was also a small dent in the petrol tank, which was painted in Vincent’s traditional black with gold pin-striping. The finish was generally less than perfect but that’s because this bike had been ridden and enjoyed over the years rather than simply polished and admired.

It was standard except for a few details, including the big, black-faced 150-mph Smith’s speedometer, which was originally fitted only to the tuned Black Shadow. Other neat details were common to both models, including the sidestand on each side of the bike, the tommy-bar axles that allows both wheels to be removed quickly without tools, and the adjustable foot controls.

The Rapide doesn’t quite have the kudos of the Black Shadow, whose higher compression, polished engine internals, and bigger carbs increased power output from 45 to 55 hp, and top speed from 110 mph to 125 mph. Or precisely 150.313 mph when tuned to Black Lightning specification and ridden by Roland “Rollie” Free, stretched horizontally wearing only a swimming hat, trunks and canvas shoes, to set a world record at Bonneville in 1948—memorably captured in arguably motorcycling’s most famous image.

These days, age has blurred the difference between Vincent models. And any worries that this Rapide’s performance would disappoint disappeared within moments of my setting off. Its flat bars and tall seat gave an unusually high, leant-forward riding position for an old bike, and the attitude helped make the Vincent feel docile as I pottered along minor roads, enjoying the smooth feel of the engine—and its instant response to the throttle.

Given the briefest burst of acceleration, the Rapide proved why the tester from Motor Cycle wrote that: “There has never been a production model with so much to commend it as a road-burner’s dream. From 40 mph up to the maximum of over 100 mph there is thrilling performance available at the twist of the grip. Though the big engine and high gearing suggest easy, loping, fussless mile-eating, there is searing acceleration available if required.”

Decades later this Vincent still had what it required to be fun. Unlike almost any contemporary, it had the pace to keep ahead of modern traffic without feeling strained. And it also had the chassis performance to be enjoyable and safe even on busy roads, though it took some getting used to.

When I tipped the bike into the first tight turn, I was surprised to feel its rear end moving in disconcerting fashion, almost as though the rear wheel was loose. Nothing seemed amiss when I stopped to check. Then I realized that the feeling came from the Vincent’s seat, the rear of which was linked by a rod to the swing-arm, an arrangement which cause it to move slightly as the rear suspension was compressed.

That strange sensation aside, the Rapide handled well, steering quite heavily at low speed but feeling respectably light and maneuverable. This was partly because its wheelbase was short due to Vincent’s minimalist frame design, which used the engine as a key chassis member, in conjunction with a tubular steel frame spine (which carried engine oil) beneath the fuel tank.

This Series C Rapide benefited from Vincent’s own Girdraulic forks in place of the previous model’s conventional girders. It also gained a hydraulic damping unit between its diagonally mounted, side-by-side rear shock units, to assist the original friction dampers. Along with the relatively thick seat, its suspension made the Rapide comfortable even on the long, fast trips that were its speciality.

Braking was respectably good, too, thanks to Vincent’s equally advanced feature of twin drum brakes on both front and rear wheels. And its blend of Dunlop front and Avon rear tires gave no problems, even when I was making use of the generous ground clearance provided by the neatly tucked-in exhaust system.

In fact, the day’s only real problem was that eventually the Vincent began to misfire, and then refused to start after I’d stopped for lunch. The cause was a lack of sparks, due to a battery charging problem that meant it ended its day’s outing in the back of a rescue van.

Reliability was not generally an issue for Vincent, whose main problem was his bikes’ unavoidably high price. In 1950, the Rapide cost £361 (roughly $16,500 in today’s U.S. dollars)—which meant it was more than £60 cheaper than its Black Shadow sibling, but almost twice the £194 (~$8800) price of Triumph’s 650cc Thunderbird, which was launched the same year.

Perhaps it’s no surprise that by this time Vincent was already in deep financial trouble. The Rapide was a magnificent motorcycle but in the post-war years it was too expensive to sell in the numbers required. Adding a fiberglass fairing, to create the Black Knight, increased practicality but also weight and cost—and not sales.

That Speed is Expensive movie title also refers to the fact that Philip Vincent’s commitment to building fast but unprofitable V-twins led to financial ruin. Production ended in 1955. More than half a century later, the Rapide remains a glorious tribute to one man’s vision and refusal to compromise.

***

1950 Vincent Rapide Series C

Highs: V-twin performance with style

Lows: Maybe an occasional niggle

Summary: The ’50s never had it better.

—

Condition and price range: Project, $29,000; daily driver, $36,000; showing off, $42,500

Engine: Air-cooled pushrod V-twin

Capacity: 988 cc

Maximum power: 45 hp @ 5300 rpm

Weight: 456 pounds without fluids

Top speed: 110 mph

Via Hagerty UK

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Triumph’s promotional film for the 1977 Silver Jubilee Bonneville was a classic that still resonates today. A middle-aged former biker, having abandoned motorcycles to mortgage, marriage and kids, catches sight of the Bonnie on TV—and something snaps.

He leaps up, digs out his old helmet, goggles, and riding jacket, and rushes out to blow the contents of his building society account on a silver 750cc Triumph. Moments later he’s cruising down the road, huge grin on his face, totally rejuvenated by the best of British biking.

This year’s Platinum Jubilee pageant, celebrating the reign of Queen Elizabeth II, is another 45 years on, but the Silver Jubilee Bonneville still shines brightly. Cruising through tranquil Surrey countryside, with the parallel-twin motor delivering torquey low-rev performance and the soft, deep exhaust note providing a stirring soundtrack, the Triumph highlights the appeal of classic British motorcycling.

Before I’m accused of viewing the Bonneville through rose-tinted goggles, I’ll add that it had earlier annoyed me with several ailments, ranging from leaks to a notchy gearbox. Compared to Japanese rivals led by Suzuki’s fast and fine-handling GS750 four, which was released in the same year, the Bonneville was old when it was new. But if the limited-edition model that Triumph created to honor Queen Elizabeth’s quarter-century on the throne had its faults, it also had plenty going for it.

Back in 1977, creating a special Bonneville to mark the Silver Jubilee offered a welcome sales opportunity to a firm in terminal decline. In those days, Triumph’s factory at Meriden, in Coventry, was being run by the workers’ co-operative that had taken control after a sit-in that had begun four years earlier, following management plans to shut the loss-making factory and move production to BSA’s plant in Birmingham.

The Jubilee bike was essentially a cosmetic update of the standard T140 Bonneville, the 744cc, twin-carburetor roadster that dated back to the original 650cc T120 Bonneville of 1959. Its main feature was the special silver paint scheme with red, white and blue highlights, plus extra chrome on parts including forks, engine covers, and rear light.

The seat was blue with red pinstriping; and the wheels, which were originally fitted with Dunlop Red Arrow tires, featured red, white, and blue rims. Like the standard Bonnie, the Jubilee was built both in U.K. and American export spec, the latter with higher bars and smaller fuel tank. It came with a signed certificate of authenticity from Triumph, and with approval from Buckingham Palace.

This well-preserved U.K.-market model felt light and compact as I threw a leg over its seat; not surprising given its weight of just 187 kg (412 pounds). After I’d turned on the ignition near the left headlamp bracket and applied the carb-mounted choke, a gentle kick (no electric boot to help here) was enough to fire-up the motor, which came to life with a muted but pleasant twin-cylinder exhaust note.

First impressions were mixed. The combination of slightly upturned bars, forward-set footpegs and thick dual-seat was comfortable in town, and allowed a slight crouch into the wind that made higher speeds painless on more open roads. The motor pulled well at low revs but felt woolly in the midrange and wouldn’t rev out—until I realized the choke was vibrating partly shut.

Tightening a screw with a coin (a period accessory these days) cured that problem and the Triumph then ran much better, still hesitating slightly at about 55 mph in top gear before clearing to pull strongly until the inevitable parallel twin vibration began to intrude. Peak output was a claimed 52 hp at 6200 rpm, giving a top speed of just over 110 mph. At an indicated 75 mph the Bonnie was reasonably smooth, but upping the revs increased the buzz through seat and footpegs.

The motor lost marks in a couple of other ways, too. After stopping to top up with petrol I was less than impressed, though hardly surprised, to notice several black oil spots under the engine. Shortly afterwards I was miffed to find petrol soaking the right leg of my jeans, thanks to a leaky filler cap.

Another irritation was the gearchange, which was horribly notchy. Many enthusiasts reckon Triumph’s left-foot change was never as good as earlier right-footers, but most T140s (including the two I’ve owned) shift much more smoothly than this one, which required a firm left boot.

There was very little wrong with the handling, which in ’77 was good enough to let the Triumph keep up with all but the hardest ridden opposition, at least on a twisty road. Stability was excellent and the steering, although heavy by modern standards, allowed the Bonnie to be flicked around with satisfying ease.

This bike’s forks felt slightly harsh despite the rubber-mounted bars, but the simple Girling shocks gave an impressively plush ride. The narrow rubber gripped fine, and the single disc brake at each end worked pretty well although the front lacked feel. Thankfully I didn’t have the chance to discover whether the old problem of delay in wet weather was still an issue.

Such tribulations were frequent back in 1977, and didn’t prevent the Silver Jubilee Bonneville from being a success for ailing Triumph, despite costing £1149 to the standard T140’s £1012. The firm had planned a limited edition of 1000 bikes for the U.S. market, plus 1000 for Britain and elsewhere, and had to build an extra 400 machines in November to satisfy demand.

But although the Jubilee’s sales helped make 1977 a promising year for the Meriden co-op, the workers’ optimism proved misplaced. Shortly afterwards, the weakening dollar was partly responsible for a sales slump in Triumph’s vital American market, while debts continued to rise. Production was drastically cut; more workers were made redundant. Although Meriden struggled on long enough to introduce electric-start and eight-valve versions of the Bonnie, the end finally came in 1983.

Since then, of course, John Bloor has made Triumph great once again, while Queen Elizabeth has continued majestically on to her 70th year on the throne, albeit with a few family-generated bumps in the road. A new-generation Platinum Jubilee Bonneville would surely be well deserved.

***

1977 Triumph T140 Bonneville Silver Jubilee

Highs: Regal charm and poise.

Lows: Vulgar vibes and leaks.

Summary: A stylish Seventies souvenir.

—

Price (in U.S.A.): Project: $4500; Daily rider: $7200; Showing off: $10,000

Engine: Air-cooled parallel twin

Capacity: 744 cc

Power: 52 hp @ 6200 rpm

Weight: 412 pounds without fluids

Top speed: 115 mph

Via Hagerty UK

The post The Triumph Silver Jubilee Bonneville’s reign was short-lived appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Extremely high maximum speed. Abundant stamina. Pleasant manners. Traditional Norton handling. Real comfort.”

If a bike review began in such gushing terms these days, you might assume you were reading the predictable prattle of a social media influencer. In fact those words were published in February 1962, to start esteemed magazine Motor Cycling’s test of Norton’s new Dominator 650SS.

The Dominator made a big impression on its pudding-basined tester 60 years ago, despite mostly being ridden in cold and wet weather. Decades later, riding a well-preserved 650SS in suitably period headgear and thankfully better conditions, I found his enthusiasm easy to understand.

Especially when winding back the throttle on the exit of an anonymous bend somewhere in Sussex, to find the Norton responding with a thrillingly strong surge of acceleration. It was a magical moment as, with its taut chassis keeping everything stable, the 650SS showed off the speed and handling ability that once made it arguably the world’s finest sports bike.

At other times the silver Norton was less impressive. It vibrated more than I’d expected even of an old parallel twin, despite the fact that I kept the revs well below the 6800 rpm at which peak power was produced. There was a persistent oil leak, too, typical of Brit bikes of the time.

Even so, it was clear why the 650SS was rated so highly. With its 646-cc, twin-carburetor engine held in Norton’s famous “Featherbed” frame, the SS combined straight-line performance with the excellent handling for which the marque had become known. That Featherbed frame had its roots in a 1950 innovation, when Norton’s single-cylinder Manx race bike got a new frame designed by Rex McCandless, with its distinctive twin loops. The frame had gained its name following works racer Harold Daniell’s comment that his new bike felt like riding a feather bed.

The sleek silver SS—the initials stood for Sports Special—was Norton’s challenger to Triumph’s T120 Bonneville, which had been launched in 1959 with a twin-carburetor version of the firm’s 650-cc engine.

Norton’s twin-cylinder line had begun a decade before that, with the 500-cc Dominator Model 7, and grown to 597 cc in the mid-’50s with the Dominator 99. By 1961 there was an export-only model, the Manxman 650, with a bigger still 646-cc engine, plus a Sports Special version of the Dominator with twin carburetors and higher compression ratio.

Combining the Sports Special specification with the larger capacity produced a suitably hot new engine. The Dominator 650SS also gained a special downdraft cylinder head developed from Norton’s Domiracer, which had been raced at the previous year’s Isle of Man TT. A new exhaust system helped lift output to a healthy 48 hp.

The other vital part of the equation was the chassis. Previous Dominator roadsters had used versions of the Featherbed, so the 650SS’s blend of frame and Norton’s Roadholder forks was familiar. So too the bike’s silver finish, echoing Norton’s traditional racing livery. Options included chromed mudguards and the addition of a rev-counter alongside the Smith’s speedometer.

That speedo was put to good use, because the Dominator 650SS was capable of almost 120 mph. Its engine was also flexible and impressively economical, good for 50 mpg even when used hard. Here, for the first time, was a Norton twin that could live with the Bonneville on straight-line speed, as well as handling.

Given Norton’s reputation for high-quality chassis, it was no surprise that the 650SS also excelled in the bends. It was a purpose-designed sports model, with a firm ride and thin seat. Its steering and stability were outstanding, as was the efficiency of its drum brakes.

Motor Cycling, which recorded a one-way top speed of 119.5 mph from the SS, was not the only publication to be seriously impressed. Rival magazine The Motor Cycle managed 118 mph and applauded a “machine with such superb handling and braking as to make nearly two miles a minute as safe as a stroll in the garden.”

A well-maintained SS still feels good decades later, as my spin on this unrestored bike confirmed. For such a sporty model the Norton was admirably rider-friendly. It started easily and ran well at low revs, idling happily and feeling pleasantly smooth and responsive as it throbbed lazily through light traffic.

And when I reached the open road and wound back the throttle, the old bike justified that Sports Special designation. It leapt forward eagerly from about 50 mph, especially in third gear with one left in the four-speed box, its twin Amal carbs breathing hard through the “cheese-grater” style air filter.

Disappointingly, I didn’t feel I could risk trying to get the chrome-rimmed speedo’s needle round to the ton mark, let alone to 120 mph. Legality aside, the elderly Norton vibrated a fair bit at higher revs and was too mechanically noisy to encourage me to take it above 6000 rpm.

It sat at 70 mph feeling muscular and ready to go, though, with plenty more performance in hand. And its stability in a straight line and in fast curves was impeccable, thanks to the rigidity of the Featherbed frame, plus the firmness and damping control of the forks and Girling rear shocks.

There was a slightly vague feel when I cornered fairly hard through some tighter and bumpier bends, though nothing more than was to be expected of an unrestored bike of such age. Similarly, the single-leading-shoe front drum brake wasn’t hugely powerful, but did a reasonable job if helped by the controllable rear.

I could certainly see why the Dominator had been so well received on its launch all those years ago. Its roadholding was good, too, thanks to Dunlop TT100 front and Avon Roadrunner rear tires—capable rubber, if not the super-grippy Avon Grand Prix racing boots it wore when new.

Back in the early ’60s, Norton highlighted the 650SS’s performance with a string of successes in production endurance races. It won the prestigious Thruxton 500-mile event three years in a row and gained further recognition when it was voted Motor Cycle News machine of the year in 1962 and ’63.

The man from Motor Cycling’s words of praise had been justified; 60 years, later they still ring true. The Dominator 650SS’s blend of style, competitive straight-line speed, and Featherbed-framed handling ability made it one of the best bikes that the old Norton firm ever built.

***

1962 Norton Dominator 650SS

Highs: Acceleration, style, four-pot power

Lows: High-rev vibrations, oil leaks

Summary: Silver ’60s star

—

Price: Project, $5100; Daily rider, $6400; Showing off, $10,000

Engine: Air-cooled parallel twin

Capacity: 646 cc

Power: 49 hp @ 6800rpm

Weight: 401 pounds with fluids

Top speed: 115 mph

Via Hagerty UK

The post 60 years on, Norton’s Dominator 650SS earns its Sports Special name appeared first on Hagerty Media.

With custom-bike culture exploding in recent years, the history and importance of early two-wheeled machines are often overlooked. Stock Stories tells the tales of these motorcycles.

The end of World War II marked the beginning of a period of enormous automotive expansion, as well as the birth of a market hungry for cheap transport. This era boomed with demand for small-capacity motorcycles, and British firm BSA was one of many eager to enter the two-stroke arena. In the end, it was a German company that provided the necessary inspiration for one of BSA’s best-loved bikes, and at more than 250,000 examples built over more than two decades, one of the best-selling English motorcycles of all time: the Bantam.

DKW and the birth of the D1

DKW, one of the four rings in what is now Audi, was a master of the two-stroke. The automaker began developing two-strokes in the 1920s, and by 1939 it had the largest racing department in the world, with 150 staff members dedicated to motorsport activities alone. By the late 1930s, the DKW factory in Zschopauer was the largest motorcycle plant in the world, having built more than half a million bikes. One of the brand’s most successful models was the RT 125, a lightweight, 125-cc unit. For BSA, it would prove the key to breaking into the two-stroke market.

The RT 125 engine was designed by Herman Weber, with its defining elements being twin-loop transfer ports and a flat-top piston. Two-strokes were then plagued with the problem of unspent fuel-oil-air mix making its way into the engine’s exhaust—the result being both inefficiency and smoke. The twin transfer ports, one on each side of the cylinder, provided more chance for the incoming fuel-air charge to mix evenly while also helping spent gases escape. These ports also helped reduce weight, as their efficiency eliminated the need for heavy “deflector” pistons. The alternative, a flat-top piston, was significantly lighter.

BSA’s experimental department in Redditch obtained a complete DKW RT 125 in 1946. One story suggests that a wartime parachute regiment stole the motorcycle and delivered it to BSA, but there is no evidence that this actually happened. After stripping down the RT’s engine, BSA made its own drawings in Imperial measurements. Compared with British standard practice, the DKW’s drive sprocket and gear change were on opposite sides of the engine, so engineers chose to mirror the powerplant’s bottom half in drawings. The DKW’s rolling chassis was used to test BSA’s new engines; in the meantime, the British firm’s engineers got to work designing their own chassis.

BSA wasn’t the only one to take on Weber’s design. The DKW was the basis for many other machines, including the Harley-Davidson Hummer, the Royal Enfield Flying Flea, and Yamaha’s first production motorcycle, the YA-1.

The Bantam D1 featured a fully welded, rigid rear frame and telescopic forks that used grease as a damping fluid. Electrical juice was provided by Wipac magneto, eliminating the need for a battery. That magneto also led to a simple push-bulb horn on the handlebars, a choice old-fashioned at the time but nonetheless adequate. With its substantial frame, its 19-inch wheels, a sprung saddle, and a small luggage rack on the back, the D1 was both capable and practical by the standards of the day.

In December of 1948, the U.K.’s General Post Office began using Bantams as cheap and economical transport for telegram service. The GPO put the D1s to hard work, running each bike over a five- to seven-year period with overhauls every 15,000 miles. Six thousand five hundred and seventy-four Bantams were purchased in a host of model variations, with the original D1 dominating GPO service; the model’s introduction coincided with peak usage of the telegram service.

The Bantam was also suited to motorsport, trials riding especially—it was affordable, lightweight, and highly tunable, with plenty of low-end torque. BSA saw the market potential, announcing the D1 Competition in 1949. This was a trials-focused model featuring an upswept exhaust, a decompressor, and weight-saving nonvalanced mudguards. The bike possessed all the essentials to tackle the trials courses of the day, an accessible package out of the box.

The Bantam began winning trials events virtually the moment they found riders’ hands. More off-road success came in 1950s scrambles events, most notably the Experts Grand National of 1956. Two Bantams ridden by Brian Stonebridge and John Draper were the last away from the line in that event but managed to make their way through the field and land first and second place, respectively—quite an achievement for a motorcycle initially designed simply to get you to work and back.

A similar story was happening in road racing as clubmen began to tap into the Bantam’s possibilities. An optional “plunger” version with rear suspension was soon offered alongside the Competition model—the sprung rear end was an improvement on the rigid frame, supplying more comfort than only a sprung seat. This feature was also used on the D1 De-Luxe, a Bantam variant that featured Lucas electrics. The latter change served as a mild improvement on the Wipac, but the setup was only used until 1953, when it was replaced by the Wipac Series 55 M8 generator.

Bantam D3 Major

It wasn’t long before customers began looking for more power in the Bantam’s cheap tax bracket. While BSA made attempts to create a whole new range of two-strokes, financial difficulties meant that the D1’s successor was only a slight evolution. Released in October 1953, the D3 Bantam Major was a 148-cc machine. The displacement allowed the bike to stay in the B1’s tax class but provided for a 16-percent increase in power: Output was now 5.2 hp at 5000 rpm. The D3’s rear utilized plunger suspension as standard, while the front end offered BSA’s C10 fork arrangement, a substantial upgrade over the D1’s layout. The D3 also introduced a range of colors; as of 1955, both black and maroon were offered alongside the green used on the D1.

The rigid and plunger frames were phased out in 1956, replaced with a new swing-arm frame, which gave more comfort and better handling. BSA also provided a dual seat and pillion footrests as standard. These improvements brought an increase in weight, however, which impeded the engine’s performance. The D3 was thus short lived, as it wasn’t quite enough to satisfy the customer.

Bantam D5 Super Bantam

By the mid-1950s, BSA was looking to compete against the popular Villiers 197-cc two-stroke, and so it began experiments to further increase the capacity of the Bantam engine. Early attempts involved trying a longer stroke to increase the displacement without changes to the bottom end. The long stroke gave strong torque, but it also produced strong vibration—so strong, in fact, that test engines rapidly destroyed their chain adjusters. Back at the drawing board, the design team decided instead to increase the engine’s bore size, a change that meant a redesign of the bottom end. The final result was a 174-cc, 7.5-hp single, a 44-percent power increase over the D3. Curb weight remained the same as the D3, and the added power gave a top speed of 60 mph. Riders could now cruise confidently at 55 mph while carrying a passenger.

Released in 1957, the D5 initially retained title of Major, but it wasn’t long before the bike was given the more marketable, more jet-age moniker of Super. As the majority of the model’s parts carried over from the D3—the engine was the main change—the D5 became the last of the first-generation Bantams, and in a way the last of the D1s.

Bantam D7

Going into what can be seen as the Bantam’s second generation, the D7 was the first Bantam to really suffer from neglect on the part of BSA. The company was at the time fully committed to the U.S. market. Unfortunately, the Bantam simply didn’t fit in a country of open roads and a public hoovering up big twins.

In retrospect, BSA should have invested in making the D7 a competitor for the likes of other small-bore U.S. stars like Vespa, Lambretta, Honda, and Suzuki. Each of those concerns produced user-friendly small capacity machines that didn’t require the rider to blend their own fuel-oil mix. By the time of the D7’s 1959 release, the overall cleanliness and practicality of the Italian and Japanese machines made the Bantam look like a messy, old-fashioned piece of kit.

The one thing that BSA hung on to was the credits of its engine: The Bantam’s low-end torque was desirable for urban riding, but it was let down by the gearbox’s aging wide-ratio gear stack. Hill-climbing was either a slow trundle or an ear-ache-inducing affair.

In an effort to solve this issue, BSA tested a four-speed D7 Bantam prototype, with TT rider Chris Vincent at the helm, but the motorcycle met an untimely end when it went under a large truck. Vincent survived but the bike didn’t, bringing an end to the four-speed’s development. The factory also tested a Bantam with a separate oiling system—no need for the rider to mix fuel and oil—and while that machine covered over 1000 miles in R&D, the project was eventually shelved and the money redirected to the development of bikes with larger displacement.

Although neither of these efforts saw the light of production, BSA’s styling department did make some changes in an effort to help the Bantam keep up with the competition: The engine was streamlined, a simpler dual seat design was introduced, and the instruments were incorporated into the bike’s headlight nacelle. Unfortunately, a mere clean-up in looks wasn’t enough to compete with marques that were pushing the boundaries of two-stroke design.

Despite all this, Bantams sold fairly well, mainly due to the model’s low price and tunable engine. The model wouldn’t see another revision for years, however, the D7 accumulating only small changes during its run. The factory simply saw no advantage in developing its smallest model while U.S. exports hit £1 million in 1964 and increased to £4 million by 1966. The only Bantam model specifically aimed at America, the Pastoral, was marketed as a farmer’s get-around bike; fewer than 600 were sold in three years of production.

D10 Bantam

Although the D10 Bantam was short-lived, it certainly changed how BSA’s lightweight was perceived. Replacing the D7 in July 1966, the D10 followed a similar development model to previous Bantams: power was increased, and yet the buying public was still expected to pre-mix their own fuel and oil, and to use hand signals instead of electric turn signals.

The D10 offered a higher compression ratio than its predecessor, at 8.65:1, and a larger, one-inch Amal carburetor. The result was a 40-percent increase in power, for 10 hp at 6000 rpm. While the model’s standard version still used the Bantam’s original three-speed gearbox layout, the long-awaited four-speed was offered on the D10 Sports and Bushman models. This was a dream come true for Bantam fans, especially the youth market, which had been customizing and tuning the model for years. The four-speed box made hills more of a pleasure, and it made the Bantam much more fun to ride.

Styled to follow period trends, the D10 Sports was clearly aimed at the popular cafe-racer market. This meant red paintwork, a cafe-style fly screen, a high-mounted exhaust, and a dual seat with a “racing hump.” Topping the styling off were exposed rear springs, chromed mudguards, and headlight and fuel tank capped with an iconic checkered stripe.

In another move that paralleled period trends, BSA developed a dedicated off-road model, the Bushman. While earlier racing-oriented models were aimed at the trials competitor—and the D7 Pastoral looked to American farmers—the Bushman was to marketed as a go-anywhere machine. Dreamed up by assistant export manager Peter Glover, the prototypes were built with a practical 10-inch ground clearance and a bash plate protecting the engine case. The rear suspension was uprated and so were the wheel spokes.

While the Bushman retained the D10’s alternator, the battery was thrown out and replaced with a Lucas energy transfer system. The dual seat was retained and further practicality was added with a substantial rear carrier. The striking orange-and-white color combination was chosen for its agricultural connections, a reference to tractor brands like Allis-Chalmers.

Although that last choice was controversial with some BSA directors, the colorway was well received by the marque’s 1960s audience. The Chalmers connection would have been clear to the American market, but it turned out that the real customer base was Australian sheep farmers, as well as Africa and the sugar plantations of Guyana, where it sold relatively well. More than 3500 Bushmans were built between 1967 and 1970, with the vast majority being exported to non-American countries.

D14/4 Bantam

It was only a year before the D10 was replaced by the four speed D14/4, putting the three-speed Bantam finally to rest. With its 12.6-hp output and 10:1 compression, the 14/4 was the most powerful Bantam yet. Top speed was a whopping 70 mph, at least on paper. Yet again the evolutionary loop happened with no sign of automatic oiling or turn signals—although powerful, the D14 remained stuck in the mud in modernity and practicality. The upside was a still-low price; at just £130 for respectable fuel economy and performance, the Bantam sold despite falling behind against the competition.

The extra power made the Bantam no longer a leisurely machine; with a 0-to-30-mph time of 4.1 seconds and 0-to-50-mph run six seconds quicker than the D10, it was, in period parlance, “a real goer.” The combination of high cylinder pressure and four speeds really brought out the best in the bike’s gearing, and the model was certainly a nimble and capable machine. Still, lack of investment took its toll, and the D14/4 wasn’t without its issues: newfound engine vibration caused driveline brackets to break; badly riveted compression discs would come loose; and the connecting rod’s small end would frequently fail. The model lasted just seven months.

During this time, BSA’s development department was working on the D18, a 100-cc prototype featuring a Minuki oil pump. The bike returned 10.5 hp and topped out at 82 mph in testing. This was real promise, but yet again, the powers that be were too caught up investing in new computerized production lines to press the green button on what could have been a real contender.

B175: The final incarnation

The final version of the Bantam was the B175, a motorcycle that looked very much like its predecessor. This time, however, BSA invested in a few improvements. One clear change was the new head design, which featured a centrally located spark plug, a mod Bantam tuners had embraced for 20 years. This simple change so late in the game demonstrates how much BSA neglected the Bantam for the model’s larger siblings. Despite this, the engine also saw various improvements, including a stiffened crankshaft with crankpins of larger diameter. A needle roller bearing was fitted to the clutch chainwheel, and the compression plates were no longer riveted, now held in by a rim lock. All signs that the D14/4’s issues had been taken seriously.

With the engine internals beefed up and Triumph Sports Cub forks fitted, BSA was clearly making an effort. Still, the changes were too little too late, and the lack of previous investment meant that BSA were still way behind the Japanese competition and struggling to keep up. After 20 years in production, and to the shock of the buying public, the model was dropped from production in 1971. This was the end of the humble BSA two-stroke, a machine that had become a real workhorse for both the public and the GPO. The latter kept their Bantams in service until the mid-1970s, having stockpiled a stash of B175s after the last batch was sold off in 1972.

The Bantam lives on today, especially in classic pre-1965 trials events, where the engine remains competitive. (Admittedly, it is often bolted into motorcycles so heavily modified as to not be very “Bantam.”) The engine’s durability and tunable nature remains, and the aspects competition riders found so agreeable in the 1950s are still tapped into today.

Outside of sporting activities, the Bantam has been for so many an introduction to the freedom and joy an affordable motorcycle can bring. I am certainly among those, and despite financial neglect in the model’s early years, it remains a fun and capable motorcycle.

The post Stock Stories: 1948–1971 BSA Bantam appeared first on Hagerty Media.

In the interest of starting the Michigan riding season off correctly, I swiped my credit card for two days at Grattan Raceway with Sport Bike Track Time (SBTT) in the hopes of learning something. My main takeaway? I never really loved street riding. I certainly don’t now.

My greatest fear while riding is the road. Specifically, encountering unexpected events on said road. Riding within prescribed limits means I can only go quickly as I can see. Many times, I putter along on what could be a fun, twisty stretch of pavement because I lack the sight line required to dial up the pace. Even riding the same public road twice is not the same as riding two laps of a track, where there are corner workers to alert you of what’s ahead. As much as any track rat hates to see the yellow and red wave together, knowing that a watchful someone is holding those flags and knows when to use them keeps me comfortable.

Sadly, the red and yellow got much use during my last weekend at Grattan. From the moment I parked the van and set up camp on Friday night, paddock discussion revolved around rain. A few well-equipped riders had a set of wet-weather tires sitting under their tent or leaning against a trailer in hopes of scaring away the sky water … and the strategy worked. Kind of.

My alarm stirred me on my cot inside the van at 6:30 a.m. Saturday. I immediately knew the weather was brisk. The crisp air wasn’t yet thick with moisture but my phone told me that the current temperature of 45 degrees wouldn’t improve much. After pulling on an extra layer and brewing a cup of coffee to keep my hands warm, I pushed the SV650 out from under my canopy and over to registration and tech inspection.

This was a slightly comical experience, since I had purchased this humble 650cc V-twin precisely because it was already race-prepped. Sport Bike Track Time is fairly lenient when it comes to what novice group riders are allowed to run. Is your motorcycle safe? Does it operate smoothly? Wear a fresh set of tires and brakes? You are probably good to go. Only once the pace increases do safety wire and fluid specifications become mandatory. My SV was fully safety-wired, ran non-ethylene glycol coolant, and flaunted fresh brakes and DOT race tires. Total overkill for a first-timer, but I’m no longer a rookie—though I was new to this bike.

Saturday’s goal was to learn the SV, expand my library of corners, and get comfortable with the song and dance of running tire warmers—all without the pressure of competition. With only two race days under my belt, I followed SBTT’s suggestion for newcomers and signed up for the novice group. This placed me in instruction sessions between on-track runs and put me under slightly closer supervision all day. No matter to me, I was just happy to be out on a motorcycle.

Of all the work I did to prepare for this track day, my best decision was to attend American Supercamp and SoCal Supermoto before being let loose to lap on my own. First-time mistakes solidify into bad habits almost immediately, and the coaching provided at those two venues set me up for success by identifying exactly what I needed to practice.

SBTT provided coaching at Grattan, but the sheer number of novice riders compared to the number of volunteer coaches made the latter more guides than instructors, though each was fast, helpful, and clearly familiar with the track. I didn’t receive much formal coaching, but a self-guided tour of the 2-mile, 12-turn circuit was a great way to spend the day.

Then the rain came. It poured right after lunch on Saturday, causing much of the paddock to pack up and file out the exit gate. I had registered for Sunday as well, so I was not about to leave, but neither was I enthralled with the idea of wriggling into a wet Alpinestars suit come Sunday morning. It took exactly one session spent on the sidelines to get over myself, however. I geared back up and rolled out for an afternoon of rain-soaked fun.

If you let it, a wet track will teach you a lot. I learned during a brief shower at Blackhawk Farms last year just how much traction is still available—far more than your brain initially thinks. Nothing forces you to be smooth on literally every input quite like cold DOT race tires and a cool, slippery track. Even with those factors in play, Saturday afternoon provided the perfect opportunity for me to acclimate to the GP-shift on the SV. This reverses the normal shift pattern and movements: To engage a higher gear, push down on the shifter. Get it wrong, and you can money-shift your bike without any warning. Even though I think I’m getting better at engine-building, the SV’s V-twin is not a project I want to take on right away.

Rain was still lightly falling when the checkered flag flew. I retreated to the van to cook dinner and have a warm drink.

Sunday morning, I woke to the paddock loudspeaker. Tech registration was open for the day, but this event only required one registry and inspection for the weekend. I had checked those boxes yesterday, so I brewed coffee and did a quick paddock walk to warm brain and body. A few riders had lingered overnight, like I had, but most of the bikes and riders were new and filled with fear over the forecast. Happily, the sun broke out, but low air temperatures kept the track from inspiring confidence. A 50-degree track can only provide so much grip.

At first read, this may sounds like a rough weekend at the track. Cool, wet, treacherous—who enjoys those conditions? I walked away convinced that this is the wrong attitude. Most motorcycle riders should go to the track, especially in bad weather. A safe, controlled environment in which to hone your technique is invaluable, even if you only intend to ride around town. I would never ride as fast as I did at Grattan on a wet street, but thanks to dozens of rain-drizzled laps, I now understand just how much traction a surface can hold and how smooth I can be if I am focused. Every rider can benefit from more experience in those areas.

As for my newfound dislike of street riding? The safety personnel, the lack of traffic, the corner workers sharing information in real time, and the company of people who understand the risks assumed produce a much more fun environment than casual street riding, when you are constantly guessing at other drivers’ (and riders’) intentions. I’ve run a few errands on the 1983 Goldwing since returning home and each trip felt chaotic. I didn’t know what goals those around me had: Send email before the traffic light changes? Get the baby to sleep? Cram last bite of burger down the hatch? I’ll still ride the street, but one rainy weekend at the track put the street in a total different perspective.

The post Even in the rain, the track is safer than the street appeared first on Hagerty Media.

April 23 is traditionally the day on which the English celebrate St. George’s Day, but for many motorcyclists it means something different—this year more than ever. Half a century ago an Englishman named Paul Smart celebrated his 29th birthday on that date by riding a silver 750cc Ducati V-twin to a famous victory in the Imola 200, arguably the year’s most prestigious race.

Smart’s win—which he earned against formidable opposition, including 500cc world champion Giacomo Agostini on an MV Agusta—wasn’t just the veteran pro racer’s biggest-ever result. Smart narrowly beat his team-mate Bruno Spaggiari, and Ducati’s dominance that afternoon put the small firm from Bologna on the motorcycling map. Thus began the story of rapid and glamorous V-twins on which the marque’s current success was built.

Tragically, the universally popular Smart died last October following a motorcycle accident and did not live to illuminate his 79th birthday this year with the stories of his epic Imola triumph. But his legacy lives on in the thunderous V-twins that followed, especially the half-faired Super Sport models that were among the fastest and most charismatic superbikes of the ’70s.

Ducati promised an “Imola Replica” streetbike immediately after the 1972 race, and the resultant 750 Super Sport proved well worth the wait when it finally reached production in 1974. Powered by a tuned version of the firm’s recently released V-twin engine, uprated with Ducati’s desmodromic system of positive valve closure (rather than springs), it made an impressive 71 hp, was good for over 130 mph and was uniquely lean, simple, and racy.

The model that arguably captured Ducati’s ’70s appeal more than any other followed a year later, when the firm uprated the 864cc V-twin from the 860GT roadster with desmo cylinder heads and bolted it into the 750SS chassis to create the 900 Super Sport. This was an open-class superbike to rival the best from Laverda and Moto Guzzi, a supremely purposeful blend of style, character, engine performance and handling ability.

Ducati chief engineer Fabio Taglioni’s V-twin engine was a work of genius. Its air-cooled cylinders were set at 90 degrees, with bevel drive to single overhead camshafts. Like the 750SS, the new bike combined its desmo valvegear with polished conrods, big 40mm Dell’Orto carburetors, and free-breathing Conti pipes. Peak power output was up to 78 hp, with a useful midrange gain over the smaller engine.

The bike that held this mighty motor was unashamedly functional, from its low, clip-on handlebars, racy half-fairing, and twin drilled Brembo discs at the front to the rearset footrests and the storage area (accessed via a zip) in the hump of its thinly-padded single seat. It had no electric starter and no indicators—zero unnecessary flab. Every component was there for a reason, and that reason was speed.

Full disclosure: the silver-and-blue 900SS was my teenage crush way ahead of Farrah Fawcett, and I’d have bought one on hire purchase after leaving school if my dad hadn’t wisely refused to guarantee the payments. That would have been a disaster, because the 900SS was a high-maintenance, temperamental beast. Way out of my league. Years later, a frustrating morning spent with a scruffy and hard-to-start borrowed example had dimmed my adolescent adulation.

But a well-maintained Super Sport like this immaculate 1975-model machine you see pictured here, owned by Bolton-based enthusiast Andy Graveson, responds if you follow the routine. Jab the kick-starter a couple of times to free the clutch and find compression. Then turn ignition and fuel on, tickle both carbs to get the gas flowing, open the throttle a quarter-turn, and kick. The motor fires immediately, with a deep bark through the open Contis.

The Super Sport emphatically was not built for slow-speed riding, as the briefest of journeys through town confirms. Its riding position stretches you out over the long tank, with feet high though not particularly cramped. The front end absorbs bumps reasonably well but the firmly suspended rear clanked over potholes hard enough to make me pick my way around road blemishes that I had barely noticed on many other bikes.

A tall first gear doesn’t help either, although at least the engine is docile even at low speeds, feeling smooth and delightfully torquey as it slurps loudly through the unfiltered Dell’Ortos. And when I reached the open road the Ducati immediately came into its own. Given a twist of throttle it surged forward, picking up speed smoothly and with a seamless power delivery. Its exhaust note hardened to a crescendo as the revs approached 7000 rpm, the start of the red zone, with 1000 rpm still to come before the absolute rev limit.

In ’75 the 900SS came with a right-foot gear change, and a down-for-up pattern that meant every shift required concentration. Despite slight wear in the lever the change was pretty good (later left-foot conversions were regarded as less precise, due to the complicated linkage). The Ducati could be flicked easily through its five-speed ‘box given a helping blip of the throttle with each downshift. Once in top I was often tempted to leave it there on fast roads, relying on the V-twin’s torque to send the bike barreling out of fast curves with a machine gun–like roar.

The Super Sport was good for about 135 mph in standard trim, enough to see off almost all opposition in ’75. More importantly for road use, it cruised at up to 100 mph with a nonchalant, long-legged, mile-eating ease. The half-fairing was effective for fast riding, giving lots of protection provided I crouched down behind the screen. No doubt the fairing contributed to the Ducati’s legendary stability, too. The 900SS remained rock-solid at speeds that would have had many of its contemporaries weaving all over the road.

High-speed handling was regarded as the Ducati’s strongest suit, and it is easy to see why. Through a couple of fast curves the handlebars begins to feel a bit vague, but the rest of the time the bike simply goes where it is pointed. Its combination of light weight, stiff steel-tube frame, long-wheelbase geometry, and Marzocchi suspension at front and rear makes for fairly slow steering and a wonderfully unshakeable cornering feel.

This bike’s forks are slightly too soft when the powerful Brembo front brake is used hard. But they soak up bumps effectively and the Ducati refuses to be diverted from its line, even when the stiff rear shocks kick back over bumps. The Pirelli Phantom rubber looks laughably narrow by modern standards but gripped well, even when the bike was cornering hard enough to exploit its abundant ground clearance.

Riding this lovingly cared-for Super Sport was a magical experience, and confirmation of its status as one of the greatest of ’70s superbikes. This month, more than ever, Ducati’s elegant silver star also serves as a fitting reminder of that famous day at Imola in 1972—and of Paul Smart, the plucky Englishman who conquered the world’s best on St George’s Day all those years ago.

***

1975 Ducati 900 Super Sport

Highs: Speed, stability, soul

Lows: Harsh on body and wallet

Summary: A stunning ’70s street racer

—

Price: Project: $12,600; Daily rider: $19,400; Showing off: $46,700

Engine: Air-cooled pushrod desmo V-twin

Capacity: 864 cc

Power: 78 hp @ 7000rpm

Weight: 414 pounds without fluids

Top speed: 135 mph

Via Hagerty UK

The post Ducati’s 900 Super Sport was the superbike of the ’70s appeared first on Hagerty Media.

The Age of Aquarius brought more than long hair, bell-bottoms, and rebellion. It also launched the age of superbikes, which drastically redefined motorcycle engineering, performance, and design. From 1969 forward, it was game on as manufacturers brought forth new, high-revving, multicylinder street bikes bristling with racing technology. Two-stroke and four-stroke engines in two-, three-, four- and six-cylinder configurations—take your pick. Exciting as hell, these hypermachines overwhelmed traditional street bikes like so many peregrine falcons hunting pigeons in steep, fast dives. Quite simply, superbikes were the most exciting thing on wheels.

For these newcomers, certain targets were easy. Harley-Davidson’s Sportster was a mess—torquey but jackhammer-buzzy and ungainly. England’s hot-rod Norton Commando and Triumph Trident were both based on ages-old pushrod designs. The real action was from Japan, notably Kawasaki’s blistering Mach III two-stroke triple and Honda’s stupefying CB750 Four. BMW wasn’t even a player, and Italy’s Laverda and MV Agusta were few and far between.

And then, there was Bologna-based Ducati, founded in 1926 by brothers Adriano, Bruno, and Marcello Ducati as an electronics firm. In the 1940s, the company began producing little clip-on engines for bicycles, followed by simple, lightweight motorcycles. This changed with the arrival in 1954 of Fabio Taglioni, a former Mondial racing engineer with a passion for bevel-gear-driven overhead-camshaft motors. From 1957 on, the company offered a growing fleet of these exotic small-displacement street bikes, eventually up to 450cc. However, Ducati’s inability or disinterest in evolving beyond singles became a liability as the Japanese multis advanced at a rapid pace. Thus, building a big bike wasn’t a luxury so much as essential for Ducati to enter the emerging superbike segment and survive.

The task of getting Ducati into the superbike game fell on Taglioni. His formula was an air-cooled 748cc 90-degree V-twin that measured barely 15 inches wide, a crucial half-foot narrower than a Honda CB750 mill. The engine was thus carried deep in the GT’s tubular-steel spaceframe, lowering the center of mass while preserving ground clearance when the machine was banked over. Inventively, the alloy engine cases, which held an outrageous 5 quarts of oil, were stressed members of the frame, Formula 1-style. This structure allowed the use of nearly straight frame tubes, and with a low curb weight of 438 pounds, the new 750 GT instantly became the best handling big bike of them all—especially compared with Japanese multis that offered more power than handling. The 750 GT felt like it cornered on rails, its stability never deviating, with feedback precise and reassuring.

Debuting in America as the 1972 750 GT, this lithe roadster earned acclaim for the nearly vibration-free performance of its bellowing, torquey engine. Soon after the bike debuted, reports emerged that with a nickel balancing on its edge on the crankcases, the V-twin could rev close to redline without the coin falling. It was true.

The inner beauty of the new engine was its exotic bevel-drive arrangement for the overhead camshafts, derived from Ducati’s singles. Located on the right side of the engine, the system used no chains, pushrods or belts; instead, nine helical gears moved crankshaft motion to twin tower shafts, which turned a camshaft in each head. The advantages were precise cam timing, minimal reciprocating mass, and high-speed reliability. More gears drove the distributor and oil pump, and deeper inside the engine, both connecting rods rode on a single crankpin, using roller-bearing big ends on the assembled crankshaft—which was so robust that it required 20 tons of tool pressure to build it.

On the left side, more helical gears transferred power rearward through a multiplate wet clutch to the five-speed dog-box transmission. And the kick-start mechanism required yet another gear set. This raised the total gear count in a Ducati 750 powertrain above two dozen. Thanks to Taglioni’s resourcefulness, engineer-ing acumen, and artistry, trusted decades-old solutions formed an exciting new product in a fashion that only Italy could (and would) produce.

Although the Japanese blended manufacturing efficiencies with performance, Ducati’s masterpiece proved complex, expensive, and time-consuming to assemble. The crankshaft and most gears in the valve-train and gearbox were hand-shimmed. But never mind, because Taglioni had even loftier goals: In a stroke of mad genius, to create seven factory race bikes for the 1972 Imola 200 race, he adopted a sublimely exotic desmodromic valvetrain, or one that both opens and closes the valves.

Following Mercedes-Benz’s use of desmodromics on the 1954 W196 “Silver Arrow” F1 cars, Ducati had built racing desmo singles beginning in the mid-1950s, along with a desmodromic street bike, the 350cc Mark 3D, in 1968. But the Imola 750s were the world’s first desmodromic V-twins. Instantly, the technology, intended to eliminate the rev limitations inherent in common valve springs, became a cornerstone of Ducati motorcycle manufacturing that continues today.

Using four cam lobes and two pairs of rocker arms for each cylinder, the Imola bikes’ desmodromic systems mechanically opened and closed the valves, eliminating springs, high-speed valve float, and, of course, any potential of spring breakage. Additionally, since the valves were closed mechanically, the cams could feature steeper closing ramps to optimize valve timing. Translation: A redline approaching 10,000 rpm and a higher specific output without hurting drivability.

The Imola 750s were credited with making 84 horsepower, or 112 horsepower per liter—23 percent above the specific output of a Porsche 904’s flat-six, which had gear-driven overhead cams but no desmodromics. Capable of 150 mph, the Ducati sported a specially narrowed frame, aerodynamic bodywork, straight-cut primary gears, works twin-plug heads, and triple disc brakes. Compared with the standard 750 GT, the Imola racers were like a Ferrari 250 GTO next to a 250 GT 2+2.

The story has been retold ad infinitum, but on April 23, 1972, team-mates Paul Smart and Bruno Spaggiari finished 1-2 at Imola on the factory racers, vaulting Ducati and its new 750 V-twin onto the world stage.

Euphoric after the win, management promised a street replica of the desmo race bikes. Faithfully, two years later, the company produced the hallowed 750 Super Sport, a limited-production sportbike featuring a desmo valvetrain, giant 40-millimeter Dell’Orto pumper carburetors, and abbreviated bodywork derived from the Imola racer forms. The 750 SS—lacking airboxes and effective mufflers, producing as much noise from its gears as a machine-gun nest, and shifting on the right side in a reverse pattern—somehow ended up street-legal in the U.S. Setting the valves ideally required dropping the engine from the frame and removing the cylinder heads, rocker pins, and rocker arms to replace up to 32 individual valve and rocker-pin shims as needed. This two-day job was required every few thousand miles.

The 1974 750 Super Sport, nicknamed “Greenframe” for its duck-egg-turquoise frame paint, was unquestionably the pinnacle of street bikes. With race-spec tires and high exhausts installed, it made a terrific production racer right out of the crate. It was such a good platform that a fully developed 750 SS created by privateers Phil Schilling and Cook Neilson won the 1977 Daytona Superbike race outright, Ducati’s highest honor on American soil.

In between the 750 GT and 750 Super Sport came the 750 Sport, a solar-yellow devil with racy clip-on handlebars, rear-mounted footrests and controls, a high-compression engine, and a solo seat. And thus, by 1974, there were three spectacular bevel-drive 750s in the lineup. Factoring in the Imola win and favorable magazine tests (the 750 GT was “the bike that everyone wanted to ride home,” wrote Cycle magazine in its “Superbikes 1973” comparison), Ducati was indeed flying high. And it charged accordingly. The new GT cost $1995, double the $999 cost of the first Mach III and a third more than the original CB750 at $1495. For the customer who want-ed rarefied engineering, elegant Italian design, good performance, and unmatched handling, price was no deterrent. But for mainstream buyers, it was too much.

Soon enough, cost-cutting began to dilute the purity of the original 750 GT. The lovely Borrani aluminum rims gave way to chromed steel. The superb Lockheed front brake caliper was replaced by uninspired Italian knock-offs. Federal regulations banished the delicate fiberglass gas tank in lieu of stamped steel, and the original jewel- like stainless fenders ceded to painted pieces. As well, Smiths gauges morphed into Veglia units, and the early dashboard annunciators charmingly labeled GEN, ABB, and LUCI in Italian received—Mio Dio!—a redesigned cluster with English labels for the ignition, lights, and high beam. Worst of all, the infamous Conti mufflers, which embellished the V-twin’s dragster-like loping idle and high-rpm shout, were expunged for unwieldy Lafranconi mufflers. The list went on.

When the 750 GT sunsetted in 1975, it was replaced by the 860 GT, an enlarged bevel-drive V-twin featuring divisive Giugiaro styling. This led to thankfully more enchanting models such as the rakish 900 Darmah—the first “mainstream” Ducati with desmo valve gear—the 900 Super Sport, and the beloved 900 Mike Hail-wood Replica (MHR). Thousands of MHR road bikes were produced through 1985, the last of which, known as the Mille, displaced nearly a full liter. Throughout this journey, the build and maintenance costs of the bevel-drive engines remained high, hampering Ducati in the marketplace. Finally, almost 30 years after Ducati’s first overhead-camshaft singles, the bevel-drive era was done.

But Ducati certainly wasn’t. Once more under Taglioni’s direction, necessity took the form in 1980 of a new range of 500cc-and-larger Pantah V-twins, whose origins lay in an experimental 500 GP bike from 1971. Overlapping with the final MHR Mille model in 1985, the little Pantah used a toothed-belt camshaft drive and contemporary manufacturing techniques. Ducati V-twins have built on this ever since, resulting in today’s audacious Panigale V2, a $17,000 desmo V-twin street bike with a power-to-weight ratio well over double that of a $200,000 Porsche 911 Turbo S.

That is some kind of spectacular. And so, if you like Ducati today, you can thank Dr. T and his ingenious, irreplaceable 750 GT.

The post 50 years ago, Ducati’s distinctive V-twin birthed a dynasty appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Picture this: You’re hanging around the Rock Store at the top of Mulholland Highway with your rental Camry the day before you fly home. The leather-clad crowd around praises the virtues of the GSXR600 chassis and the electronics package on the R1 for what seems like hours before a voice from the ether comes down and declares that, in fact, all of that sucks. Instead the holy follow the real truth of Slow Bike Fast. 

This truly enlightened rider who belongs to that voice is astride a miniscule machine that looks like a sportbike that stayed in the dryer just a bit too long and has an exhaust note like a mix of an old enduro machine and the Singer your mom used to repair your jeans way back when. Is this person insane or a prophet? There’s only one way to say for sure. I took the Honda CBR300R out for a week of playing in the canyons alongside some high-horsepower (and highly capable) machines to see if it truly held up. 

Now, to start we must talk about the fact that “slow bike” does not automatically equate to “small displacement bike.” There is often correlation there though, as a single-cylinder like the CBR’s 286cc fuel-injected and counterbalanced engine does in fact only churn out 30.4 horsepower. Yet this is still a far cry from the 125s that were once the entry point to motorcycling. Times have changed. 

This 250cc-400cc market segment is now a packed class, with the KTM RC390, Yamaha R3, Kawasaki Ninja 400, and Suzuki GSX250R all competing for both attention from new riders and track rats alike. That is two very different subsets of buyers but it all boils down to similar wants and desires: Reliability, approachability, and fun factor. 

Honda comes right out and calls the 300 a commuter machine in some of its press materials. It is an evolution of the CBR250R which lived from 2011 to 2015, after which the engine was upsized to the current 286cc. The non-ABS equipped model comes in at $4,899 plus $600 in destination and freight charges. Add in the well-tuned ABS, as seen on our test bike, and the price rises to just $5,099. Either trim can be had in grand prix red or matte gray metallic. 

While the one week we spent with the CBR300R is not a solid footing for declaring reliability, there is something to be said for an engine that started as easily and ran as smooth as the one in this bike did. The single-cylinder thumper sounded tight, with no errant noises or clunks that sometimes comes from the relative hit-and-miss feel that singles have if you are used to multi-cylinder engines. Power was a smooth pull from idle to the 10,500rpm redline thanks to fuel injection through the 38mm throttle body. The engine hummed right along at 9,000rpm and I caught myself hitting the rev limiter a couple while dicing through the Malibu canyons because there was no change in sound or feel as the engine approached rev ceiling. Overall the engine was largely unremarkable, and that’s not a bad thing. Honda has been building single-cylinders for decades and the smoothness of the 300 highlights that even when the pricepoint is top of mind it can still turn out a sweet little engine. 

The engine is not the main reason I would recommend this bike though. It’s the chassis that gives the baby CBR the most fun character. A scant 30” seat height is the first thing that stood out when I threw my leg over the bike for the first time. My 32” inseam means that I am rarely bothered by seat heights, but the CBR’s lower seat combined with the narrowness of the chassis to feel playful to me. Riding through twists and turns was an absolute delight. Just lift your backside, weight the pegs, counter steer and dive it in. With light hands on the bars, pick up the throttle early and get ready for the next one. Do it right and the CBR was just a fluid rolling downhill. 

Straight line speed was not astonishing, but the Honda still moved quickly enough to be safe and fun. An experienced rider can easily make liberal use of the stop that denotes wide open throttle without breaking any traffic laws. This CBR300R was one of six motorcycles we had access to for a week and there was never a time that the group of three left the parking lot without someone grabbing keys to the CBR. It was the smallest motorcycle of the group (sorry Honda Navi, you’re a scooter) but yet it was the most popular to take out for coffee, lunch, or just for a trip up and down Latigo Canyon Road. 

Unfortunately, those canyon roads were a place the CBR’s suspension really showed its pricepoint and intended use case. The fork is sprung on the soft side and the rear begs for more rebound damping. Smooth inputs let a rider get away with a lot, but if you get stabby on the front brake the bike seemed to blow through the first 2” of the 4.65” of travel the conventional forks have — and they weren’t quick to settle back into place. It rewarded an experienced rider but could be frustrating for a newbie. Anyone taking one to the track will likely have the suspension reset for their weight and pace. Street riders rarely go through the effort to completely re-tune their suspension, but if you are planning to log big miles on a CBR300R that would be a worthwhile investment.  

The cockpit starts with a pair of clip-ons that are clamped to the fork tubes above the top triple tree. They have a good forward position without being super-aggressive and putting all the riders weight on their wrists. The dash consists of a simple analog sweep tachometer and LCD display for speed, distance, and other necessary measurements. Simple and functional. A cable-pull clutch and hydraulic front brake round out the rider touchpoints. 

Honda claims the CBR300R carries its weight low in the chassis compared to the other bikes in this category. We haven’t had the chance to ride the competition to say for sure, but the nimbleness of the CBR is tough to overstate. The ready-to-ride weight comes in at just 354 pounds and it very much feels like it. The single front brake measures just 296mm diameter, with 220mm rear disc and the combination has no problem slowing the CBR. The ABS threshold is fairly high, as we had to work to get it to intervene but it cycled quickly and consistently once engaged. 

(Editor’s note: I think the 320cc Yamaha R3, which I’ve ridden quite a bit, feels even lighter on its feet — Jack Baruth)

The CBR is a delight to ride just about everywhere. The only place it fell short was highway riding. Honda claims a top speed just shy of 100mph, but 70mph felt busy on the little machine and the tach needle fluttered in the top third of its range. Will it do it? Yes. If that is your main use though, the larger CBR500R is likely a better fit. Once off the superslab we had no trouble racking up miles on the comfortable seat. The bike just was not tiring to ride like most small-displacement bikes tend to be. 

The low seat height and light weight combine with smooth controls to make a very beginner-friendly package. It’s also one that veteran riders will find playful to ride–this is the core of “Slow Bike Fast.” In other words, the CBR300R is one of the best ways to try out that religion that is preached by the rider passing you on the outside of the fast sweeping corner. The little CBR is not the perfect motorcycle, but it is a great second (or third) bike; delightful to ride, and once you have one you will likely find yourself reaching for its keys more than you would think. Watch out: with enough time on the CBR300R, you might find yourself giving a lecture or two of your own.

The post Review: 2022 Honda CBR300R ABS appeared first on Hagerty Media.

Modern motorbikes are far faster and more powerful than their equivalents from the ’70s—but not if you’re 17 years old and just getting into biking. Back in 1978, speed-crazed teenagers were excitedly taking to the road on Suzuki’s latest learner-bike—advertised as “the new ‘Ton-up’ GT250 X7.”

Suzuki’s headline was just about accurate, too. Motor Cycle News speed-trapped the X7 at 99.34 mph, and a tester from Motorcycle Mechanics magazine recorded a timed top speed of 100.5 mph at Chobham test track in Surrey, albeit after removing its mirrors to squeeze out the last em-pee-aitch.

And that was with an otherwise standard X7, too. With its carburetors tweaked and its standard pipes swapped for screaming expansion chambers, the little two-stroke twin was good for over 115 mph. Learner riders had never had it so good.

Suzuki’s advertising doubtless boosted sales but possibly came at a cost. In 1981 learner riders in the U.K. were hit by a new law limiting them to 125cc and just 11.8 hp, under half the X7’s output. We’ll never know how much the Suzuki’s much-publicized performance had to do with this, but those 100-mph headlines probably didn’t help.

That this happened merely confirms the X7’s status as the quickest, raciest learner bike of the ’70s. It was the latest in a distinguished line of fast, light Suzuki two-stroke parallel twins that went back more than a decade, and included the T20 Super Six, named after its six-speed gearbox.

Other family favorites included the T250 Hustler and the 1973-model GT250, which introduced a “Ram Air” cooling system—basically a bit of flat metal angled to deflect air onto the cylinder head. The GT was a quick and capable bike, but it couldn’t match the pace or popularity of arch rival Yamaha’s RD250.

The comprehensively redesigned GT250 X7, launched in 1978, was intended to change all that. Ironically, given those speed claims and headlines, it was not created with increased top speed in mind. In fact, since the new engine had to meet tighter emissions regs, it produced 2 hp less at the top end, with a maximum of 28.6 hp at 8000 rpm.

What the new engine really gained, besides its first reed-valve induction system, was improved midrange output, which boosted acceleration. Equally significant, the X7 was very light, at a claimed 128 kg (282 pounds) dry—18 kg (40 pounds) less than its GT250 predecessor.

The weight savings were all in the chassis. A new tubular steel frame made do with one downtube instead of two. Lightweight cast aluminum wheels replaced the old wire-spoked ones, and the front disc and rear drum brakes were smaller. A more angular gas tank and side panels freshened up the styling.

On climbing aboard this nicely preserved blue X7, I was surprised to find it seeming bigger than I’d expected. Even this raciest of two-strokes had a fairly wide and well padded dual-seat, and felt like a proper motorbike as I leaned slightly forward to grip its fairly wide, near-flat one-piece handlebar.

A gentle swing of the kickstarter fired up the engine with a crackling, nostalgic two-stroke exhaust note—”the scrunching of broken glass being shaken in a thermos flask,” according to one contemporary tester. Once underway the X7 had enough straight-line speed to make it fantastic fun, provided I kept it revving hard by repeatedly stirring the six-speed gearbox.

The action didn’t begin until 5000 rpm, when the motor suddenly came alive to send the bike leaping forward, a slight trail of smoke sometimes visible in the air behind. From then on the lightweight Suzuki was quicker than the similarly powerful but heavier RD250.

Apart from the need for frequent gear-changing to keep it near the 8500 rpm redline, the bike’s only real drawback was that in the all-important zone above 5000 rpm the engine felt slightly buzzy, especially through the handlebars, which were solidly mounted.

That vibration didn’t encourage me to thrash the little engine, but the X7’s performance certainly did. Provided it was kept revving it screamed rapidly to over 80 mph and could sit at that speed in top gear with the tach indicating 7000 rpm.

With its rider’s chin—or, alternatively, the chin piece of a polycarbonate full-face lid—on the tank the little twin was good for a genuine 95 mph, even with mirrors in place. So although it really required a hill or tail wind to get to 100 mph (those magazine top speeds were one-way figures), it was definitely capable of spinning its optimistic speedometer’s needle to the three-figure mark on the dial.

Handling was as light and lively as the bike itself. The X7 was more flickable than the RD250, if not the Kawasaki KH250 that was arguably the sweetest steering of the learner-legal brigade. But that agility came at the expense of a slightly nervous feel that occasionally turned into full-blown instability.

Contemporary testers rated the handling as distinctly marginal. “It’s the combination of naked, unashamed power and a light chassis with quick steering,” wrote one. “Thrashing around some of our favorite back-tracks the front end of the X7 was constantly going light, twitching and flicking this way and that under full bore power.”

I was slightly surprised to find the X7 didn’t seem all that nervous, although its handling was hardly likely to have improved over the decades. Perhaps its relatively modern Metzeler tyres helped, though. Or maybe I just didn’t ride it as aggressively as I would have done when the bike was new and I was a teenager in a hurry.

If I had got into trouble I’d have been glad of the very adequate brakes. The Suzuki’s tiny front disc pulled it up respectably hard, and the diminutive single-leading-shoe rear drum added some useful assistance.

The X7 deservedly sold very well and was still in Suzuki’s range in 1982, its only changes the paintwork’s fresh pinstriping plus a few details including instruments, switchgear, mirrors, and indicators.

But by then it had suffered a double blow: the arrival of Yamaha’s RD250LC, whose liquid-cooled engine gave a definite edge over the aircooled Suzuki; and the new law that put that generation of thrilling 250cc two-strokes out of reach to learner riders.

An era of quarter-liter competition was ending, and X7 production would soon follow. Being a motorcycle-crazy 17-year-old would perhaps never be quite so much fun.

***

1978 Suzuki GT250 X7

Highs: Lively engine, agility

Lows: Peaky engine, instability

Summary: Teenage hooligan’s dream

—

Price: Project: $1900; Nice ride: $4700; Showing off: $8500

$5850 (#4 condition, Fair) – $9750 (#1 condition, Concours)

Engine: Air-cooled two-stroke parallel twin

Capacity: 247cc

Power: 29 hp @ 8000 rpm

Weight: 128 kg without fluids

Top speed: 95 mph

The post Ton up or not, the Suzuki GT250 X7 was every learner’s dream ride appeared first on Hagerty Media.

International sanctions on Russian oil, technology, banking, and luxury goods, levied in response to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, have hit one of the world’s premier manufacturers sidecar motorcycles. IMZ-Ural, which managed to rebound from the brink of extinction following the breakup of the U.S.S.R. in December 1991, is now facing a new hurdle. It can’t import the parts it needs to complete its bikes. And even if it could, Ural is unable to export anything to the United States, Canada, and Europe, where it has a loyal following among niche motorcycle enthusiasts.

That leaves Irbit MotorWorks of America, Ural’s North American importer, in a precarious position. The Redmond, Washington, distributor has a network of 45 full dealerships in the U.S., along with an additional 28 outlets that offer service or parts, and seven full dealerships in Canada.

“Approximately 80 percent of Ural’s parts are made outside of Russia, so there isn’t a problem getting most of the parts we need,” says one U.S. dealer representative, who asked to remain anonymous. Getting a completed sidecar motorcycle is another thing, he says. “And no one knows when that will change.”

The situation, needless to say, is a delicate one. Company representatives in the United States have been careful in statements on their company blog to stress that the real victims here are the innocents in Ukraine and to call for an end to the war. Calls and emails to Irbit MotorWorks asking for comment have gone unanswered, and none of the three U.S. dealerships that Hagerty contacted were willing to be quoted on the record.

Ural’s Russian website makes no mention of the predicament, but under the circumstances this is perhaps not unexpected. Any communication that has the potential to be perceived as critical of the Russian government, military, or the so-called “special military operation” in Ukraine can have dire consequences for businesses and individuals alike.

On March 31, IMZ-Ural hinted in a blog post that it may be forced to move final assembly outside of Russia, although the logistics of such a move, considering the current political climate, are far from concrete. “We are still not able to import components to the factory. [The] majority of our suppliers are holding our orders patiently until we figure out when and how we can restart the assembly. Some suppliers, however, are pulling back from shipment of components to the factory which, among other things, amplifies the need for moving the final assembly outside of Russia. We estimate approximately six months gap in supply of new motorcycles.”

IMZ-Ural’s Russian factory is located in Irbit, an industrial town in western Siberia’s Ural Mountains—an appropriate location, since the heavy-duty sidecar motorcycles are designed for rough, rugged terrain. They are powered by a 749cc OHV air-cooled, two-cylinder, four-stroke boxer engine mated to a four-speed transmission that includes a handy reverse gear.

Despite Ural’s tough reputation, the motorcycle’s appeal to North American and European enthusiasts may be more because its uniqueness and coolness factor than its off-road capabilities.

“It’s a very mechanical bike to ride, and they rattle and shake and clank more than other bikes, adding to that ‘Ural experience,’” says Hagerty Senior Information Analyst James Hewitt, an avid motorcyclist and collector. “They have a cult-like following, and there really are no other options when it comes to bikes like this. You most often see people with their kids or dogs riding in the sidecar, enjoying them on the highway—not going on crazy adventures.”

Perhaps that’s what Ilya Khait, president and CEO of IMZ-Ural, actually had in mind when he took the reins of the Russian company two decades ago.  “Ural is an invitation to share a ride; it’s about sharing and doing things together,” Khait told Ride Apart in 2018. “That’s why there’s such an attraction—the sharing aspect. Even when riding by yourself, you’re never alone, because the bike draws people in.”

Even before the Russian invasion of Ukraine brought sanctions, it’s been a bumpy ride for Ural, which at its peak produced 130,000 bikes a year while under Soviet control. By Khait’s own account, “The Ural factory used to be huge. It was a massive, self-contained, Soviet-style facility that made all of its own parts and employed 10,000 people … At one point in time it was probably one of the biggest bike manufacturers in Europe. After the well-known events of the Soviet Union, when the country went from a centrally planned economy to a market economy, the market for Ural disappeared overnight. In just a few years production went down to 6000 motorcycles a year, and when I first visited the factory (in 1999), production was down to 4000 units a year.”

In 2021, Ural built fewer than 2000 sidecar motorcycles. It appears as if the company’s 2022 production will be a fraction of that.

Cycle World reports that the last hope for Americans to see new Urals anytime soon may come from two containers of the Russian bikes that have been stuck in a port in Europe since late February. “If all goes well,” Ural says on its blog, “those containers will arrive in New York at the end of April or early May.”

In the meantime, Urals that are already in North American and European dealerships are seeing huge market adjustments as demand outstrips the waning supply. Hagerty’s Hewitt says he’s seen dealers add as much as $5000 to the MSRP.

“These are often ‘that’s cool and I’ve gotta have it’ buys—impulse buys,” he says. “So it will be interesting to see if the parts supply can be maintained, how long the supply of new bikes lasts, and how the user market fares.”

Ural is doing its best to remain optimistic that the situation will improve sooner rather than later. In the meantime, it writes, “We pray for peace.”

The post Sanctions against Russia leave Ural and its clients spinning their wheels appeared first on Hagerty Media.

This is mainly a tale of fear. A yearlong story orbiting the anxiety born of knowing that the calendar moves forward regardless of how you feel. Last July, I woke up and realized I was 30 years old. For days after, I worried I would wake up ten years later, suddenly 40, with nothing to show for it. 

Then I went to watch a vintage race with a friend. That weekend, something clicked. I stopped thinking about all the things that kept me from trying what I wanted to try. I began scheming to actually reach those places. 

Things got out of hand. Project Six Ways to Sunday was born. 

The concept was simple: Take my derelict 1989 Honda XR250R into six different forms of racing within a single calendar year: cross-country, motocross, trials, flat track, road racing, and ice. None of which I’d ever tried—before this project, cross-country running was the closest I had come to motorsport. I decided to do everything here, serving as mechanic, rider, and truck driver. The idea was romantic, born of lust for the life of privateer racers 50 years ago, when someone with a motorcycle, a truck, and a small set of tools could go out without much money and compete year-round. 

I wondered: Was that still possible in 2021? More important, was it worth doing?

Well, I did it. The sixth and final race came earlier this year. It’s definitely possible and definitely worth it. Except the lessons weren’t anything like as I imagined.

At the core, none of this was heroic. This wasn’t a test of strength or courage or financial intelligence. Honestly, if you had all three of those things, you would be smart, which means you wouldn’t do what I did. Six Ways wasn’t an attempt to win anything—it was a giant kick in the ass to get out of my comfort zone. To go out and learn, try, get scared, make friends, and figure out what the hell I was doing and wanted to do. 

In short, it was a quarter-life crisis. With a lot of windshield time, driving my Chevy van from track to home and back again, thinking.

Looking back, my garage life carries a thread. I’ve been lucky enough to own a lot of really cool cars or motorcycles but never really used them much, because I spent all my money and time bringing them home in the first place. Having a sweet Triumph Speed Triple with all the go-fast parts on a stand in the garage was awesome, but the bike lost its shine the moment I considered the unrealized potential. The Triumph sat in the garage because I wasn’t prepared for the risk and cost of a track day, and because I was scared to take it on a weeklong trip without owning the right gear. 

With that bike and others, there was always a mental line in the sand I needed to cross. I felt like I needed to have it all figured out before doing anything.

The thing is, every moment of Six Ways was a figuring-out. Every new weekend, every new form of racing and new bike setup, I was the new guy, struggling to get comfortable. Everything got easier once I realized the discomfort was the reason for all of it.

In a way, I had been here before. For more than half of my life I’ve sought physical discomfort weekly or even daily.  I’ve run tens of thousands of miles and ridden a bicycle far more. Growing up, that discomfort made it easier to climb other mental hurdles: If I was able to go out on a Sunday morning and run 20 miles on Kansas dirt roads, I figured, anything else that day was no problem. Then came college. A career and a relationship. Adult responsibilities. Each passing month brought less discomfort and more soft. Tea and a warm blanket in the mornings replaced hours of effort and focus. 

That grass was green, but after a few years, a longing had me looking at jumping back over the fence. 

On paper, Six Ways was sexy. That’s probably why it was such an easy sell to everyone who helped, from friends to sponsors and managers. But spending most of a year taking a motorcycle to the track is so much more than helmet hustle. The majority of time on this project went to wrenching and driving the van. When you add in a tight schedule and a day job, plus getting all the proper parts ordered and on hand at the right time, then consider the time to swap the bike between disciplines—often a near-complete teardown—and then consider maintaining something like a home life? None of my stress came from my time actually on the XR. All the lost sleep went to housekeeping behind the scenes. 

None of this should be taken as a complaint. It’s just that the fantasy of throwing some gear in a van and driving off for a good weekend at speed is exactly that. There’s always something to do and another place to burn your paycheck. Old hands here will laugh at how it took me a project like this to learn that ancient lesson—there’s no such thing as “just going racing.” 

Another odd lesson was how you sometimes have to force yourself to stress about the right things. There were so many ways to lose sleep by trying to plan each moment. Do I park near the bathrooms? Who to talk to when I arrive? Where is registration? Should I pack all my own food, or will the track have a vendor? Rain gear? How many bikes in my class? None of that actually matters in the grand scheme, yet it occupied so much of my mental capacity those first few events. By the time I reached the starting line at Heartland Motofest, in May, halfway through the year, I was burned out. Then I got better and better at letting the little things go. I started aiming my mental energy at what I could control. Or at least the stuff worth worrying about. 

It all felt like Groundhog Day, where Bill Murray relives the same day over and over. Each event held a build-up, mental and physical, then the actual race, then a drive home that took us back to square one. Followed by yet another new form of racing, another challenge to prepare for, right now. I was often planning for the next event while driving home from the last one. Everything learned at each race was written down in my notes and then pushed from my brain, because it usually didn’t apply to what came next. (There’s only so much memory left when you count all the random Corvair factoids and attempts not to forget my anniversary.) 

A few techniques carried over weekend to weekend, but by and large, over the course of a year, the Honda became six different motorcycles, and I became six different riders. No surprise that some of those motorcycles worked better than others. The XR handled cross-country racing and motocross superbly, of course. The bike was designed for similar use, and with some specific tuning and suspension setup, it became a great machine. The Honda was also a better road racer than it had any right to be, but that came largely from spending thousands on Race Tech suspension, giant front brakes, and custom wheels I built. Road racing was also the only time I wanted more power, but you have to know when to stop. A 30-year-old, 250-cc thumper can only do so much without cubic dollars.

Also unsurprising was how I didn’t love every bit of the racing. Mostly because you occasionally just can’t get around the fact that you need a specific tool for certain work. Flat-track and trials were great, but if I go back, I’m buying a purpose-built bike. The gap between what was needed and what the Honda could offer was just too great, and it too often got in the way of learning.

Ice racing wrapped up this project. Several weeks ago, Hagerty associate editor Nate Petroelje hopped in the van to crew at my final event. Walking back to the Chevy after registration—the usual asking of questions and knowing absolutely nothing—his eyes grew big: “I can’t believe you did this six times.”

That was Nate’s first event with me, and he doesn’t go to race tracks often. His comment was rooted in stress, all those small things you want to plan but can’t. It had taken five weekends, but my mental capacity was no longer being wasted there. 

That’s called growth, I think. We are each predisposed to handle a certain amount of stress. If you’re smart, you spend that space only on things that deserve it. 

After all this, I don’t consider myself a racer. If anything, discomfort made me a problem-solver. It’s fight-or-flight: The more you fight and succeed, the more confidence you take into the unexpected. Years ago, I met a man who had spent decades fabricating sheet-metal body panels for full classics. He daily-drove a vintage Packard. “Once you know how to fix them,” he told me, “you’re less scared to damage them.” It took six events, but figuratively speaking, I finally figured out how to fix “it.” I was also reminded just how much I enjoy the literal side of fixing. Creating something. Assembling piston to cylinder to connecting rod, researching, building. All that long-night wrenching followed by 14-hour drives where my only vocalization was ordering at the Wendy’s drive-thru. All stuff I didn’t realize I was signing up for, and what I ended up loving the most. 

From the onset, there was a tiny piece of me that wanted to use this story to talk about affordable racing. Turns out there’s no such thing. My plan to “just scrape by” lasted about as long as the meager budget I sold to the editor of this site. But in retrospect, this wasn’t about money. Instead, the point is to go out and do the thing. Whatever that thing is, at whatever level you can swing. If you’re even slightly interested, if it’s been on your list, if you think you might be good at it? Consider this your kick in the ass. Take the first step. I went from a guy who owned a broken-down old Honda dirt bike to a …

What am I, now that I’ve gone through all this?

I’m just a guy who did it. Who learned something about himself. 

The fear has subsided. I’m taking a bike to the track this year, but it’ll be a little different, and there’ll be a bit more focus. I know I can do it, because anyone can. Either way, one year and so many miles later, I’ve reached the best part: I’m just having fun. 

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Moto Guzzi’s plans to celebrate its centenary last year were wrecked by Covid. But the roads around the lakeside town of Mandello del Lario in northern Italy will be crawling with bikes this September as Guzzi’s historic factory hosts a delayed party that will attract riders from all over the world.

Many of those bikes will be the transverse V-twins for which the firm is best known. And given that many riders will have come a long way, it’s a fair bet that the most common model will be the California, whose unique mix of American touring style and Italian engineering made it a mainstay of Guzzi’s range for decades.

The California’s story began in Mandello in early 1969, with an unlikely hero: Sergeant Scotty Henderson, a motorcyclist from the Los Angeles Police Department’s Traffic division. Back then, when Boeing’s new 747 jumbo jet had just made its maiden flight and the Apollo 11 crew were preparing for the first flight to the Moon, Sgt. Henderson arrived at the Guzzi factory to help develop a U.S. police version of the firm’s V7 roadster.

Guzzi had already increased the V-twin’s capacity from 703 to 757cc, and fitted a fairing, screen, panniers, siren and extra lights. Under Henderson’s instruction they changed the screen to bullet-proof Lexan, fitted a left-foot gearchange, and modified the sidestand so it could be used without dismounting. The collaboration was a success. By the end of the year Guzzi’s police bike had joined the regular Harley-Davidsons in the fleets not only of the LAPD but also the California Highway Patrol (CHP) and several other forces.

Guzzi’s bosses were so encouraged that a year later they developed a civilian version with most of the V7 Police model’s features, apart from the bullet-proof windscreen. It also had wide, “bull-horn” handlebars and a thick, Harley style “buddy” seat . The V7 750 California was born, though in the U.S. it was called the V7 Ambassador, presumably so as not to alienate riders from other states.

Several decades later, the broad buddy-type seat of a 1979-model 850 California, borrowed from Made In Italy, an Italian motorcycle specialists based in Suffolk, U.K.,feels as comfy as a favorite armchair as I watch the scenery drift by at a fairly gentle cruising pace. With just a hint of wind wafting over the tall screen, and a gentle vibration coming through from a big V-twin engine down below, the Cali’s style, comfort and laid-back character make for a relaxing ride.

But it’s when the road gets twistier that the California really shows its hand. When a sharp turn approaches, applying the trio of linked Brembo disc brakes slows the big bike with ease. And when I nudge those wide bars to bank through a series of bends, the Guzzi responds with impressive stability and precision for such an elderly touring machine.

By the time we’re exiting the last curve with the engine revving hard and a footboard brushing the road, I’ve been reminded that the relaxed image was always slightly misleading. The California’s style might have been as American as its name, but its engineering was European. The U.S.-Italian combination had produced a bike that was as smooth as Frank Sinatra, as versatile as Al Pacino, and as tough as Sylvester Stallone.

The original Cali was an immediate success in the early Seventies. And speaking of movie stars, its image was boosted when Sean Connery rode one in Diamonds Are Forever. A life-sized photo of Bond and bike was still on display just inside the main gate at Mandello when I last visited.

The California was upgraded several times in subsequent years, starting in 1972 when it received a bigger 844cc engine, complete with five-speed gearbox, that increased maximum output to 68 hp. By 1979, when this bike was built, the California had gained the linked, triple-disc brake system that was a notable Guzzi feature in the Seventies.

So was the way the transverse V-twin engine whoomphed into life with a torque-rock to the right from the longitudinal crankshaft. And the way it pulled away with a lumpy low-rev feel, until it suddenly smoothed out at about 3000 rpm, as the tachometer needle continued spinning towards the 7000-rpm yellow mark. (Red is 1000 rpm higher, but there’s no need to rev it that hard.)

On the open road, as I sat in a bubble of almost still air, the rustling of the air-cooled motor audible along with the slightly hollow exhaust note from the twin silencers, it was clear why the California was held in such high regard as a tourer. The big fairing kept top speed to about 115 mph, but the effective cruising speed was high, due to the screen’s efficiency. The riding position was roomy and the rider also benefited from the footboards, though a pillion got neither that luxury nor much room on the seat.

By touring standards the suspension was firm but most bumps were soaked up efficiently, and overall ride quality was good. Add to that the generous 24-liter tank, plus the low-revving motor’s respectable economy, and the result was near-200-mile range and serious long-distance ability.

Especially as the California didn’t need to slow down too much for the bends. Even this elderly bike handled very well, with a blend of sweet steering and stability that made enthusiastic cornering a pleasure. Those wide bars meant it was easy to tip into a turn, despite its weight and considerable length. And that linked Brembo system gave strong stopping, too.

In 1981 Guzzi invested in a major redesign, creating the California II around a larger, 949cc engine. The classical styling remained until 1987 and the California III, with its more bulbous fuel tank. That model’s more sophisticated engine and chassis helped make it Guzzi’s best-selling big twin for the next few years.

A string of special editions kept the Cali in production until 2013, when Guzzi reinvented it with a new-generation California 1400, featuring some neat retro styling touches, a torquey 96-hp engine, and sophisticated electronics. It was too quirky and expensive to sell in huge numbers but spawned several spin-off models before being quietly dropped a few years ago.

The California’s reputation still burns brightly, and when you ride a sweet Seventies example like this one it’s easy to understand why. In the Cali’s heyday, its unique Italian-American heritage resulted in a combination of style, performance and continent-crossing comfort that few rivals could approach.

***

1979 Moto Guzzi 850 California

Highs: V-twin charm, sound handling.

Lows: Clonky shaft-drive transmission.

Summary: Stateside style meets Italian class.

—

Price: $4700 (#4 condition, Fair) – $15,700 (#1 condition, Concours)

Engine: Air-cooled pushrod transverse V-twin

Capacity: 844cc

Power: 68 hp @ 7000 rpm

Weight: 496 lb without fluids

Top speed: 115 mph

Via Hagerty UK

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The motorcycle world functions on an entirely different schedule than the comparable car market. With April showers soon to give way to May flowers, and also clean riding roads, now is the time that just about every two-wheel enthusiast is either getting their machine ready for the season or on the prowl for acquiring a new two-wheel conveyance for this riding season. So while new cars get announced in the months leading up to the calendar flipping to a new year, motorcycle announcements come right now.

CBR650R gets a big piston (fork)

The market is hot for four-cylinder bikes right now. With race replica 600 and 1000cc inline-fours getting ever faster and more powerful, they easily outpace the needs of most riders on the street. The middleweight bikes like the CBR650R bring the full-fairing style but with a more tractable 649cc inline-four powerplant. This year the CBR650R also gets upgraded to a 41mm Showa® SFF-BP “Big Piston” front fork, which is the next step up in suspension damping from traditional cartridge forks. Combining an engine tuned for regular use with an even more capable chassis should provide a smooth middleweight that would be just as comfortable in the canyons as commuting to work.

CBR1000RR-R FIREBLADE SP gains mid-corner muscle

Airflow is of the utmost importance on motorcycles. Aerodynamics over the bike and through the engine needs to be a priority for a track-focused machine like the Fireblade SP. The outside aero stays the same, but a revised intake tract consisting of small changes to everything intake air sees before entering the combustion chamber and also a fresh look at how the exhaust exits help midrange power. A three tooth increase in rear sprocket size will accentuate that strong mid-range punch. All this will be reined in by improved tuning of the Honda Selectable Torque Control (HSTC) in an effort to keep riders on track longer by better managing rear tire wear.

Montessa COTA gets more bounce and power

Trials bikes are the most specialized motorcycles—bar none. The design is laser-focused on agility and nimbly-pimbly handling. The Montessa COTA 4RT260 evolves enough to warrant the addition of an R at the end of the name for 2022. Showa suspension is now standard, along with a new aluminum muffler for the 259cc four-stroke which gives a bump in power while also shedding weight. With a curb weight of just 170 pounds, there wasn’t much fat left on the bone.

Fresh color for the XR650L

While a color and graphics update is rarely worth talking about, the fact that the XR650L is getting any attention is worth noting. This 644cc air-cooled single has been lumbering along in its current form for nearly three decades. Tried and true has never been more apt than when describing the XR650L. A fresh look goes a long way in making the purchase of a new one less of a hit when a used bike is literally the same thing, but we would love to see some bigger changes like fuel injection on this thumper. How many Luddites are still buying new bikes?

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“The Japanese motorcycle companies want to make an easy car. I want to make a difficult bicycle.”

— Fabio Taglioni, Ducati technical director, 1954–1989

“Unfortunately, while… a world leader in innovation… [they were] noticeably inept at making a profit.”

—Haynes Service & Repair Manual, Ducati 2-Valve V-Twins, 1991–2005

***

Once, long ago, a small Bolognese firm made snorty motorcycles of song and flourish. Those bikes were often lovely and desirable; in some cases, they were lovely and desirable but built like old cheese. Financial struggle, even then an Italian cliché, seemed to grow on trees. At times, the company seemed asleep, trapped in a long version of what the Italians call pisolino, an afternoon nap.

People bought the bikes anyway, for the same reason we buy anything flawed: They were glorious.

A wallop of midrange grunt… rock-solid stability… the bloom of spring… grappa and curvy lady parts… booming basso pipes. Ground always seemed to be covered in a low prowl, like a P-51 carrying drop tanks across the Channel. At speed, the brain thought grumbly thinks about Alpine passes while eyeing the land for espresso shops and stray vowels.

Disclosure: I am a sucker for this stuff. I also own an old motorcycle from these people. We will come back that. Also to the lady parts.

Ducati is still in Bologna, and the best Ducatis still feel fantastic, but it is not the same company. Ducati Motor Holding S.p.A. has built bikes of world-class quality since at least the 1990s; the firm has also been owned since 2012 by Lamborghini, which is itself owned by Audi, which is in turn owned by the Volkswagen Group. VW is probably the best steward the brand has ever had; the Germans have essentially kept dead all of Ducati’s traditional issues while giving the company just enough leeway to be something like itself. (Smith’s nutshell history of Germans Managing Non-German Stuff: Product decisions become ruthlessly logical. Sprezzatura maybe goes down a notch, but that’s better than red ink. And then, every so often, you get overwrought embarrassment, like Mini.)

And so we come to the 2022 Ducati Monster. At $12,000, this is an entry-level Ducati. Entry Ducatis are as SUVs are to Porsche—a hook into the brand, and the volume that keeps the lights on. The $9000, 73-hp Scrambler, the cheapest Ducati, is deeply retro and not for everybody; the Monster, more expensive and 38 hp stronger, aims a bit wider. The air-cooled Scrambler wears a steel-tube frame and a (lovely) old two-valve twin rooted in the 1970s; the Monster, unapologetically modern, boasts a water-cooled, 937-cc twin with four-valve heads. That mill is bolted to an aluminum twin-spar frame, a’la new superbikes, plumbing packed in tight.

There is heritage here, at least in the basics. The first Monster, launched in 1993, was also a V-twin, also a simple city bike with back-road chops. The history books go vaguely Soviet on how it got there—the bike’s designer, Miguel Galuzzi, claimed to have been sketching pared-down Ducatis for years, while the factory insists Galuzzi was tasked with that specific job by wise and clever management. Either way, the model was built to be nimble and low-cost. The frame came from Ducati’s slow-selling 851/888 superbike; the engine from the company’s 900 Supersport, detuned a little; and the nonadjustable suspension from the 750 SS, the 900’s smaller sibling. The name, il Mostro, referenced the Frankenstein blueprint.

The result wasn’t hugely fast, but nobody cared. Spec seemed to change weekly, hung on whatever factory components were in the glut that month, but nobody cared about that, either. The first Monster looked like hot hot trestle-bridge love and brought the good Ducati jazz—that spring bloom and lady-part-grappa—in a surprisingly affordable package. More than 350,000 Monsters have been built since 1993. The first-gen bike was such a raging success, it ran for 15 years.

For 2021, the Monster got a ground-up revamp and the most drastic styling change in the name’s history. Gone was the old-school steel trellis frame, a Ducati hallmark since the Seventies and Monster signature. That four-valve twin wears a six-speed manual and drinks from a 3.7-gallon tank. Nonadjustable Kayaba forks are paired with a nonadjustable Kayaba rear shock—budget pieces in Ducati terms, but they work well enough. Brakes are by Brembo, with radial front calipers and a radial front master cylinder. Cornering ABS, traction control, wheelie control, and launch control are all standard, no surprise on a bike of this blood and price.

This is a modern motorcycle, so it gives ride modes and a color display screen, no instruments. That display is clear but also cluttered, letters and numbers everywhere. The tach function, at least, can be configured to be easily read, with a prominent gear indicator. The small windshield—a part of our test bike’s “Monster +” package ($500)—looks like a bad wig and does squat to shush wind buffet.

Low mass is a selling point. Ducati says the ’22 Monster scales in at just 414 pounds wet. The previous model was a whopping 40 pounds heavier. Ten pounds of that loss came from the new frame, with another six shaved out of the engine. Ounces matter in motorcycles, and this one shouts it. The wide bars let you flick into and rise out of corners quickly but with charming effort. Rapid transitions feel like the bike wants you there—the front dampers can occasionally seem a little undervalved on rebound, but that’s nitpicking. Pushing the thing out of a parking spot is like moving a fat bicycle.

But a Ducati, you say! The engine! Tell us more!

Okay: It’s… fine?

The Testastretta twin is a known commodity, around in various iterations since the 998 superbike. It sounds thin and clattery here, geared tall but also aurally busy. Around town, with earplugs, the Monster recalls a Dispos-All eating a bag of forks. The stock pipes are almost painfully quiet, but that’s long been a Ducati trademark, for drive-by noise regulation.

The engine isn’t hugely smooth at low rpm and is less flexible than its displacement would suggest. The tall gearing is nice on the freeway but annoying on a tight back road, where the pistons seem to want other work. Intake honk is present in buckets, albeit mostly at high rpm. The seat is relatively comfortable for all-day riding, working with bars and pegs to give the classic Monster sense of riding the snout of a horse. That long-travel brake lever is easy to modulate. The stock quickshifter is fine when you’re carrying pace and only balky occasionally. Decisive shifting helps.

Some may not see the complaints as complaints. Certain tweaks are beloved by Ducati people and are basically mandatory in the space. If you buy this thing, you should almost definitely put on a larger rear sprocket and aftermarket pipes, and then the lord god of all that is motorbike holy might bless you and keep you, and the single set of V-twin footprints will be where the spirit of Taglioni carried the front wheel across the Apennines, the real friends are the Italian boompipes we bought along the way, amen?

On the subject of purchasing: My Ducati is a ’96 900 SS, the model that gave the Monster its engine. We have come far since. The Nineties Supersport was outdated when new—mostly early-Eighties tech—but also the first truly reliable and sorted Ducati. People bought them because they were evocative balls of soul and country, slower than Japanese multis but also just fast enough.

There were flaws. The castings on my bike are lumpy as a slice of Stilton. Melty machining marks smear across the heads. The frame welds are glorpy and dusted with spatter. No one would mistake any part of a Nineties SS for ordinary. You might mistake it for something built by a toddler. Whether this is charming depends on whether you like your relationships loud and vibrant or safe and quiet.

The new Monster is a more resolved machine in so many ways. And yet our ’22 test bike, in factory hands all its life, wore visible evidence of corrosion. Long beads of sealant burped from the case edges. Most of the plumbing was plastic and dense; hoses seemed laid on at random, zero regard for aesthetics. Some of the routing appeared almost German in its cold use of space, like the water-pump plumbing on an Audi or the intake of a new Chevrolet.

Clinical organization is nice, but who buys anything Italian because Check out that derpy-looking hose logic across the belt cover!

How rare is any thin-waisted vehicle of focus these days? What we have here is a perfectly fine bike, light and engaging, almost staggeringly compact. But if you come expecting some obvious thread of heart or tradition, you’ll be disappointed. Nothing here screams origin or place. There are no fine details of unnecessary joy or beauty, no real introduction to the house and heritage of lore.

Once the novelty of meeting this bike wears off, you are mostly just left with a not-cheap motorcycle that recalls a hot-rodded Yamaha. And maybe looks like one.

Ducatis are like Ferraris: Nobody buys one by accident. There is appeal here, but it takes a bit of explanation and context, and gateway drugs shouldn’t need a sales pitch. A bike like this should hit you in the plexus if you know and love a certain Italian motorcycle company. It should also do that if you don’t.

If you want an approachable Ducati that hits the old buttons, there’s always the Scrambler or something vintage. For better or worse, those bikes are rooted in the past. The new Monster is far more of the moment. It isn’t a bad motorcycle or even a bad Ducati. But it might be a forgettable one, and that’s arguably worse.

***

2022 Ducati Monster

Price: $11,995 / $12,495 (base / as-tested)

Highs: A 111-hp, relatively attainable Italian motorbike of light weight and substantial ability. Great name, great heritage. And an engine born, 20 years ago, for a superbike.

Lows: You buy one of these things to feel good and special, right? So why doesn’t this one feel good and… special?

Summary: If you’re looking for something like this, look elsewhere, as Yogi Berra would have said. And possibly a lot harder at the Aprilia Tuono 660. (Same idea, similar power and price, just a lot more interesting.)

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