Back Home In Old Bologna
Back home in old Bologna
LEANINGS
Peter Egan
A FEW YEARS AGO, WHEN MR. EDITOR Edwards decided to update the portrait used in this column to make me look nearly as old as I really am, he asked what bike I wanted included below my mug shot.
I had just sold my 1995 Ducati 900SSSP to my friend Paul Roberts, and was about to spend the proceeds on either a more practical BMW R1100RS or a less practical Ducati 996. The usual garage shuffle. “What bike do you want in the new picture?” David asked.
“Might as well leave the 900SS in there,” I said. “Til probably buy another one. It’s still my favorite motorcycle. I’m just experimenting.”
Well, three summers have passed, three or four other bikes have migrated through the garage, and last week I fulfilled my own prophesy and bought another Ducati 900SS-SP. The mug shot is once more aligned with truth and reality. And the Italian Way.
It’s my eighth Ducati in this short life, another red 1995 model, with 8800 miles on the odometer. I bought it for $6600 from its original owner, a gentleman named Jeff Moore, who lives near the little river town of Merrimac, Wisconsin.
Before Jeff’s ad appeared in the local papers, I was-God help me-thinking about buying another 996. I rode the new 996 R in Spain this spring and had such a good time on the Valencia racetrack that it got all my track-day juices flowing again. The trip also gave me long, quiet moments in the pits for simply contemplating the 996, which I still believe is-hands down-the most beautiful and significant modern sportbike.
“Who cares if it’s not a comfortable all-day sport-tourer for the backroads of Wisconsin?” the Devil whispered in my ear, “It’s a 996! A masterpiece! You need one in your garage! Be like Bostrom, you stupid git! Own a piece of Immortal History for about the cost of a Toyota Corolla!” And so on.
Satan often says things like this to me. I guess it’s because he knows I’m always paying attention. Everyone likes an appreciative audience.
Alas, I’m not like Bostrom, the road in front of our rural home is not like the Circuito de Valencia, and I could actually use a good Toyota Corolla, as my highmileage 1988 Buick is starting to make timing-chain noises. So I came to my senses long enough to go look at my secondfavorite modem Ducati design by only a small margin (and $10,000 cheaper), the full-fairing 900SS of the 1991-98 era.
Naturally, it turned out that Jeff Moore lives just off Highway 78, one of the nicest little motorcycle roads in the state. It dips and weaves along the Wisconsin River in a symphony of medium-fast sweepers and climbing tight turns that all reward the broad, thudding torque band of a good V-Twin. And, naturally, it was the first really nice day of spring, with sun shining through Botticellian trees budding with pale green leaves and the crab apple blossoms breaking out all over. And, also naturally, the bike was immaculate and well-equipped.
Moore had done everything to his 900SS that I did to both the ’91 and ’95 models I owned previously, almost before leaving the showroom. The bike had a larger rear sprocket to gear it down a little (plus a brand-new chain), re-jetted carbs with a K&N filter, and a modified airbox, canisters, a Corbin seat, a few extra carbon-fiber do-dads, a recent valve adjust and brand new sticky Avons.
It ran perfectly, and as I accelerated down the river road and listened to the fluid hammering of the exhaust note, I knew I would buy the bike even before I’d shifted all the way through the gearbox. These bikes make me happy with life in some secret way I can hardly describe, even though I’m lavishly paid to do just that.
Of course, the same old 900SS flaws were still there: Minimal steering lock. The patented dry-clutch rattle that is either irritating to you or emblematic of good times (don’t mind it, myself). The ride is a little on the stiff side, and if the road is rough, the rear suspension can beat you up a bit. Tum-in is not terribly quick, and gusting winds make it handle like a kite with two flat tires (a fabulous machine first conceptualized by Leonardo da Vinci).
But the old virtues were there, too. Nothing I have ever ridden, at least above the 250cc displacement class, feels as flight and narrow as a Ducati 900SS. Even ¿the 996 seems like a chunk by comparison. The SS is almost spidery, as if the wheels, seat and engine were held together by gossamer-but without the frame flex that fanciful description might imply. It’s rock-solid, but light.
Also, the riding position is sporting yet all-day comfortable. Or all week. I rode my last one to Sturgis and back.
And then there’s the engine, which sounds beautiful and makes torque and horsepower exactly where you need it. The 900SS is no speed-record holder-it tops out around 135 mph-but I do most of my riding on backroads between 45 and 100 mph, with the emphasis on the 60-to-80-mph range, and that’s where the SS cranks out soothing, immediate wallop and throttle response. It’s a great engine for the real world. Or at least mine.
And for my peculiar tastes, the 900SS’s styling-which knocked me out the first time I saw one at the introduction in 1991-actually seems to have improved with age, rather than becoming dated. Not modern, necessarily; just timeless. The full fairing looks to me like a welding tip flame captured in red fiberglass. The styling of the current 900SS has not yet grown on me, even though it’s functionally a more dedicated sportbike. But the 1991-98 generation they got just right. Like the 996. Add nothing; take nothing away. Please.
I rode my new/used 900SS about 500 miles on both days last weekend, all on backroads through the hill country. My buddy Pat Donnelly, who also has a 1995 900SS-SP he’s owned for years, went with me on Saturday, and we rode up to our old hometown of Elroy, Wisconsin. We stopped on a high ridge just out of town to look at the view and admire the bikes.
“I never get tired of this bike,” Pat said, “and I can’t think of anything I’d replace it with. It’s the perfect balance of so many things.”
The classic definition, I believe, of a hard act to follow. □
