The Return of Black Beauty
The Return of Black Beauty
LEANINGS
Peter Egan
As THE MOUNTAINS OF COLORADO Disappeared in the rearview mirror of my Ford van, I noted with keen scientific interest (at about a third-grade level) that my image of the Rockies was remarkably undistorted, considering how many layers of glass and plastic were interposed between us.
I had rays of light passing through the rear windows of the van and the plexiglass windscreen of a 1981 Ducati 900SS, then bouncing off the van’s rearview mirror through a pair of cheap clip-on sunglasses and my own bifocals, which are powerful enough to start a campfire if I’m ever marooned on a desert island. Five layers of stuff.
Yet the visual picture of a local thunderstorm moving in over Fort Collins was crystal clear, complete with lightning bolts sizzling out of the dark clouds and hitting God-knows-what, like the random finger of fate.
“Good screen,” I muttered to myself. “Almost optically correct.”
Then, of course, I swiveled the mirror downward so I could look at the bike itself. Majestic mountains are all very well, but a bike in the back of your truck is indeed a thing of beauty. The round Ducati headlight peered between the seats as if to see where we were going.
And where we were going was home. Back to Wisconsin, after seven years away.
Long-time readers of this magazine who are old enough to recall the days before grown men walked around with little telephones stuck on one ear may remember my writing about this bike.
It’s a black-and-gold bevel-drive 900SS, titled in 1981 but probably built in 1980, among the last of the pure Taglioni-designed 900s. Gold FPS alloy wheels, square-case motor, café fairing, Conti “mufflers,” 40mm Dell’Orto carbs, clipons. Bought sight unseen, a decade ago.
In December of 1997,1 saw an ad for the Ducati in Walneck’s Classic Cycle Trader and called the owner, a pleasant gentleman named Gerald Wild, who lived near Philadelphia. He mailed me some pictures (pre e-mail) and the bike looked good, so I mailed him $8500 and he loaded the bike in a Liberty moving van.
It arrived the day after Christmas, and we unloaded it in the snow. Beautiful clean bike, exactly as represented. I rode it all over the backroads of Wisconsin for two years, then suddenly sold it to buy.. .what?
Ah, yes. A modern Ducati 996, so I could do track days with my friends, who had similarly modern weapons of speed. Good times, no regrets.
The 900SS was purchased by one Mike Mosiman, of Fort Collins, Colorado. He drove his pickup to Wisconsin to get the bike, and we’ve been friends ever since.
Mike rode the black beauty for about a year, then sold it to buy.. .what?
I can’t remember, and neither can he. Probably something more practical.
You see, no one needs a bevel-drive 900SS. It’s a charismatic steed of narrow focus, ideal for racing and Sundaymorning rides of high intensity, but a useful daily commuter it’s not.
Nor is it generally a calming influence on one’s riding style. Mike got three big speeding tickets in one month.
So he sold the 900SS to his buddy, Tom Barbour, an inveterate collector of bevel-drive Ducatis, old Jaguars and vintage electric guitars.
When I was in Fort Collins a few years ago riding dirtbikes, we naturally went over to Tom’s house to ogle bikes and cars, and ended up playing guitars until the wee hours of the morning. My old black Ducati was sitting in the corner of his garage, looking a little dusty. Tom confessed he wasn’t riding it much any more.
“If you ever decide to sell that bike,” I said, “I’ll buy it back from you.” (I should just have this phrase printed on a business card with my phone number.) Well, this past summer Tom decided to simplify his life and reduce his vehicle count to a less distracting level.
Incredibly, he offered to sell the 900SS back to me at his 2001 purchase price, even though these bikes have appreciated. A mighty test of karma, indeed.
“I’ll keep it for good this time,” I assured him. “It’s not going anywhere-unless I get some extremely bad medical news or the bank takes the house.”
So two weeks ago, I drove my Ford van to Fort Collins. Tom and his mechanic pal Norm Miller had aired the tires, put fresh fuel in the tank and polished the paint and chrome. It looked stunning, untouched by time.
That afternoon, Mike got his new Triumph Tiger out and we took a long ride up the Poudre River canyon into the mountains. The brand-new sixyear-old tires were a little hard and dry, but otherwise the bike felt great. And it sounded good, too, those big 40mm Dell’Ortos hissing like rattlesnakes (yes, I know rattlesnakes don’t actually hiss) and the twin Contis booming like a series of explosions from inside a talcum powder mine. This is a bike that can almost make you delirious from sensory overload. Why did I ever sell it?
Ah, yes, the 996.
Well, this time I’d make sure I kept some perfectly wonderful modern bike to represent the present era, and the old 900SS to celebrate the past. No either/or action this time around.
The 900SS is still a great ride, but it almost doesn’t have to be. If we ran out of oil tomorrow, this is the one bike I’d keep as an artifact of the era, a reminder of what it was all about.
Everyone, I suppose, has an all-time favorite bike, and this has become mine. It represents, to me, the collision of perfect aesthetics with an ideal time in history, a small window when simplicity of line was in easy balance with clear and purposeful technical thinking.
Since I got the 900SS home, I keep making up excuses to go out to the garage and look at it. (“Barb, I think I left my wristwatch out by the parts cleaner. ..”) I can sit there for an hour, moving my chair around to view the bike from different angles.
Some people watch TV; I watch Ducati.
And, unlike TV, there’s always something good on. Always will be. You just hit the light switch. □
